Child Of Fire Part 4

"Where are they?" he shouted again. "Who stole my little girls from me?"

"He remembers," I said to Annalise. "Just like we do. How can he remember his kids?"

"I don't know," she said. "Go ask him."

CHAPTER THREE.

She wasn't joking. She wasn't smiling. She just looked at me, waiting to see if I'd flinch.

I did. h.e.l.l, who wouldn't?

But I still made my way toward the front door. When it came down to a choice of facing a gunman or my boss, it would be the gunman every time.

One of the two mechanics had ushered the old ladies out of their booth and led them into the kitchen. The other mechanic and the waitress crouched beside the door, peering out into the street from the dubious cover of a foam-padded wooden bench. The cook left the relative safety of the kitchen and joined them.

The waitress swore under her breath. "Old Harlan has finally gone round the bend."

The mechanic dared a glance into the street. "I thought Emmett Dubois confiscated his guns."

The waitress let out a contemptuous grunt. She didn't think much of Emmett Dubois.

"Whose guns?" I asked as I crouched beside them. We were all keeping our voices low.

"Harlan's," the waitress said. I glanced out the window. Harlan sighted along his rifle, slowly turning toward us. I ducked back down before he saw me.

"This Harlan guy," I said. "I take it he's local color?"

The mechanic snorted. "You could put it that way."

The cook came up behind me. "He fell off a ladder in '97 putting up Christmas lights. Hit his head. He ain't been right since."

"He was never a bad guy, though," the mechanic said.

The cook scowled at him. "Tell that to my window, and these customers he nearly killed."

"What was he shouting about?" the waitress asked.

"His daughters," I answered her. "He wants to know who took his daughters away."

"Why, that's just crazy," she said. "He doesn't have any little girls. He never has."

"What the h.e.l.l?" the cook said. His sour breath was right next to my ear. "Your girlfriend is just sitting in her booth like a duck in a shooting range. Don't she care about her own life?" He scrambled across the dirty floor toward her.

"Care about her own life?" I said. "Where's the fun in that?" Before anyone could stop me, I opened the front door and bolted into the street.

I didn't look at Harlan. I looked at the Corolla I was planning to use as cover.

I hit the pavement and rolled behind the wheel. I heard a shot and more gla.s.s breaking in the diner behind me. Someone cursed up a storm, which I'm sure was directed as much at me as at old Harlan.

I scuttled across a patch of gra.s.s and put my head right against the hubcap. There was a tree beside me, but the trunk was no wider than my hand. I wasn't counting on it for protection. "Stop shooting!" I shouted. "I'm trying to help you!"

"Can you tell me where my girls are?" There was a dangerous edge to his voice.

"No," I said. "I'm-"

"Then b.u.t.t the h.e.l.l out!"

I heard another rifle shot. The bullet punched a hole through the car door beside me and tore bark off the skinny tree. I hunkered down lower.

"I can help you," I shouted. I looked back at the diner and saw Annalise sitting by the window. She stared at me blankly. My situation meant no more to her than a dull television show. I saw the top of the cook's head as he beckoned her to safety.

"I can help you!" I shouted again, louder this time. If Harlan came toward me, I'd be screwed. My tattoos only protected part of me. I wasn't sure how well they'd hold up against a rifle.

"How?" he answered.

"Look, let me stand up and talk to you. My name is Ray. I came here to find out what's happening to the kids in this town."

"You did?"

"I'm standing up now. Hear me out before you shoot me, okay?"

I stood. Harlan had moved toward me into the street. He aimed his rifle at me.

No matter how hard you try, there's really no steeling yourself to see a brain-damaged redneck point a gun at your face.

He saw my hands were empty, and he started glancing from side to side as if he suspected I was a decoy.

"Harlan, my name is Ray."

"You said that already."

I had, but I hoped he would be reluctant to shoot me if he had a name to go with my face.

Harlan was younger than I expected, barely into his mid-thirties. His face was narrow and gleaming with sweat. His long nose curved over a thin, unhappy mouth. His clothes looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. He'd have been scary without a gun.

"Harlan, do you know who Justin Benton is?"

"Nope," he answered. He shifted his grip on his rifle and looked up the street. He was getting antsy. Where were the police sirens? It had been more than two minutes since that first shot.

"He was a little boy who lived in this town. Earlier today, I saw him burn up."

Harlan burst into tears. The barrel of his gun wavered, then angled toward the asphalt. "My girls," he said, his voice small and broken with pain. "My girls."

"Is that what happened to them?" I asked.

"I don't know. The Monday after Thanksgiving, Lorelei didn't come home from school. I went nuts looking for her. But... but..."

"But the people in this town acted as though they'd never heard of her. They acted as though she didn't exist."

"They're liars!" he shouted, his grief flaring into anger. He didn't point his gun at me. "And the next week, my little Marie disappeared from her bed. Right in the middle of the night. And..."

He couldn't go on. I helped. "And there was a black mark on the floor. A long, scary mark. It led to the door-"

"The window." He approached me slowly. There was no threat in the way he moved.

"And it disappeared into the dirt. Now no one in town remembers either of your girls."

"They don't remember any of the kids! Not even their own!" His face was slack with astonishment. He'd apparently forgotten that he'd just accused the whole town of lying to him. Maybe he'd never really believed it. "Even after they saw it happen with their own two eyes! They still have tricycles sitting in their front yards and Happy Meal wrappers on their dashboards, but it's like they can't see them!"

"You saw it, though, didn't you? You saw it happen right here in town."

"Five times."

"Is it always kids? Does it happen to adults, too?"

"Only kids. Never adults. My G.o.d, every single person in this town must have seen it, but I'm the only one who remembers." His eyes welled up with tears. The rifle hung loose in his hand. "Why am I the only one who remembers? And why do I feel this pressure in my head! It's been there for months, since before my Lorelei vanished. It's driving me wild!"

"Harlan, I'm new in town but I came here to find out what's happening in Hammer Bay. I can't promise that I can get your girls back, but I'm going to find out what's going on."

I saw hope in his expression. He was a tired man, with a heavy load of grief. He'd been carrying it for nearly half a year, but he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't recognize a helping hand when it was offered.

"Can you do that?"

"Man, I don't know," I told him. "But I intend to try. I have some questions for you, and I'm going to want to check out the black mark in your house, but I'm not going to be able to do any of that if you shoot me."

Harlan looked down at the gun in his hand and blinked.

I kept my voice low. "Can I have that gun, please?" That was when we heard the sirens.

Harlan backed away and lifted the rifle. "I'm not crazy," he yelled. "I was married. I had two little kids!"

Goose b.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled on my neck. "I know, Harlan. I believe you."

"Someone in this town is going to tell me where they are. Someone knows what's happened to them."

"Harlan," I said. His expression had become hard and distant. "You're that someone. None of these people can remember. Only you."

A police car turned the corner and stopped in the road, lights flashing.

Harlan looked at it like a man nearing the end of a big job. Suddenly, I understood. He was done. His kids were gone, and he was going to commit suicide by cop.

"Harlan, don't do it. There are other kids in town," I said, thinking of the two kids at the gas station. "You could help me put a stop to this. You might be the only one who-"

He leveled the gun at my chest. His face was calm. "Why don't you go back into the diner now," he said in a resigned voice. "Before something bad happens to you."

He was aiming at my chest. Would the tattoos there protect me if he squeezed the trigger?

I had no idea how to talk him down. I imagine cops and paramedics are trained in that sort of thing, but I was just an ex-car thief.

I laid my hand against the pocket containing my ghost knife. I could feel it there, thrumming with life. If talking wouldn't work...

Harlan turned away from the flashing lights on the patrol car and looked up the street. His eyes narrowed. I followed his gaze.

A wolf stood in the road. I'd never seen one outside a zoo before, but I recognized it immediately. The fur along its back was tinged with red, and it stared at us, standing sideways as though it wanted to present the largest possible target.

It was big. I don't know much about wolves, but it looked much bigger than I'd have expected. Then again, when Harlan had pointed his rifle at me, it looked like a.90 caliber. Fear can do that.

Harlan swung the rifle to his shoulder and fired. I saw the bullet chip the asphalt between the animal's legs. The wolf bolted, running down the street and out of sight.

Harlan worked the bolt of his rifle. I slid my hand into my pocket and took out my ghost knife.

Harlan saw me out of the corner of his eye. He spun and slammed the b.u.t.t of his rifle against my hand, smashing it against my hip. The ghost knife fell onto the street, and I staggered a few feet away from it.

He aimed the rifle at my face. I didn't have any tattoos to protect me there.

"It was just a piece of paper," I said.

Harlan glanced at the ghost knife and confirmed that what I was saying was true. Without a word, he swung his weapon around and sighted down the street, looking for the wolf.

I had cast the spell that created the ghost knife, and I could sense it there on the asphalt. I opened my hand and reached for it. The laminated paper flew into my hand, and in one motion, I threw it at Harlan like an oversized playing card.

According to the spell book I'd copied it from, a ghost knife cuts "ghosts, magic, and dead things." The wood and metal locks of the Bentons' front door were dead things, and the ghost knife cut through them easily. It could also destroy magic spells like my tattoos or the sigil on Annalise's sc.r.a.p of wood; the results weren't always pretty.

But every living person has a ghost in them. At least, the spell thinks so, because when I use it on people, it pa.s.ses through their bodies as though they aren't there and cuts at their "spirit."

And that's all I know about it. Even though I cast the spell myself from an old book I'd acquired under less-than-honest circ.u.mstances, and even though I'd used it a few times against people who were trying to kill me, I had no idea how it worked or what it truly did. As with so much else having to do with magic, Annalise, and her society, I was in the dark.

The ghost knife zipped across the few feet separating us and entered Harlan's body just below his armpit. His shirt fell open where the ghost knife sliced through it, but the laminated paper plunged into his body without leaving a visible mark. A moment later, the spell exited through the other side as if he wasn't even there.

Harlan sagged. His eyes dulled, and what ever was driving him to shoot up the town dwindled away. That's what the ghost knife did; it stole away aggression and vitality for a while. The effects of the spell were temporary-at least, they seemed to be.

Harlan lowered his rifle. I stepped toward him, ready to take the weapon away. The left side of Harlan's rib cage burst open. I never heard the gunshot. I only saw the exit wound. Blood splattered my left hand, and I felt the bullet whiz past me.

Harlan collapsed, falling onto his face on the street.

I looked up and saw a cop moving toward us, his revolver pointed at Harlan. "Move away!" the cop yelled. "Move away from the body!"

I was frozen in place. The cop pointed the gun at my face. He asked me who I was, and I told him.

He told me to move back again. I took a step back. The cop kicked the rifle just like they do on TV. It slid away up the street.

I heard a faint sucking noise and looked down.