Fire mask, p.3
Fire Mask, page 3
“You aren’t gonna believe it,” he said when Cliff reached him.
“Believe what?”
“What I just heard.”
Cliff waited.
Del looked at the house nervously. “Well … can we … I mean, is it all right? To talk here, I mean.”
Cliff tried not to laugh. There weren’t many people who were used to his family, which was one of the reasons why Frankie rode him so hard. Del, on the other hand, really tried, though it was clear from his expression that he didn’t know why.
“If you’re asking about Wilmont, he’s inside.” He turned the boy away. “So what’s the big deal? You get reporters too?”
“Like I was Clint Eastwood,” Del told him proudly. “But that’s not what I meant.” He leaned closer, his voice low. “You remember what that guy said last night? The guy in the driveway?”
It’s none.
Cliff shuddered and nodded.
“That house,” Del said.
Cliff waited.
“It belongs to Kelvin Nunn.”
FOUR
Rushmore Park was five blocks from the Abbott house, seven the way Cliff usually walked in order to pass as many girls’ houses as he could without getting arrested for being a Peeping Tom; it didn’t matter who he saw as long as he ran into at least one girl. The plan was, he would pretend to be surprised at the meeting, a clever conversation would follow, and he would end up with a date.
It hadn’t happened yet.
Cliff wasn’t discouraged, though, only depressed.
Today, however, he and Del went straight to the park, which Del knew meant his friend was bothered.
“It could be a coincidence, you know,” Cliff suggested as they walked.
“Right. The guy croaked in Nunn’s driveway, he says, ‘It’s Nunn,’ and you think it’s a coincidence.”
“Well … it could be.”
“Sure.” Del jiggled his key chain impatiently, which held a penlight, a penknife, a Swiss army knife, but no key. “Okay. And it’s a coincidence that Nunn owns the hotel too, right? The one that just happens to burn down in the middle of the night?”
“Right.”
“Jerk.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen,” Cliff said, “I have a feeling about this whole thing.”
“Hell,” Del muttered.
“What?”
“You have a feeling.” His friend kicked a stone viciously into the street, nearly lost the bike he was trying to walk while talking at the same time, and kicked again. “That means I’m gonna get in trouble.”
Cliff stared at him, amazed and confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The last time you had one of your feelings, we ended up on a freight train to Pittsburgh because you thought some terrorists were gonna kidnap the Pirates.”
Cliff shrugged. “Okay, so I was wrong.”
“And what about the time your feelings told you some guy in New York was gonna blow up the Empire State Building during the Easter Parade?”
“Okay, okay.”
“And what about the time—”
Cliff punched his arm sharply without warning, ignored the yelp, and didn’t bother reminding him of all the times he had, in fact, been right. They obviously didn’t count.
But this one would. He knew it. He knew it in the way the hair on the back of his neck kind of tingled warmly whenever he thought of Kelvin Nunn, one of the town’s richest men, and one of the most reclusive. It just didn’t make sense. The man who had died the night before hadn’t been running away from Nunn’s mansion; from the position of his body, he had been heading toward it. Why? And what, if anything, did Nunn have to do with the destruction of his own property?
And what did the dead man mean when he said, “I tried”? Hadn’t he known that the hotel had been destroyed? Hadn’t he stuck around long enough to see what kind of job he had done?
Or had he been talking about something else?
“Stop thinking,” Del told him sharply. “You’re making me nervous.”
Cliff grinned.
Del sneered.
Ten minutes later they came to Roosevelt Drive and waited for the traffic to give them a chance to cross over to the park.
“Why are we here?” Del asked.
“I need to think.”
“I told you to stop that!”
Cliff grinned again. “You might as well ask Wilmont to stop trying to pull out your hair.”
Del shuddered and looked away, looked back and said with a pout, “Well, it was all your fault, anyway. You didn’t tell me it was his pizza.”
Rushmore Park was large, and sometimes much larger than people thought it was. There were sections of it folks claimed hadn’t been explored since Lincoln was president, sections so forestlike and dense that not even the local cops liked to check them for stray kids and dogs. There were also two fairly decent baseball fields, a wide stretch of lawn used for picnics and parties and generally just showing off, a blue cone-shaped pavilion where the town, and sometimes high school, band gave its summer concerts, a few refreshment stands, a playground, and just plain small open spaces shaded by ancient trees where people simply hung out, napping, snacking, plotting the overthrow of the world.
The entire park was surrounded by a low stone wall. There were several gateless gaps that led into the park proper from each of the four streets around it, like starting places on a game board. But none of the kids ever used them. Why bother walking halfway down the block when all you had to do was jump the wall, duck under some evergreen and laurel shrubs aiming to poke your eyes out, bull through more shrubs trying to rip off your clothes, and pow! Sooner or later you find yourself on one of the tarmac paths that snaked through the whole thing.
Cliff used one of the official entrances.
Del stayed on the sidewalk, his mouth agape.
“What now?” Cliff demanded, standing impatiently with his hands on his hips.
“You didn’t jump the wall.”
“For crying out loud, it’s too hot to jump the wall,” he said quite reasonably.
“It’s never too hot to jump the wall.”
“Del.”
“Cliff!”
Cliff sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward for patience, and strolled on, grateful for the heavy shade that took away the weight of the sun, the elm and maple trees so broad their branches reached overhead and formed a tunnel. In autumn it was spooky, all those leaves whispering to themselves while they dive-bombed his head; but now it was just fine, just what he needed. The air had a faint green tint to it, he could smell freshly mown grass, and up ahead was the Meadow and his favorite tree in the whole world.
Del puffed up beside him. “What’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know yet,” he answered. “But I think—”
He stopped.
Del stopped, chuckled, and rubbed his hands together as he said, “All right. All right.”
There, under an oak, his oak, so twisted and battered by time and the wind that a child of five could easily climb up into its highest branches, were two girls. One was as fair-haired as Cliff, fair-skinned, dressed in a loose white-and-blue shirt hanging out of snug red shorts, sneakers, and sunglasses; the other was a redhead, lightly freckled, in a loose white-and-red shirt pulled out of electric blue shorts, sneakers, and sunglasses, and a blotch of white sun cream gleaming on her nose.
The blonde was slender; the redhead was not.
The blonde’s hair was cut short and brushed back over her ears; the redhead’s hair was long and snagged into a ponytail that reached almost to her waist.
“Oh, God,” Cliff whispered, panic tightening his chest. “Oh God, what am I going to do?”
“No sweat,” Del whispered, then he called, “Hey, ladies, you waiting for me?” as he walked his bike off the path and propped it against the tree.
I’ll kill you, Ingram, Cliff thought glumly. I swear to God I’ll tear your heart out and feed it to Wilmont.
The girls looked up, looked blank, then smiled pleasantly when they saw Cliff bringing up the rear. Quickly they scrambled to their feet, brushed themselves off, and waited until he’d joined them.
Del grinned.
Cliff smiled shyly.
Candy Nagger, her cheeks lightly flushed, gestured vaguely at the ground with one hand, while she shoved the other through her blond hair. “Hi, guys. You want to sit or something?”
Nora Gilford sat.
Candy glared at her, Del plopped down beside her and lay casually on his side, his head propped in one palm, while Cliff just stood there, feeling like a jerk, staring out over the Meadow without seeing a thing.
There was silence.
Finally Nora drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them. “So, you guys see the fire last night?” she said.
“See it?” Del said, his voice a little too loud. “See it? Ladies, excuse me, but Cliff’s only the person who found the guy who started it, that’s all.”
Candy nodded. “I know. I heard.”
“Yeah,” Nora said to Del, “we heard.”
Cliff wondered if he could turn into a weed or something.
“Cliff even heard the guy’s last words,” Del whispered then, leaning close to Nora, then pulling away with a grin when she glared at him. “Really. He did.”
“So did you,” Cliff muttered.
Candy’s brown eyes widened. “You did?” she said, and took a step closer. “Really? You really did?”
He nodded uncomfortably, more than acutely aware of how near she was, how clear her skin was, how soft her hair looked.
“Wow,” she said.
“Wow,” Nora echoed.
“We both heard it,” Del reminded them when Nora kept her gaze on Cliff. “Actually, I saw him first.”
Slowly, so slowly her head might have been mechanical, Nora looked at him, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder, frowning as though she were seeing him for the first time. “You lose some weight or something?” she asked.
“Listen,” Cliff said, “it’s no big deal, okay? We were just walking, that’s all, and we saw the guy.”
His neck tingled again.
Out in the Meadow a group of boys were playing an enthusiastic game of touch football, a black retriever racing between them and barking happily; a family of five was having a picnic; and on the far side, over two hundred yards away, three men were playing steel drums, the music drifting softly over the great lawn and merging perfectly with the yells, the laughter, the barking, the breeze.
Candy looked at him oddly. “Cliff, are you okay?”
He looked up the path and saw nothing but pedestrians, looked down the path toward the exit and saw a tall man standing under a tree. He wore a pale summer suit and broad-brimmed white hat, and his hands were folded loosely in front of him. Shadows from the leaves and branches overhead shifted back and forth and combined with his hat’s brim to hide the details of his face, but Cliff knew the man was looking at him.
He smiled at Candy and held the smile when he said, “You see that guy down there? The guy in the white suit?”
Candy scratched her cheek slowly, stretched her neck, took a look, reached out and brushed something off Cliff’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Is he a reporter or something?”
“Or something,” Cliff said quietly. “I think he’s watching us.”
“A reporter,” she said just as quietly. “He probably wants to find out what heroes do on their days off.”
“God, don’t you start,” he grumbled, and she laughed, and he was delighted at the way her eyes closed when she did.
“Sure it is,” she said. “What else could it be?”
A touchdown was scored, the dog barked, and some of the boys cheered wildly.
“I don’t know.” His smile was weak. “I guess you’re right.”
His neck tingled, and he slapped a hand over his nape to stop it. He looked toward the man in the white hat whose left hand was now extended toward them.
Cliff’s eyes widened. “Hey, guys?”
A shower of leaves and twigs fell in Candy’s face a split second before he heard the sharp retort of a backfire. Or a gun.
FIVE
Cliff wasted no time wondering if he was mistaken or not. He grabbed Candy’s hand and began to race across the Meadow, pulling her arm to get her up to speed, shouting for Del to follow. He didn’t take a chance on looking back, but his shoulders felt tight as he half expected a bullet to blast between them at any second.
Crazy, he thought; this is crazy!
Of course it was a car backfiring on the street, and the man had only lifted a camera to take a picture.
But he ran on anyway, Candy easily matching him stride for stride as he veered toward the football game. Out in the sun sweat broke freely across his face, stung his eyes, made him shake his head to clear his vision. His lungs ached. His legs felt tight. And all he could hear was the sound of their feet, almost thundering, almost echoing, and the harsh rasp of air as he gulped for a breath.
When he reached the game he didn’t hesitate—he charged directly into it, wove through it, and grinned like a drunken fool at the loud protests and threats when it seemed that he had broken up a perfectly good touchdown run. He waved apologetically, shrugged at the curses that flew after him, and waved again.
The retriever paced them for a few yards, barking and wagging its tail.
One of the players started to chase him, changed his mind, and threw a stone instead.
Once they’d crossed the field, the dog left them, they headed straight for the nearest line of trees, stumbling a few times, finally slowing to an unsteady trot just as Del and Nora caught up with them, and passed them. Cliff glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. Nothing seemed to be wrong, no one else seemed to be alarmed. The game continued, the picnic continued, and off to his left the steel band kept on playing.
He slowed again and turned around, jogging backward for a few steps before he finally stopped. His hands went to his lips, and he bent over, gasping for breath, wiping a forearm across his brow to dry it.
“God,” he said hoarsely. “I … God!”
Candy remained beside him, and after a few seconds he looked up without straightening, and saw a thin line of blood on her right cheek.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, head up, face toward the sky. “Yeah. What … yeah. Just a scratch, that’s all.” Her hand went to her cheek. “Just a scratch.”
Del and Nora didn’t stop until they’d reached the trees, picked one, and ducked behind it, arguing in hisses about who should get closest to the bark.
“C’mon!” Ingram yelled. “Get back here! C’mon, you guys, get back here!”
“Did he shoot at us?” Candy asked, her voice a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Cliff, did that creep shoot at us?”
Oh, great, he thought sourly; she’d heard it too. He could do nothing but shrug as he stood and stared across the grass to the spot where they’d been standing. No one was there—no one in the shadows, no one on the path. The man was gone. As if he’d never been.
“We’ll have to tell the police,” she said. “Cliff, we’ll have to get the cops before—”
“A waste of time,” he told her flatly as he turned and walked back to the others. “No one heard anything but us. No one saw him but you and me.” He shrugged, hoping she wouldn’t see how shaken he was, how badly he wanted to start running again and not stop. Ever.
Because this was crazy. It was insane. Guys in white suits and white hats just didn’t hang around Rushmore, New Jersey, taking shots at people in the park. They just didn’t.
“Who was he?” Candy asked, rubbing her bare arms as if she were cold.
He looked back over the Meadow. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“I knew it,” Del said glumly. He looked to Nora. “I knew it, I just knew it.”
Nora frowned. “Knew what?”
“Can it, Ingram,” Cliff muttered as he made his way toward the nearest path out of the park.
With a sigh, Del dropped in behind him, pulling Nora along. “He’s got a feeling, y’know? I always get in trouble when he’s got a feeling.”
Candy hurried to catch up, slowed when she reached him, and gently touched his shoulder. “Cliff, maybe he was one of those nut cases. The kind that go around blasting people in restaurants and stuff, you know? Maybe—”
Cliff looked at her; she fell silent.
“What do you mean, he has feelings?” Nora asked.
“I don’t know,” Del answered, despite the glare Cliff sent him over his shoulder. “I went to Pittsburgh once because of them. It shouldn’t happen to a dog.”
Cliff quickened his pace, wanting to put miles, maybe even states, between him and the others. He could tell Del was scared, which was why he was shooting off his mouth, but he wished the guy would realize that they were all scared, and telling stories wasn’t the way to make things better.
“I heard about Pittsburgh,” Candy said quietly, easily keeping up with him.
With a scowl, he snapped his head around, searching for the laughter he knew had to be there, and was taken aback when he saw only an understanding smile. He couldn’t help it; he smiled back. “Yeah, well, it was pretty stupid, I admit.”
“So you got a feeling you had to go there or something?”
Cliff wished he knew what to do now. He couldn’t believe that the shooting was an accident, that the white suit’s target was completely random.
That man had definitely meant to shoot at him.
Hey, hold it! he told himself then. You’re jumping to conclusions; you don’t even know if he really did have a gun.
So why, he answered, did you run?
Cliff broke into another trot, arms pumping loosely, legs filling with heavy sand, and he could hear Del talking about the fire, and the arsonist they had found. It was Ingram’s theory that the guy had had a partner, and the partner had to shut him and Cliff up because they were the only other ones who knew the secret.
“What secret?” Nora asked.
“How should I know? It’s a secret.”
