Child Of Fire Part 16

"Where's your brother?" I asked again. "Where's Charles?"

"I don't like the way you're asking that question."

I imagined myself throttling the answer out of her.

No. I turned away and stared back over the town. The cold, furious sense of purpose that had driven me across town began to fade. I was not going to start killing everyone between me and my target. Annalise would have, but I was not going that far.

"I'll wait in the library, then," I said to her.

She stepped backward to let me enter. "I don't like that you're late. I expect people to be punctual. I'm not a person who likes to wait for others." She sounded fl.u.s.tered and annoyed, and I wasn't sure if she was trying to put me in my place because I'd scared her in the car, or if something else was getting on her nerves and she was taking it out on me. Either way, I didn't care.

She led me into the library and shut the door. I looked out the window. I saw a wide green lawn with a winding white stone path laid across it. The sight was soothing.

I held up my hand. It was trembling. I wondered how I could find out the name of the little girl I had just seen killed. No one would remember her. No one would go looking for her. There would be nothing in the news. I could look for that fat lady, I guessed, under the a.s.sumption that it was her daughter, but what good would that do? She wouldn't remember her any better than anyone else. I could break into their house and search the place for a photo...

I laid my hands on the window frame and pressed my face against the gla.s.s. I was not going to break into that woman's house. That little girl was never going to be more to me than a small bonfire, seen at a distance. I didn't need her name.

There was a small door to my right. I ran to it and yanked it open. It was a bathroom, thank G.o.d. I would have hated to vomit into one of Cynthia's closets.

I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth. My emotions were back under control, and I felt better. I felt like myself again. I didn't want to be some angry hard-a.s.s who bullied his way toward his enemies. I didn't want to be Annalise.

That gave me pause. How many dead bodies had Annalise seen? How many dead children, killed by some jacka.s.s with a spell book? No wonder she acted the way she did.

I heard a man and a woman start shouting at each other, and I headed toward the door. On the way, a small picture in a silver frame caught my attention. It was a black-and-white photo, taken a long time ago.

On the left side of the picture was a man in a dark waistcoat. His face bristled with white whiskers, and he had the satisfied look of a man who fed himself well. In the center was a tall, angular man in a long, road-worn coat with a walking stick in his hand. His hair was a little too long and needed combing, and he smiled out of the side of his mouth. He looked like a smooth talker and a bit of a con man, the sort of friend you keep for a lifetime but never, ever trust. Both wore hats and old-fas.h.i.+oned clothes. I guessed the picture was taken in the thirties.

On the right was a young girl in a pretty white dress. Her hair was bobbed, and her little shoes pointed slightly inward. I could see, at the lacy cuffs and collar of her dress, a faint spider's web of black lines. Tattoos. She had turned her solemn little face to look up at the con man, and I could see by her profile that she was Annalise.

I stared at the picture, dumbstruck. She looked eight or nine years younger than she looked now, but I was sure the picture was taken at least seventy years ago. Who was the man she was looking at? A second glance at him showed tattoos covering the back of his hand. I squinted at Annalise's face. She looked love-struck and slightly awed. Was this her teacher?

The shouting started again. I set the picture down, opened the door, and went out into the hall. There were doors all around and voices were coming from behind one of them. I walked toward the sound.

"Now, Cabot," a man said. "There's no reason to be so upset. Cynthia didn't-"

"Don't tell me what she did!" a man shouted. I guessed it was Cabot. "I know what she did! I have eyes!"

"Well, here's a good idea for you," Cynthia snapped. "Use them."

"Things are going to come around again," Cabot said. "Things are going to be made right. You watch, and you watch out!"

I had almost reached the heavy oak door when it flew open. A man in his mid-fifties with a heavy paunch and a blotchy face stormed past me. His thick, dark hair was speckled with gray.

There was something in his expression that I didn't like. He looked like a man who didn't care anymore.

I watched him stomp off. His clothes had been expensive once, but the heels of his boots were worn away and his jeans were frayed at the bottom.

"I thought I told you to wait in the library." Cynthia had moved up next to me. She looked irritated. "Well?"

I heard the front door slam.

"I'm nosy."

She glared at me. After a moment, she said: "Come into my office. Please."

I followed her into a small room. The floors were hardwood, and a large desk dominated the far corner. The only adornments on the walls were a pair of kimonos set in wooden frames.

A fat little man sat on the couch, rubbing his face wearily. His long, graying hair hung over his shoulders. "That man exhausts me-"

"Frank," Cynthia cut in, "this is Raymond Lilly. Mr. Lilly, this is our mayor, Frank Farleton."

Frank lifted his face from his hands and looked up at me in surprise. He didn't look pleased to see me. "I know who you are. What are you doing here?"

I turned to Cynthia. "Call me Ray. I've seen the mayor before but didn't introduce myself. He was too upset about your brother's seizure. Isn't that right, Mayor Farleton?"

"What are you doing here, please?" he asked again. At least he was polite.

"She invited me. How long has Charles been having seizures?"

The mayor struggled off the couch. He had to huff vigorously to lift his bulk onto his feet. "What do you mean? Who invited you?"

I heard the front door slam again. No one else seemed to notice it. The office door was behind me to my left, the desk in front of me to the right. I backed against the wall and slid my hand into my pocket next to my ghost knife.

Cynthia strode behind her desk and offered me a strained smile. The mayor sat on the corner of her desk. "I don't think Frank means who invited you to my house. I think he means who invited you to Hammer Bay." Her pretty smile betrayed a touch of scorn. Her hands were shaking. She was having a bad day. "But," she continued, "you're here to answer my questions, not his. And if you don't feel like answering, all I have to do is call Emmett Dubois. Once I tell him you broke into my car and tried to take the keys-"

The office door burst inward and Cabot charged in. I was ready for him, but I was still too slow. He lifted his arm. He was holding a pistol.

Time seemed to slow down. Cabot aimed at Cynthia. His teeth were bared, his cheeks flushed red.

The mayor stepped in front of her, his arms spread wide, his fat cheeks puffed out in an almost comical way.

I swung the ghost knife at the gun. Cabot squeezed the trigger. The hammer drew back. I was too slow. The gun fired. A bare second later, the ghost knife swept through it, slicing it apart.

The mayor flinched as the bullet struck him just above the collarbone.

Cabot squeezed the trigger again, but the gun was already coming apart. It didn't fire. He turned toward me, his mouth opening in what I imagined would be angry protest. He looked at the remains of the gun in his hand in utter shock.

I slid the edge of the ghost knife into his chest and, before he had a chance to go slack, threw an overhand left. I was off-balance, but the punch landed just in front of his earlobe. Cabot dropped like a marionette with his strings cut.

I turned toward the others. The mayor was holding the top of his right shoulder with his b.l.o.o.d.y left hand. He stumbled away from Cynthia and looked at her. Then he collapsed onto the floor. The bullet appeared to have only grazed him, but he was bleeding profusely. His face looked pale.

Cynthia looked at me. Her mouth hung open in a little O, and her face was slack and pale.

I don't like guns. I stared down at the mayor for a moment too long, wis.h.i.+ng the whole thing hadn't happened.

His face grew more pale by the second. Cynthia gaped at him.

"Call an ambulance," I said. Cynthia turned her empty gaze toward me. She seemed to be in a trance. "Right now!" I shouted.

She jumped and lunged for the phone on her desk. She wasn't used to being yelled at.

I grabbed an arm cover off the couch and knelt beside the mayor. I confirmed that the bullet had grazed him just above his collarbone, well away from the arteries in his neck. If he'd been less fat, it might have missed him altogether.

I wadded up the arm cover and pressed it against the wound. "Well, well," I said, trying to keep my tone light, "look what you've managed to do. This doesn't look too bad, though."

"It hurts," he said.

"Being a hero usually does."

"What? I'm not a hero. I wasn't thinking. I just-"

His face was getting paler. I grabbed a cus.h.i.+on off the couch and slid it under his feet. "Of course you didn't think," I said. "Who would jump in the path of a bullet if they were thinking?"

Cynthia spoke into the phone, asking for an ambulance. She spoke so quickly she was on the verge of babbling. I called her name to catch her attention, then told her to speak as calmly as she could. She took a deep, shuddering breath and recited her address into the phone. She told the operator on the other end that the mayor had been shot.

"I don't want to die," the mayor said. His voice was small and childlike. He squeezed his eyes shut, and I saw tears running down his face. "My wife..."

"I'm no doctor," I told him, "but I think you're going to be okay. Harlan was shot much worse than you, and he's recovering. Just try to take deep breaths and stay calm. The ambulance is on the way." The color came back into his face just a little.

Cynthia hung up the phone and stared down at the scene in utter befuddlement. "What happened to Uncle Cabot's gun?"

"Come over here and make yourself useful," I said. She circled around her desk and knelt beside the mayor. "Put your hands on this cloth and keep a steady pressure on the wound."

She looked at my b.l.o.o.d.y hands and balked.

"This man just took a bullet for you," I said. My voice was low and edged with anger. "Now do it."

She did.

The mayor looked up at her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so embarra.s.sed-"

Cynthia burst into tears.

I watched her for a moment, to make sure that she kept her hands on the wound. She did. The mayor began to comfort her, and his color definitely improved. It helped him to have someone to comfort.

Cabot lay in the doorway. I wiped my b.l.o.o.d.y hands on the front of his s.h.i.+rt, then began to pat him down. He didn't have another gun. He moaned and began to come around.

My ghost knife was in my pocket, although I didn't remember putting it away. I slid it through his hand. It wouldn't keep him unconscious, but it would make him docile.

I heard sirens. "You two sit tight," I said. "I'm going to open the front door." Cynthia and the mayor kept murmuring to each other. They didn't seem to hear me.

I dragged Cabot into the hall. Docile or not, I didn't want him waking up in the same room as them. Then I walked over and opened the front door.

The EMTs were already jogging up the steps, a stretcher in their hands. Behind them was Emmett Dubois, his hand on his holstered weapon. Emmett squinted the length of the hall and saw Cabot lying at the far end, his s.h.i.+rt smeared with blood. Cabot s.h.i.+fted his leg, barely on the edge of consciousness.

"He's right this way," I said to them, pointing to the open office door. They rushed past me.

When I turned around, I saw Emmett Dubois pointing his gun at me. "Turn around, put your hands behind your head, and drop to your knees."

"I'm getting sick of having guns pointed at me."

"Ain't that too bad." He pushed me onto my stomach and began twisting my arms behind me. Cynthia stepped out of the office and saw us.

"What are you doing?" she said. "He didn't hurt anyone. He saved us."

She told him what happened. Emmett uncuffed me and helped me to my feet. He offered a brief but insincere cop apology and made a beeline for Cabot. Cabot had come around enough to rub the side of his jaw. Emmett rolled him on his stomach and cuffed him. Cabot didn't resist.

Cynthia stepped close to me. Her hands were shaking. "I have to go to the hospital. Will you drive me? I don't think I can manage it right now."

"Sure," I told her.

The EMTs emerged with the mayor on a stretcher. They didn't seem to be in a hurry. Emmett dragged Cabot to his feet and led him toward the door.

"I'm sorry," Cabot said. "I'm sorry, everyone. I shouldn't have done that."

He went on and on like that. Hearing his meek, whining voice seemed to set Cynthia on edge, so I held her back to let the others get ahead. We stood on the front porch and watched them load the mayor into the back of the ambulance, and Cabot into the back of Emmett's police car. They started their engines but didn't turn on their sirens.

After they had disappeared around the corner, Cynthia turned toward me. "Do I look terrible?" she asked.

Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and her lip twisted down on one side as she fought back her tears. Her makeup was still perfect. "You can check yourself on the way. Do you have everything you need?"

"No, I'll be right back."

She rushed back into the house. I took the sc.r.a.p of wood out of my pocket and laid it against the doorjamb.

Nothing. The design churned at its normal slow pace. The Hammer house was no different from any other. I looked at the other two on the cul-de-sac. If I were Charles Hammer the Third, heir to a timber fortune and own er of a wildly successful toy company, which would I live in? A tiny brick house or an empty stone one?

Neither, really. I started toward the brick house for no other reason than that it was slightly closer. I had only gotten a couple of steps when the door opened behind me.

"I'm ready. Let's go," Cynthia said.

She gave me the keys and I drove. She flipped down the pa.s.senger-side visor and studied her face. I tried not to pay too close attention as I wound my way through traffic, but I could see her hands trembling slightly.

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

"Yes. I think I'm going to be fine. What about you? Are you all right?"

The question surprised me. For a second I thought she'd known about me in the library toilet. Hanging on, I wanted to say. Then I realized she was talking about Cabot and the gun. "I'm fine. Maybe I'll freak out later, but I'm fine right now."

"You're not really going to freak out, are you?" she said. "You're just saying that to be nice." I shrugged, and she laid her hand on my arm. Just for a moment.

It was my turn to s.h.i.+ver. d.a.m.n, it had been a long time.

We reached the hospital. I was glad to see that Ethan's van was gone.

The receptionist told us that the mayor was in intensive care. Cynthia seemed to shrug this off, but I was confused. "I didn't think his wound was that serious," I said. "It looked like it just grazed him."

"Well..." The receptionist looked around and then began shuffling papers on her desk. She looked up at Cynthia as though she was one of her supervisors. Maybe that's what it meant to be part of a founding family-everyone treats you like you're in charge. "I shouldn't have told you that much. HIPAA rules."