The Miracle Stealer (13 page)

Out in the gym the thunder stopped. Jeff was listening so intensely that I'm not sure he noticed. I could tell he cared, about all I was saying and about Daniel and about me. “I'm putting a stop to all this.”

“How?” he asked.

“Kind of your idea, believe it or not. Yours and the Scarecrow's. I'm going to convince everyone that Daniel is a fraud.” I held up the fake blood. “Saturday night, I'm going to send the Skylark over the cliff at McGinley's Cove. Then me and Daniel are going to climb down and I'll doctor us up with this stuff, make it look like we survived a crash no one could possibly survive. It will be absolute proof that Daniel's the
Miracle Boy they all want him to be. Sooner or later, somebody will discover the truth, and when it comes out, all the folks who believed will feel like fools. They'll feel tricked and betrayed, and they'll all leave Daniel alone forever.”

Jeff processed all I was telling him, holding my hand lightly, now and then looking into my eyes, then away. Finally he spoke. “It won't work.” For a moment I stiffened, ready to fight him on any point he brought up, but he continued, “The climb down into the cove is steep. It'll take you at least five minutes with Daniel. By that time, people will already be there. That crash is going to make a hell of a noise.”

Jeff wasn't smiling when he said this, but something in his voice told me he had a solution. I knew that he was on my side, that I wasn't alone anymore against the world, and his face was close and I couldn't help but bring my lips to his. The last time we'd kissed was up in the fairy fort, the day that all this madness started. It had been years, but we fell right back into the old rhythm, and his arms came around my shoulders and we slid side by side onto that couch. When I got up to shut off the light, he knew I was coming back, and I knew we were in this together.

T
hat night, while my mother and Daniel ate dinner up in the main house, I sat on the porch of my cabin to watch the sun fade from the evening sky. After my morning with Jeff, I'd spent the day in a kind of hazy shine, floating through the motions of buying the Skylark, taking a hike with Daniel, power-washing the back deck. Jeff and I hadn't discussed the Plan in much more detail, but having a partner in this made it seem more real, and once again, doubt about going through with it crept into my mind. Partly it was the pleasant buzz of my time with Jeff and the notion that life could be good. But all day long too, Reverend Castle's image haunted me. The last few sparkles of the disappearing sun winked out on the shimmering surface of the lake. Sometime after that, I glanced toward the house, where the dull blue light behind the living room windows told me Daniel and my mother had finished eating and turned to the TV. I wondered what they were watching.

When a set of headlights turned down off Roosevelt Road, I charged up the hill fast enough to meet the car before it reached the house. But it wasn't a Pilgrim or a journalist or Volpe come to try to steal my brother. It was Bundower in his bulky cruiser. He got out and closed the door, swatted at a mosquito. “Anderson,” he said.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing I know, especially. Your mom called and said she had some extra blueberry pie. I was in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” When it was still light out, I'd seen him pass the compound twice in the same hour. “I appreciate that.”

We shared a look and understood each other. I wanted to ask how long he might stick around, because with him here, I knew Daniel was safe. I saw his car was empty and asked, “Where's Pinkerton?”

“I only have him with me when I'm on duty,” he said. His answer told me that he wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

“Enjoy the pie,” I said, not especially caring about any other motivations he had for this visit.

When I returned to the water's edge, I crossed onto the dock and slid into the kayak. The moon was three-quarters full, and beneath its glow, I paddled north. The water seemed black, a color like midnight, and the lake was so calm that the emerging stars were reflected all around me. Now and then I'd stop paddling and just coast. I had the sensation that I was drifting through space, enveloped by darkness, guided by the distant constellations. I could've just taken the Skylark, but I liked the idea of approaching without being detected. The sleek and silent kayak seemed more appropriate for a spy mission.

I'm not really sure what exactly I expected to happen that night. I guess I just wanted to see for myself what I'd heard about from Chief Bundower and Gayle and Jeff. I wasn't seeking out Reverend Castle—at least, that's what I told myself. But slicing across that starlit lake, I kept imagining him ahead of me, like a magnet to which I was drawn.

As I neared the park, I heard the voices before I saw the flames. A breeze brought me smoke—rich and crisp. Up ahead on the beach, small blazes dotted the shoreline like signal fires. The flickering light illuminated the figures gathered in the shining, some sitting, some standing. The low, murmuring voices were punctuated now and then by laughter, a sound I found disturbing. I piloted the kayak toward land and drove it up onto the bank fifty yards south of the field, still safely hidden in the dark.

Soon I found myself in the same forest through which I'd run the night the Abernathy baby was born, though I avoided the trail and picked my way carefully through the trees and brambles. Nearer the park, the voices found me again, and again I saw those fires, now from behind. They were larger than I'd thought, bigger than you'd need for warmth against the night's slight chill. For a moment, I thought of the word
sacrifice
and wondered just what these Pilgrims were really up to.

But not all the people in Roosevelt Park that night were Pilgrims. Most of them weren't. Along the rim of the central field, a dozen or more merchant tents had sprung up like wild mushrooms. On the far side, the parking lot held RVs lined up like obedient caravan elephants. The first wave of Paradise Days profiteers had arrived two full days early. One industrious soul was already hard at work: A silver trailer hummed with electricity and yellow light, as a white-capped man greeted his guests with a smile, stretched an open hand for their money, and passed funnel cakes through a window.

Groups of people huddled on blankets spread across the great lawn, like survivors of a shipwreck floating on rafts, waiting to be saved. Beer bottles clanked. When I looked into the faces of
those castaways, dimly lit by the bonfires along the beach, I imagined that they were watching their boat go down, doomed by an iceberg or snapped in two by some vengeful whale.

Twenty feet from me, a man wandered alone to the forest's edge. I crouched lower and looked away when he unzipped his pants and leaned back. He did his best impression of a dog at a fire hydrant. Under his breath, he mumbled a song. When he finished, he cleared his throat, zipped up, and staggered back to his friends.

As far as I could tell, nothing was really happening in the park. All these people were gathered here solely in anticipation of something yet to come. I wondered how many had come to Paradise to make money, and how many had come to witness the spectacle of Daniel.

This thought brought me back to my mission, and I squinted hard to try to pick out the white robes I'd hoped might lead me to the Pilgrims. But in the ten minutes I'd been watching, I hadn't seen even one. I knew they had to be there someplace. So I rose up and took a breath and stepped away from the secrecy offered by the woods, into the field.

No one paid me much attention. Lots of folks seemed to be wandering around, though all of them were in groups or couples. I seemed to be the only person walking alone. The few faces I looked into weren't locals, and I was careful to stay below the brim of my baseball cap. Gayle had told me that some of the Pilgrims were camped up by the fist-shaped rock, but the east end of the park was completely dark, no signs of life up there at all.

So I wandered ahead, the smell of funnel cake getting stronger and stronger as I neared the trailer. People passed me,
ripping off chewy pieces of dough, fried and powdered white, and stuffing them into their eager mouths. I thought of how Daniel loved that treat, and how disappointed he'd be if we didn't come down to the festival. The year before, there'd been a thin old man with a beard that seemed stained yellow. He cupped spoons in his palms and clattered them together while he sang in a low moaning voice about life in the mountain woods. For weeks afterward, Daniel tried to imitate the trick, but his hands were too small.

I considered approaching the funnel cake vendor, asking him if he'd seen anyone in white robes, but the question seemed so absurd that I was afraid I'd sound silly. So I stood on the edge of the glow his lights emitted, and when the last person was served and left, he stared at me like an intruder. I turned away.

As I again crossed the field, faint music drifted up once more from the beach, not voices now but notes strummed on a guitar. Charmed, and with nowhere else to really go, I headed toward the water.

Embers floated from the flames and zigzagged into the starry night like fireflies. Shadows stretched out across the sand, almost reaching the field, but I kept far enough away that they didn't quite touch me. I walked along the edge of the beach, half listening for the guitar music. But all I caught were bits and pieces of conversations, something about how the government already had a patent for making corn into gas, something about the history of hemp, something about a renaissance festival with good sales in eastern Ohio. But no one was wearing white robes and nobody was talking about miracles or Daniel.

While I felt a little relieved by this, I admit I was also disappointed.

A breeze coming in off the lake cooled me enough that I regretted not bringing a long-sleeved shirt. Still, I had no interest in approaching one of the bonfires, entering a circle of people who'd want to know who I was, what I was doing there. I didn't really know what answer I'd give. The guitar music I'd heard was gone.

As I neared the woods where I'd stashed the kayak, I pictured myself paddling on the lake, not just back home but all the way to Cedars Marina, where perhaps I'd find Jeff out on the dock, just sitting and waiting. But then I noticed a smaller fire, away by itself, alone at the water's edge. The flames were dying down and, since there was no one near it, I figured it had been abandoned. I started for it with the plan of warming myself before getting back on the lake.

The crackling wood hissed and popped, and I stepped into its glow with my palms out. Just as the warmth reached me, I saw eyes through the flames. On the far side of the fire, with a guitar cradled on his lap, sat Reverend Castle. “Good evening,” he said, completely unsurprised.

I froze.

He studied my face and clearly recognized me. “Why not sit,” he offered, extending an open hand to a space right next to him.

Cautiously I circled the fire, then settled down, certain to leave a few feet between us. He looked at the sand between him and me and shrugged.

The fire felt good, and we looked into it together. The voices of the people by the other fires and out in the field faded. Behind
me, the lake seemed to be holding its breath, listening and waiting. Finally I said, “So what, did you get kicked out of the Believers Club or something? How come you're down here all by yourself?”

Still looking into the fire, he said, “It seemed like a good place to sit. Besides, I'm hardly alone.”

He said this the way you would explain a simple fact to a child, like the name of a bird or a tree. He let me think about his answer, then tilted over and offered his hand. “We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Leonardo. Everybody calls me Leo.”

I looked into his putty face and nodded. “I'm Anderson.” As I reached to shake, I saw that his fingers were fused together, making that hand more mitten than glove. I hesitated—he saw me pause—but then I slid my hand into his. His grip was firm but far from strong.

After we shook I said, “I didn't mean to—listen, I'm sorry that I—” I couldn't finish, so I shut up and let go.

Leo left his hand hanging in the open air. “Don't apologize. You still took it. That's more than a lot of people. If you'd like, take a look.”

I thought it would be rude not to now, so I raised my eyes to his deformed hand. Along the tip of the mitten, two fingernails jutted from the melded flesh. They looked, honestly, like tiny claws, an observation I felt bad for even thinking. I wanted to know what had happened, of course, but I couldn't ask such a thing. Still, when he pulled his hand back he kept looking at me, and it was clear he was expecting me to make some comment. And before I could think it through or stop it, another equally rude question slipped out. “Does it still hurt?”

Leo's lips tightened, and he hugged his guitar to his chest. “Only sometimes. And not in the way you're thinking.”

I didn't understand, but I nodded. “That's good,” I said, which—looking back—was a pretty lame response.

I can't lie about it, there was something about Leo that just made you comfortable, even with how he looked and all. At that point in my life, if I came across someone who was handicapped, or disabled, or challenged, or whatever you're supposed to say this week, I'd just glance away. I wasn't being mean. I just didn't want to get caught staring and make them feel bad. Of course I've got a new perspective on all that now, but even back then, with Leo it was different. He simply radiated calmness. It was like the way I felt in church, before Mrs. Bundower, before Paradise Lake turned into a small Dead Sea, back when things were right and I thought God was there with us, hovering above and listening attentively. And strangely, being with Leo also reminded me of the sense I had with my father at times, the easy peace of working on a project together in silence.

We sat before the fire for a while without talking. Then Leo said, “This valley certainly is a magical place. Everywhere I look, there's beauty.”

I'd never lived anywhere else, but I knew what he meant. “It's not bad,” I said. I resisted the urge to tell him about the way the water used to shiver when the fish were feeding, back before they vanished.

He went on. “The mountains and the trees, the lake, there's so much to see. I grew up out west, and the land was flat, featureless really. Acres and acres you couldn't tell apart. Here, nothing's the same. Every view is unique. That's what I admire most.”

At the mention of the West, I imagined Leo farming a field with a plow, a sudden thunderstorm, one bolt of white lightning, and a man aflame running through furrowed earth.

“I've never been west of Ohio,” I said.

Leo said, “I'm truly sorry if we scared your brother. That wasn't what we wanted.”

I knew this was the case, but I wasn't about to let him off the hook. In fact, once I recalled what I was doing there, I tried to generate some of the anger I thought I should be feeling. “One of your followers was ripping through our garbage the other night.”

Leo adjusted the strings on his guitar and plucked out a note. He held a pick in the claw-mitten hand and worked the chords with his other, which was as perfect as his lips. “I have no followers. I don't lead anyone. And I promise you, none of the handful of people I came with would do such a thing.”

“Well, obviously somebody would.”

“Is that why you came here tonight? You came to find a trespasser?”

I thought about it and then shook my head. I hadn't been looking for the Scarecrow at all.

“Then why?”

I felt pressured, like I'd been called on in class and didn't know the answer. I scooped a handful of dirty sand and let it pour through my fingers. Without a good reply, I came back at him with, “Why don't you tell me why you're here? That's a question I've been wondering.”