The Fireman: A Novel Part 37

But before she could get too worked up, the contractions subsided, leaving her insides as fizzy as if she had chugged a cold Coca-Cola. Blood boomed in her ears. And the thought occurred to her that she ought to make that call today, now, and let her father know she was hoping to give him a grandchild for his birthday. It was incredible to think her parents didn't know she was pregnant . . . let alone that she was still alive. Her mother would scream, actually scream.

Nick was asleep on his side in the next cot, one hand curled beneath his cheek. She had no fears of waking him. He would sleep on even if she made the call right next to his bed. The floor was so cold it hurt to walk across it on bare feet. She shifted aside the curtain for a peek into the waiting room. The boy out there, a kid named Hud Loory who often drew fishing duty with Don Lewiston, dozed on the couch, his rifle on the floor. That boy would be eating a rock for breakfast if Ben Patchett stopped by on a spot inspection.

Harper let herself into the bathroom and locked the door. She sat on the lid of the toilet and turned on the phone. It had less than a quarter power and only a single bar. She stared at the flat, gla.s.sy, impossibly brilliant screen for ten seconds, then typed in her mother's cell from memory and pressed SEND.

The phone produced a grainy hiss that lasted for three seconds. A recording played of a woman with an aggrieved, accusatory voice: "The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the listing and try again."

She tried her father's line next. The phone made a series of rapid beeps, like someone telegraphing a message in Morse code. This was followed by a hideous angry blatting and she had to hang up.

Her next thought was e-mail. She pulled up the Web browser on the phone to sign into her Gmail account. She waited, breathing shallowly, for the log in page to appear. It never did.

Instead, she was redirected to the Google main page. Only it was different now. Instead of a big blank white page with the word Google in the center, she arrived at a page with the word Goodby on it instead. Beneath was the search box, and the two familiar b.u.t.tons. When she had last visited Google, one of those b.u.t.tons read Google Search and the other said I'm Feeling Lucky. Now, the b.u.t.ton on the left read Our Search Is Over.

The b.u.t.ton on the right read We Were So Lucky.

For some reason-maybe because she was still emotionally jangled from her intense bout of contractions-it made Harper damp-palmed and anxious to see the Google page defaced in such a way. She had a feeling that nothing good would come from attempting a search, but she typed in Google Mail in the search box anyway and hit RETURN.

Instead of bringing up her results, the words she had typed into the search box hissed, blackened, and crumbled to pixelated ash. Black trails of digital smoke wavered up from a pile of burnt crumbs.

It was ludicrous to cry because there was no more Google, but for a moment Harper felt very close to weeping. The idea that Google could collapse and be gone was as hard to imagine as the fall of the Twin Towers. It had seemed at least as permanent a part of the cultural landscape.

Maybe it was not just Google she felt like crying for, but all of it, all of the good, smart, clever creations that were sliding away now, sinking into the past. She missed texting and TV and Instagram and microwaves and warm showers and retail therapy and quality peanut b.u.t.ter. She wondered if there was anyone even growing peanuts anymore and felt very blue, and when she swallowed she tasted tears. She missed it all, but most of all she missed her mother and father and brother, and for the first time she allowed herself to consider the real possibility that she would never hear from any of them again.

Harper did not want to wake the Lookout in the waiting room with a sudden sob. She clutched the phone between both hands and pressed her knuckles to her mouth and waited out her grief. Finally, when she was sure she had herself under control, she planted a wet kiss on the screen of the phone, said, "Happy birthday, Dad," and turned it off.

When she returned to the ward, she hid the phone in the ceiling with the notebook. She slipped back under her sheets and had a nice little cry into her pillow.

Soon enough she was done with tears and feeling sleepy and comfortable. The baby pressed a tentative hand against the stiff, fibrous wall of his cell, fingers spread-she could feel them, she was sure-and seemed to give her a clumsy comforting pat. She pressed her hand to his, less than half an inch of tissue between them.

"Just you and me now, kid," she said, but of course it had been just the two of them for months.

10.

That night, she dreamt of Jakob again, for the first time in months. She dreamt of Jakob and the Freightliner, of the headlights rushing toward her and the engine screaming in a way that seemed to express more hate than any human voice could manage.

But Jakob wasn't riding alone anymore.

In the dream-how curious!-Nelson Heinrich was riding with him.

11.

Four days after she put the phone away, where it would trouble her no more, Michael Lindqvist pulled guard duty in the infirmary. He came to see her as soon as his shift began.

"Ma'am?" he said, sticking his face between the curtain and the doorframe in a way that reminded Harper of Kermit the Frog, nervously studying the evening's audience. "Can I see you about a thing?"

"Of course," Harper said. "No appointments necessary. All forms of health insurance accepted."

He sat on her cot and she pulled a pale green curtain between them and Nick for privacy. She wondered if he was going to ask her about prophylactics.

Instead he wiggled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and offered it to her. "Just thought you'd want to look at this in private. You never know when Mr. Patchett might pop by to make sure everyone is being good boys and girls."

She opened the note and began to read.

Dear Ms. Willowes, What happened to you that night in the woods was all my fault. I could've stopped it at any time and I didn't. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope someday I can earn back your respect, or at least your trust. I would apologize to your face but lately I've been p.i.s.sing everyone off and I'm confined to the dorm, so I have to tell you this way. I'm sorry, Ms. Willowes. I never wanted you to get hurt. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I'm such an a.s.shole.

If there's anything I can do to help you, just tell Mike. I would like so badly to make it up to you. You deserve everything and anything. And also: thank you for being a subst.i.tute, part-time, all-purpose mom to my brother. You've been better family to him than I have. Please tell him I'm thinking about him and I miss him. While you're at it, give my grandpa a kiss for me.

Please please please be careful.

Hopefully someday your friend again, Allie Michael sat with his fingers laced together, hands squeezed between his knees. He looked pasty and couldn't stop jiggling one leg.

"Thank you for bringing this to me. I know you could get in a lot of trouble, carrying secret messages."

He shrugged. "It wasn't any big thing."

"It is, though." Harper felt as lovely and free as a ten-year-old girl on her first day of summer vacation. She had already forgiven Allie everything. She had that in her-could forgive easily and lightly, with the best feeling in the world. Harper looked at the letter again and frowned. "What does she mean, she's confined to the dorm?"

Michael's eyes widened in comic surprise. He had the least guarded face of anyone Harper had ever met. "You don't know? No. No, course you don't. You almost never get out of this place. The night you robbed the ambulance, Allie went to see the Fireman and tell him what was going down. She's the reason he knew he had to send a Phoenix to make sure you all got back safe. Allie has been in a world of s.h.i.t ever since. Carol had her removed from the Lookouts and made her carry a stone in her mouth for three days. The way Carol sees it, Allie chose sides against her and made her look bad in the process. Now she's only ever allowed out of the dorm to do kitchen ch.o.r.es and visit the chapel. And she isn't glowing anymore when we all sing! She just stands there with her head down, not looking at anyone."

"That girl saved Tom Storey's life," Harper said. "How can Carol punish Allie after she saved Tom's life?"

"Um," Michael said.

"What?"

"The story in camp is that Allie gave up on trying to save Father Storey and was just standing there crying when Carol came in and called him back by shouting his name. She called Father Storey back from the deep Bright, which is where you go when you're dead."

"Allie didn't-she wasn't-what nonsense! You were there, haven't you told-didn't someone explain what really-"

Michael's head sank between his shoulders and his face a.s.sumed a hangdog look.

"You want to be careful the kind of stories you tell these days. Carol and Ben have their version of what happened. There isn't room for any other versions. When Allie said it wasn't true-and she did-Ben gave her a stone again for disrespecting authority. The people in this camp these days, well . . . you might've heard we only speak with one voice now." His head sank still lower. He dropped his gaze. "I hate it, you know. All of it. Not just what's happening to Allie, but also how Carol is. She's so suspicious and strained and ready to lash out. She has patrols circling her cabin because one night she thought she saw shadows moving in the trees. Emily Waterman came out of the cafeteria laughing about something, and Carol decided she must've been laughing at her, and gave her a stone. Emily cried and cried. She's just a kid."

He swung one foot. The laces of his boot were undone and they swooped back and forth and clicked against the underside of the bed frame. After a moment he asked: "Can I tell you somethin' kind of personal, ma'am?"

"Of course."

"A lot of people don't know I tried to kill myself once. Right after my sisters burned to death. I was hiding in what was left of my house, which was half burnt down. My parents were gone. My sisters were . . . these girl-shaped mounds of ash in the wreckage of the living room. I just wanted it all to go away. I didn't want to smell smoke anymore. I didn't want to be lonely. I had a little Honda scooter I used to deliver pizzas on. I started it up in the garage and waited for the exhaust to kill me. First I got a headache, then I threw up. Eventually I pa.s.sed out. I was unconscious for about forty minutes before the scooter ran out of gas, and then I woke up. I don't think the garage was very airtight.

"A few days after that I went wandering. I had an idea maybe I'd find my way to the ocean, and walk in to clean the stink off me."

Harper remembered her own desolate morning walk to the ocean, not so long after she first came to camp. She wondered if Michael had gone to the water for the same reason as her, seeking a final cold plunge into quiet darkness and no more worry, no more loneliness.

"Instead I heard some girls singing. They were singing really nice, in sweet, clear voices. I-I was so out of it, I thought maybe it was my sisters, calling to me. I found my way out of the trees and into Monument Park and saw it wasn't my sisters at all. It was Allie and Carol and Sarah Storey and the Fireman and a few others. They were singing a real old song, that one where the guy says he doesn't know much about history. Sam Cooke, I think? They were singing and they were all lit up, soft and blue and peaceful. They looked at me like they had been waiting all day for me to get there. I sat down to watch and listen and at some point Carol sat beside me with a wet towel and began wiping the grime off my face. She said, 'Oh, look! There's a boy under there!' And I started crying and she just laughed at me and said, 'That's another way to get the dirt off.' I had been walking barefoot and she got down and wiped the blood and the dirt off my feet. It would kill me to do anything to hurt her. I thought I'd never be loved like my mom and my sisters loved me and then I found my way here."

He paused, fidgeting, and then sighed, and when he spoke again, it was in a lower voice. "But that stuff Carol said about taking your baby away from you: I don't know why she'd even think something like that. We can't do that. And then there's the way she treats Allie. Seems like Allie has a stone in her mouth all day, every day, and she won't ever spit it out, because that would be like admitting defeat. Allie would rather starve first. You know how she is. And then . . . and then sometimes after chapel, after we've been singing our hardest, I come back to myself, and my head is ringing like after I tried to kill myself in the garage. Sometimes I think the way we give ourselves over to the Bright now, those are also like little suicides." He sniffled and Harper realized he was close to tears. "It used to be better. It used to be really good here. Anyway. Like Allie said in her letter. You aren't all alone. You've got us. Allie 'n' me."

"Thank you, Michael."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes. There is. But if it's too much, you must say no. Don't feel you have to do anything that would put you at more risk than is safe."

"Uh-oh," he said. "I was thinking maybe you'd want me to sneak you some creamers for your coffee. I guess you're thinking bigger."

"Is there any way I can get out of here for an hour to see the Fireman? And if I did, could you keep a close eye on Father Storey while I'm gone?"

He blanched.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No," he said. "It's okay. I could cover for you if Mr. Patchett showed up, I guess. I could pull the curtain across your bed, put some pillows under your sheets, and tell him you're napping. Just-if I sneak you out-if I get you together with him . . . do you promise you'll come back? You aren't going to jump in a car with the Fireman and take off tonight, are you?"

Of all the things he could've said or asked, she had not seen that one coming.

"Oh, Michael, of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't abandon Father Storey in his condition."

"Good. Because you can't leave camp," he said and sat forward and gripped her wrist. "Not without taking Allie and me."

12.

Harper descended the hill through a bitter cold that stung her nostrils and hurt her lungs. Her breath smoked, as if she were going full dragon, burning from the inside out.

It was coldest on the shale, alongside the water, numbing the exposed parts of her face. A thread of smoke rose from the tin chimney on the Fireman's shed, the only sign of life in the entire ice-locked world. She hated walking out on the dock, felt exposed, half expected someone to shout. But no one saw her, and the dock itself was hidden from the church steeple by a band of tall evergreens. She lowered herself into the rowboat and cast off the line. Once she was on the water she might be visible (the eye in the steeple sees all the people) but it was moonless and starless and she thought in the deep dark she might go un.o.bserved.

This time she was able to walk to the shed without losing her boots in the mud. The muck was frozen to the hardness of tile. Harper knocked on the doorframe. When no one replied, she knocked again. From within she smelled woodsmoke and sickness.

"'S'unlocked," the Fireman said.

She eased into the little room, into stifling heat and golden light from the open furnace.

He was in bed, with the sheet snarled around his waist and legs, arm in his filthy sling. The room had an odor of phlegm and his breathing was strenuous.

She dragged a chair to the side of his bed and sat down. Then she leaned forward and put her cheek to his bare chest. His skin blazed and smelled of sandalwood and sweat. The Dragonscale decorated his breast in patterns that brought to mind Persian carpets.

"Breathe normally," she said. "I didn't bring a stethoscope."

"I was getting better."

"Shut up. I'm listening."

His inhalations crackled faintly, like someone rolling up plastic wrap.

"s.h.i.t," she said. "You've developed an atelectasis. I don't have a thermometer, but I can tell you're feverish. s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t. I don't understand."

"I think Atelectasis was an early alb.u.m by Genesis. One of the ones they recorded before Phil Collins took over singing and they turned to middlebrow MTV c.r.a.p."

"It's a smarty-pants word for a certain kind of pneumonia. You see this as a complication with fractured ribs, but I wouldn't expect it in a man your age. Have you been smoking?"

"No. You know I don't have cigarettes."

"Have you had any fresh air?"

"A great deal."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How long is a great deal?"

"Er, eighteen hours? Give or take a couple?"

"Why were you outside for eighteen hours?"

"I didn't mean to be. I pa.s.sed out. I always pa.s.s out when I send a Phoenix somewhere." He gave her an apologetic smile. "I was too weak, I think. Not ready to create one. It took too much out of me. Although it's a good thing I sent one. As if their machine gun wasn't bad enough, that plow your ex is driving around is as bad as a Panzer-"

"Wait a minute. Go back. How do you know my ex showed up at Verdun Avenue? Who told you?"

"No one told me. I was there with you."

"What do you mean you were there with me?"

He sighed, winced, pressed his good hand to his bad side. "You hid behind Ben's police cruiser when the shooting started. Nelson was the first one to die-he was torn apart in the street. Then the town truck hit the ambulance and Mindy Skilling was mashed beneath it. After, you tore out of there like one of your American NASCAR blokes. I recall everything right up to the moment your ex smashed the van and nearly crushed me flat. Nearly crushed the Phoenix flat, I mean."

Harper couldn't wrap her head around it. Up until now she had a.s.sumed the Phoenix was a glorious pyrotechnic display that could somehow be operated from a distance, rather like a remote-control airplane. A puppet of flame, with John Rookwood tugging the strings from here on his island.

Yet he could recount the confrontation with Jakob and the Marlboro Man as if he had fought it out with them in person, a concept Harper found perplexing and also irritating, because John so clearly loved being impressive and mysterious.