The Fireman: A Novel Part 45

"A little over two months. You've been in and out of consciousness the last few days. After your head injury, there were . . . serious complications. You suffered at least two seizures, several weeks apart. At one time I doubted you'd recover."

"Strokes?"

She sat on the edge of his bed. In sign language, she asked Nick to get her "heart-ear-listen-to-him thing" and he went to the counter to find her stethoscope.

"Are you talking to my grandson in sign language?" Father Storey asked.

"Nick is a good teacher."

He smiled at that. Then his brow furrowed in thought. "If I had a stroke, how come my speech isn't slurred?"

"That doesn't always happen. Likewise, partial paralysis. But you have feeling in both hands, your feet? Your face isn't numb?"

He stroked his beard, pinched his nose. "No."

"That's good," she said in a slow voice, thinking it over. Seeing in her mind the swollen red spider bite between his toes, then dismissing it.

Nick brought her the stethoscope. She listened to Father Storey's heart (strong) and lungs (clear). She tested his vision, asking him to follow the head of a Q-tip with his gaze, moving it in toward his nose and then out.

"Will I slip back into coma?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Where did the IV come from?" he asked, looking over at it.

"That's a long story. A lot has changed in the last few months."

His eyes brightened with excitement. "Is there a cure? For the 'scale?"

"No," she said.

"No. Of course not. Or we wouldn't still be hiding at Camp Wyndham and you wouldn't be treating me in the infirmary." He studied her face and his smile became something sad and worried. "Carol? What has she done?"

"Let's keep the focus on you for now. Would you like to try a sip of water?"

"I would. I would also like to have my question answered. I believe I could manage both at the same time."

She did not ask Nick to get the water, but went and poured some herself. Wanted the time to think. When she came back to the bed, she held the cup and waited while Father Storey struggled to get his head off the pillow to take a sip. When he was done he slumped back and smacked his lips.

"I think it would be best for Carol to speak to you herself," Harper said. "She'll be relieved to know you're awake. She's been-at her wit's end without you. Although she's had the support of Ben Patchett and his team of Lookouts, and that's meant a lot. They've kept things going, anyway." She thought that was a politic way to put it.

Father Storey wasn't smiling anymore. His complexion was pale and sickly and he was starting to sweat. "No, I better see John first, Ms. Willowes. Before my daughter is notified I'm awake. Can you bring him to me? There are matters that won't wait." He paused and then his gaze met hers. "What was done with the person who attacked me?"

"We don't know who attacked you. Some think it was one of the prisoners, a man named Mark Mazzuch.e.l.li. But he insists that you split up in the woods and when he left you, you were fine. I raised the possibility you might've been a.s.saulted by the camp's thief, who wanted to shut you up before you could-"

"Expose them over a few cans of Spam?" Father Storey asked. "Anyway, what do I know about the thief?"

"You told me you knew who it was."

"Did I? I don't . . . I don't think I did. Although I suppose I might've and forgot. There are several things I don't recall, including who decided to thump me in the head." He pursed his lips and his brow furrowed, and then he shook his head. "No. I don't think I ever figured out who the thief was."

"You told me in the canoe that someone would have to leave camp. Do you remember that conversation?" Harper asked. "The night we rowed to South Mill Pond together?"

"Not really," Father Storey said. "But I'm sure I wasn't talking about the thief."

"Who do you think we were talking about, then?" Harper asked.

"I imagine we were discussing my daughter," Father Storey said, as if it should be obvious. "Carol. She called a Cremation Crew on Harold Cross. She set him up-arranged the whole thing, so when Ben Patchett shot the poor boy, it would look like he had to, to protect the camp and keep Harold from giving information to our enemies."

20.

Harper had a sidelong look at Nick. He had settled on the foot of her cot, hands folded together under his chin, to watch his grandfather. His face was a serene blank. The room was very dark, with only the low flame of that single candle to cast any light, and she had no sense Nick had any idea what Father Storey had just told her. She reminded herself that he wasn't much of a lip-reader even in the best light.

"How do you know this?" Harper asked.

"Carol told me so herself. You will recall, the last time I spoke to the congregation, I discussed the need to find it in our hearts to forgive the thief. Later, when we were alone, Carol and I fought over that. She said I was weak and that people in camp would abandon us if we didn't show strength. She told me I should've made an example out of Harold Cross. I remarked that a very terrible example had been made out of Harold Cross, one I was sure pleased her. I was being nasty and exaggerating, but she got confused and said, in a flat voice, 'So you know.' I felt all icy through my chest and said, 'What do you mean?' And she said, 'That I used him to set an example.'

"Of course I only meant that Harold had disobeyed and got himself killed, but Carol misunderstood me and thought I was confronting her over what she had done. She said it was just as well she called a Cremation Crew on him. If she hadn't done it, Harold would've been discovered eventually anyway, only there might not have been anyone close to keep him from being captured alive. She said she wasn't ashamed of herself. She had saved me, and my grandchildren, and the entire camp. She was flushed and looked-triumphal. I said I didn't believe Ben Patchett would be part of such a scheme and she laughed as if I had made a very good joke. She said I had no idea how hard it was, to carry on the pretense that everyone was as good and kind as I hoped they'd be, to perpetuate my childish fantasies of everyday decency and abundant forgiveness. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't think. She said in a lot of ways I was as responsible for Harold's death as she was, that I had forced us all into a position where he had to be shot. She told me if there had been more severe punishments right at the beginning-if, for example, we'd kept him in leg irons or taken a birch to him in public-he wouldn't have continued to put everyone at risk by sneaking out of camp. Well, before I could come up with a response, Ben Patchett was hammering at the door, saying it was time to go. Honestly, I didn't dare try to answer her arguments, not with Ben and Carol both there. I know my daughter wouldn't hurt me, but I wasn't sure what Ben might-"

"How sure?" Harper asked. "If she was rattled, if she thought she might be exiled, don't you think she could've been the one who clubbed you in the head?"

"Not for an instant. My daughter would never, ever try to have me killed. I am as sure of that as I am of my own name. No. I abjure the notion entirely. Tell me-while I was unconscious, did she seem in any way ambivalent about my recovery?"

Harper inhaled deeply, remembering. "No. In fact, she threatened to have me driven from the camp and my baby taken from me if you died."

Father Storey blanched.

"She was-she has been-hysterical at the thought you might die," Harper added and then gave her head a little shake. She was remembering what the Fireman had told her, that Carol had always been desperate to have her father all to herself, that he was, in a sense, the one true pa.s.sion in her life. Love could turn to murder, of course. Harper understood that better than most, perhaps. But somehow . . . no. It didn't feel right. Not really. Carol might set a death warrant upon Harold Cross, but not her father. Never her father.

Father Storey seemed to see this exact conclusion in Harper's frowning expression. "You mustn't imagine Carol felt I represented any kind of threat to her. Nor was she ashamed of what she had done. She was proud! She sensed, of course, that if the entire camp knew, it might crack us all apart, that there was a need for secrecy. But not a need for shame. No, I can't believe my own daughter would conclude she needed to kill me to preserve my silence. It is impossible to imagine. I am sure she hoped I would come around to her way of thinking with time, accept that a little murder was necessary to protect the camp. At the very least, she hoped I would continue to be the loving, decent, charitable face of our nightly chapel services, and leave her to see to the 'dirty details' of looking after the community. Those were her exact words."

It maddened Harper that she couldn't put together what had happened to Father Storey in the woods. She felt it was all right there, everything she needed to know, but it was like meeting an acquaintance and not being able to remember the person's name. No matter how she strained, she couldn't see it.

So leave it, she thought. Didn't matter. She didn't need to figure it out. Not right now.

"Bring John," Father Storey said gently. "Then we'll talk with Carol. And Allie. And Nick. I'd like my family around me, now. If there are difficult things to say, we'll get through them together. That's what we've done in the past and it hasn't failed us yet." He narrowed his eyes. "Do you think-people will understand what Carol did to Mr. Cross? Do you think they'll forgive her?"

Harper wondered how many people would forgive Father Storey for exposing her, but didn't say so. He saw her doubts in her face, anyway.

"You think it will be the end of our camp?" he said.

After a moment, she replied . . . not with an answer, but with a question of her own. "Do you remember all the talk about Martha Quinn's island?"

"Yes."

"It's real. We know where it is. I'd like to go there. There's a medical facility where I can safely deliver my baby. I know some others would like to go as well. I think . . . after it gets around about Harold Cross . . . and that you've recovered . . . I think, yes, camp might break up. The night you were attacked, you told me someone was going to have to be exiled from camp. Sent away for good. I didn't know you meant Carol. I suppose"-she drew a deep, steadying lungful of air. She was about to suggest an idea she found perfectly loathsome-"she could come with me. With us. Those who will leave, if we're allowed to go."

"Of course you would be allowed to go," he said. "And perhaps it might be better to keep Carol here after all. In some form of confinement. I would stay behind as well, to look after her. To help her back to her best self, if at all possible."

"Father," Harper said.

"Tom."

"Tom. Maybe we should wait for another day to talk to your daughter. You're very weak right now. I think you should rest."

He said, "I'll rest better when I've seen my granddaughter and John. And yes, my daughter. I love Carol very dearly. I understand if you can't-if you hate her. But know at least that whatever she's guilty of, whatever her crimes, she always believed she was doing it in the name of caring for the people she loves."

Harper thought Carol had a sick need to make others conform-to yield-that had nothing to do with love at all, but Tom Storey could no more see that in his daughter than Nick could hear.

She didn't bother to say so, though. If Tom really meant to deal with her tonight, there was plenty of unpleasantness to come, and she didn't care to add to it. So: John first. Send word for Allie. Allie would bring Carol. Whatever Father Storey had to face, he wouldn't face it alone.

She turned to Nick and spoke with her hands. "I am going to get the Fireman. Keep Papa company. He needs you. He can have sips of water, small, not many. Do you see? Is my words right?"

Nick nodded and his hands replied, "I got it. Go on."

Harper began to move. She was glad to move, wanted her body to catch up to the speed of her thoughts. She ducked through the moss-colored curtain.

Michael was on watch, as he had promised he would be. He had set his Ranger Rick aside for once and had his .22 rifle across his knees, was rubbing some oil or polish into the b.u.t.t with a rag.

"Michael," she said.

"Yes'm?"

"He's awake. Father Storey."

Michael jumped up, grabbing his rifle to keep it from falling on the floor. "You're pulling my leg. No way."

She had to smile, couldn't help it. The simple surprise in his face-the wide-eyed innocence-made him look more of a boy than ever. His guileless expression brought to mind her four-year-old nephew, although in truth they looked nothing alike.

"He is. He's awake and he's talking."

"Does he-" Michael's Adam's apple jogged up and down in his throat. "Does he remember who attacked him?"

"No. But I think it'll come back to him soon enough. He's much keener than I would've expected or hoped for. Listen, he wants me to get John. When John's here, he wants us to bring Carol. And Allie, of course. He wants his whole family around him. And I want you there, too."

"Well-I don't know that I have any place-" he faltered.

"This might be a difficult reunion. I'd like you there in case . . . people get carried away by their emotions."

"You think they might fight about the things Mother Carol has been up to?" he asked.

"You don't have any idea, Michael. It's not what she's done while Father Storey's been unconscious. It's what she did before he got his head bashed in. If people knew, she never would've been put in charge of anything. Her or Ben Patchett, either." She thought of Ben Patchett pumping a bullet into Harold Cross and all at once could taste the sweet-acrid flavor of bile in the back of her throat. "f.u.c.king Ben Patchett," she said.

Michael frowned. "I don't think Mr. Patchett is too bad a guy. Maybe he got a little carried away once when those outlaws got dragged into camp, but I can kind of understand-"

"He's a criminal," Harper said. "He shot a defenseless boy."

"Harold Cross? Oh, Ms. Willowes, he had to do that."

"Did he? Did he really?"

There was such innocence and wonder and bafflement in Michael's expression, she couldn't help herself, had to lean forward and kiss his freckled brow. His shoulders jumped in surprise.

"You remind me of my nephew," she said. "Little Connor Willowes-Connor Jr. I'm not sure why. You both have kind eyes, I guess. Do you think you can be brave a while longer, Michael? Can you do that for me?"

He swallowed. "I hope so."

"Good. Don't let anyone in to see him until I get back. I'm trusting you to look after him."

Michael nodded. He was very pale behind his copper beard. "I know what I have to do. Don't you worry, ma'am. I'll take care of Father Storey."

21.

She wanted to run, but there was no way. Her stomach, heavy with baby, had a.s.sumed a firmness and size that was magnificent, planetary. So she zigged and zagged through the mazy pines in a shambling jog, sweating and breathing hard.

In the dark, with her pulse thumping behind her eyes, it was doubtful she would've seen Michael Lindqvist following at a distance, even if she had looked for him. He went with care, in no hurry, watching for a long time before he moved from one tree to the next. If she had seen him, she might've been surprised by his expression, his small tight mouth and narrowed eyes. There was nothing particularly childlike about it at all. He followed her as far as the boathouse, but when she went on toward the dock, he went in, and had soon disappeared among the shadows.

Harper took her time making it down the wooden steps cut into the sandy embankment, grabbing bunches of sea gra.s.s to steady her. The ocean was a metal plate dented all over as if it had been battered by a thousand hammer blows. Moonlight blinked silver on the edges of the waves. Looked a little choppy out there. Harper didn't see the man sitting on the end of the dock until she was out on it, halfway to the rowboat.

Don Lewiston jerked his head around to look back over his shoulder. He sat with a steel pail on his right and a fis.h.i.+ng pole across his knees.

"Nurse Willowes! What brings you boundin' down the hill?" he asked.

He wasn't fis.h.i.+ng alone. Chuck Cargill stood on the pebbly beach, holding a rod of his own, his rifle behind his feet on the rocks. Cargill squinted doubtfully up at them.

"Father Storey is awake. Can you get away? He wants to see John, just as soon as possible."

Don's tangled eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened in an almost comic gape.

"Yar, I think-" He stood, cupped one hand around his mouth. "Chuckie boy! Hold the fort here. I got to row the missus out to see John. She wants to have a look-see at that busted wing of his."

"Mr. Lewiston? Hey, ah-Mr. Lewiston, I don't think-" A tug on his line distracted him. The end of his rod bent toward the water. He gave it an irritated glance, then returned his gaze to Harper and Don Lewiston. "Mr. Lewiston, you better wait before you go anywhere. I should clear it with Mother Carol first."