Ignited Page 5

  “Bill?” Henry prompted.

  Bill ran a hand through his red hair. “I don’t know. I heard that those meetings are actually coming up with a lot of good ideas, you know, about how to handle this situation.”

  Henry nearly fell off his barstool. The town was going crazy. He’d heard things, sure, but if someone as steady as Bill was getting mixed up in this group, then things were far more out of hand than Henry had suspected.

  He glanced at Teddy, who was at the other end of the bar, wiping it down. Maybe he hadn’t heard what Bill was saying. Henry hoped so.

  “You do realize that Teddy is …,” Henry trailed off.

  Bill sat up straight, like he’d just been electrocuted. “No, I—I didn’t know. Are you sure …?”

  “Positive. Look, people are scared,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I get that. But I’m really afraid that if people start to think of this as us versus them, than we’re going to start some kind of …,” Henry shrugged. “Witch hunt.”

  “I know. I know, that’s why I haven’t gone yet. I don’t want to … lock anyone up or anything. Jesus.” Bill looked at Henry, but for the first time, Henry couldn’t see the same friend he had always known. “But this kind of power, it has to come from somewhere, and how do we know we can trust these people to respect it?”

  It was a fair question, especially in light of the fact that Butch Murphy had easily recruited some of the powerful people to his cause. Butch had gone to jail, but the only charge the police had been able to stick him with was being a public nuisance. The last Henry had heard, those who had fought with Butch were trying to make amends. There were a lot of factors to consider. Still, it was difficult for Henry to grasp the mood of the town. These were people they’d always known, so where had all this suspicion come from?

  “It seems to me that if everyone keeps acting like these powers make them freaks, the only thing we can trust is that they’ll grow to hate or fear us.” Henry shook his head. “This isn’t good, Bill. This isn’t the way to go about it.”

  Bill frowned thoughtfully. His skin was tinged pink from the alcohol, and it clashed horribly with his red hair.

  “You talk a lot of sense, Henry,” Bill said, nodding. “But I still want to go to a meeting, get a feel for what they’re about. I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

  It was about the best Henry could hope for. He shrugged. “Fair enough. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

  “Will do. Say, did I tell you I got Kenny a puppy?”

  “Oh yeah? What kind?”

  “Sweet little terrier mix. Right now she’s so tiny she fits in the palm of my hand.”

  Henry laughed. The conversation drifted into more normal territory, but Henry struggled to say engaged. His mind was churning. Something was happening.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Henry

  A few days later, Henry stood outside his mother’s old Victorian home and sighed.

  He was early. He always made it a point to be early when it was time for family dinner. That was what his grandfather always referred to it as—”family dinner.” For Henry, it was more like an exercise in biting his tongue. Every week, he dressed up in his best suit, flattened his hair until it was passably neat, and then trekked up to Highledge, where he would have dinner with his mother and grandfather, dodging barbs from the first and encouraging smiles from the second.

  He didn’t know why he kept up with the charade. Long ago, he’d had the realization that his mother was never going to forgive him for everything that had happened. It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t what he wanted, but sometimes, that was the way life worked. There was no point in complaining about it. That wouldn’t change anything.

  Henry had made peace with everything. Or, he would have if his grandfather weren’t so insistent that Henry and his mother would make up, one day.

  All Dr. Pinkerton wanted in the world was for his daughter and her son, his grandson, to be the family he had always dreamed of. Considering all he had done for Henry—the man had practically raised him, had paid for medical school—Henry felt like he owed his grandfather enough to try. And he did try. He was punctual, polite, and well-groomed. He never snapped at his mother, even as she ignored him or stared blankly at him over the top of her wine glass.

  She blamed him, and he couldn’t forgive her for it. The car accident had not been his fault—not really—though his impending birth was the cause. How do you assign blame on a mother in labor and a nervous father driving too fast? But that didn’t mean his mother, who had lived through it—who had lost her husband and gained a son in the same night—was able to see the situation clearly.

  His grandfather wouldn’t even try to understand.

  So here it was: another Tuesday, dressed in his best like it was church. He’d put water on his hair to try to tame it down into a neat part, and he’d even made sure to shine his shoes. The Highledge Victorians surrounded him on all sides, beautifully painted ladies with neat, manicured lawns. He’d grown up here, in this house, had played on its dusty porch, run in and out of the heavy wooden door that was now closed to him.

  For all the time and memories, however, it had never felt like home. Maybe the concept of “home” required more love than his mother had been able to give him.

  There was the sound of a sputtering motor, and Henry turned to see his grandfather’s Buick turn onto the street. It was an eyesore, blindingly blue with white-wall tires. No matter how many times Henry asked him to get a newer, safer car, Dr. Pinkerton refused. He’d had the Buick for years, and he liked it, no matter what kind of sounds it made.

  Knowing that his grandfather would be just moments behind him, Henry finally knocked. A moment later, Louise Porter appeared, still putting on her earring.

  “Hello,” she said, moving out of the way so that Henry could sweep past. She had always been a striking woman, tall and thin, with the kind of posture that made it clear her back never touched her chair. She had the same bright blue eyes as he did, but that was where the similarities between them ended. She finished putting on the back of her earring and patted her hair, making sure it was still in place. “How was your walk?”

  Henry fought back a sigh. Years ago his mother had made clear the only thing worse than her father’s car was her son’s refusal to buy one at all. “It’s not like you can’t afford it,” she’d told him. “You’re a doctor.”

  Which had not been true. He’d been a student at the time, and in Denver, where the tramway system could get him anywhere he needed to go. Now, he lived in a town so small that it seemed like a silly luxury. He could always borrow Bill’s car … or his grandfather’s, if he really needed one.

  He hadn’t told her that, though, instead biting his tongue and letting it slide. She had not stopped making veiled barbs since.

  “It’s a lovely night,” he told her, making sure to keep his voice even.

  “Well, that’s nice.”

  With that, she turned and made her way toward the kitchen.

  Henry sighed as he trailed behind. This was going to be a fun evening, he could already tell.

  “—And poor Henry had to listen to her talk on and on about her stomach issues, right there in the waiting room, in front of God and three families.” Dr. Pinkerton guffawed, but it turned into a cough. He took a sip of his water.

  Louise smiled. It looked different than any expression she’d ever turned Henry’s way. With her father, she was warm and genial, but with him, her own son, she fell into a cold mask of indifference. It was like she was two different people, and that was never so highlighted for Henry as it was during these weekly dinners.

  “Well,” Louise said, pushing away her plate. She had barely touched the meal she’d cooked, and leftovers in porcelain bowls littered the table: boiled carrots, hot rolls, scalloped potatoes. There was even a steak that had not been touched. Henry sighed. His mother had hired a cook on the recommendation of Mrs. Briggs some weeks earlier, and ever since she’d gone
out of her way to make sure the man was used—usually to excess—at every opportunity.

  So much waste. He looked around the house where he had grown up and saw the thick Persian rugs and heavy velvet curtains and wished he were back in his own house. He’d mostly copied his home out of the Sears catalog, but at least it didn’t feel like a museum installation.

  “What’s going on with all those weirdos who can do things? You know who I mean.” Louise waved a hand dismissively.

  “They’re not weirdos,” Henry corrected. He hoped he sounded more patient than he felt. Even though he wished he were, he was not surprised that she, of all people, would be prejudiced against the powerful people around town. “A lot of what they can do is pretty amazing. Ivan Sokolov grew this entire tree out of nothing, and—”

  Louise cut him off. “That’s nice. Especially since everyone knows he’s the one who caused all this.”

  There was no evidence that the Sokolovs had anything to do with the powers, or the fog, or anything. They’d lived in Independence Falls for years—Kostya was only a few years older than Henry, and they’d had occasion to speak, now and again. Their biggest crime was being a family of immigrants in a small town.

  Years of experience had taught Henry there was no point in arguing. If he spoke up, she’d shut him down. If he made good points, she’d ignore them. It was just an exercise in exhaustion, and tonight, Henry did not have the will to fight it.

  It could have been worse, he told himself, thinking of Ruth. His mother had never hit him, or anything even close. He’d never gone without something he physically needed. His grandfather had always given him ample attention. Compared to some, he’d had a charmed life.

  It was possible to live without a mother’s love.

  It could be much worse. His blood boiled, thinking about the red hand print that had stood out on Ruth’s sweet face. No, he had nothing to complain about. Something burned in him as he remembered the way her father had dragged her out by the arm, the look of pain and distress on her face.

  He still hadn’t seen her. Was she all right? Did she need help?

  Henry resolved to find out the answers to those questions.

  His mother didn’t seem to notice his struggle, as she went right on speaking to her father as if Henry had never added to the conversation.

  “Dad, don’t you do the follow-ups with these patients? Do you have any idea what is happening with them, and why the fog created such a reaction?”

  Henry stared at his grandfather expectantly. Was he going to mention the mysterious markings Henry had seen on the blood test results—the BBC, whatever it was?

  “No, we’ve no idea,” Dr. Pinkerton said, sighing. “There’s nothing strange happening, that we can see. At this point, we don’t even really know if the fog is to blame, although it still does seem like the most likely cause.”

  Nothing strange? That was impossible. The BBC result was only on the records of those who had been the most dangerously ill—the people who were now exhibiting powers. His grandfather had to know something about it, otherwise how would he have known to look for such a result in the first place?

  What was going on?

  He couldn’t ask here. His mother would either turn the conversation away from him, or his grandfather would refuse to answer. Either way, nothing productive would happen.

  “I think I ought to get going,” Henry said. “I feel a bit of a headache coming on.”

  Dr. Pinkerton’s weathered face pinched into a frown. Over the years, the lines there had deepened, and his hair had gone from dark brown to a snowy white. But to Henry, he still looked just the same as he always had. It was strange to see a frown on a mouth so used to smiling.

  “Would you like a ride home?”

  “But Dad, I haven’t seen you since last week,” Louise broke in. She didn’t even turn to look at Henry. He hadn’t really expected her to.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll walk home and give you two some time to catch up, okay?”

  Still frowning, Dr. Pinkerton nodded. “If you’re sure.”

  “Good-bye, Henry,” his mother said, voice hurried in a way that implied she hoped he would match its pace.

  “Goodnight,” Henry said. He backed out of the room and went through the front door out into the cool night air. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs, letting it out slowly. Walking alone at night always cleared his head, helped him to sort out his problems. As Henry’s best shoes crunched along the gravel on the shoulder of the road, it was clear what he needed to do.

  He needed to figure out what was happening with the blood test results. The solution to that was easy enough: ask. Offer to help. Get involved. Maybe if he showed initiative, his grandfather would welcome him on to the project.

  But more importantly, he needed to make sure Ruth Baker was okay. He knew his conversation with her had caused the incident he’d witnessed. He owed her an apology … and his help.

  And if he just happened to think she was rather pretty and couldn’t stop picturing the way her hair ran wild down her back … well, it was no one’s business but his own.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ruth

  Arnold Johnson showed up at her door promptly at five o’clock. He was wearing a pressed button down shirt, with sweat already ringing under his armpits. Looking at him reminded Ruth how miserably hot it was outside, and how much she wished the burns on her arms would heal so she could finally have a bit of relief.

  It felt like she was hot all the time now, like fire coursed in her veins. Spending her whole summer in cardigans was less than ideal, although her father had made a comment or two about appreciating her modesty. The benefits did not outweigh the cost, however.

  Ruth opened the door with Edward hovering behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Arnold smiled when he saw them, revealing his uneven front teeth. “Evening,” he said, puffing up a bit.

  She’d never seen him dressed so neatly. The Johnsons owned a small, unhealthy patch of land on the far west end of town that they were always trying to farm. They had yet to have a speck of luck, but that hadn’t discouraged them. Ruth couldn’t remember seeing Arnold in anything but overalls and flannels, and she’d known him her entire life.

  “Now you get her back home by nine, son.” Her father gave her a push forward, and she stumbled out onto the porch. Arnold offered her his arm, which she took automatically. Edward watched the exchange, but his expression was hard to read. He was frowning, but he didn’t look upset. Maybe he was thinking about her marriage again.

  “Will do, Preacher,” Arnold replied, nodding a bit. He led Ruth down the front steps and across the scraggly lawn that was more dirt than grass. She thought he might drop her arm once they hit the road, but he kept it firmly looped in his own.

  He smiled at her, not unkindly. Ruth felt a distant pang. Of all the men she could have ended up with, Arnold was by far the least offensive. It made her wish she cared for him more.

  “Are you excited?” Arnold asked, a little hop in his step.

  She shrugged. “I suppose.”

  She was feeling more than a little trepidation about who she would see there: Would any of the powerful people dare to show up? And if so, what should she say? Her father thought they were demons, and even if he wasn’t right, whatever was going on wasn’t normal. She wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

  Arnold place a hand on her arm and squeezed while giving his best snaggle-toothed smile. “It’s okay to be nervous, Ruth. We’re going to be with people who think like us, though. About those freaks with the powers, I mean.”

  “Are we?” she asked. Her voice sounded distant in her own ears.

  “Yeah, of course! This is all to help the people who lost stuff, you know. Even your dad might get something, since his car got destroyed. Everyone’s angry. The preacher is so smart, sending you and me to this thing. We might change a few minds, lead them into the fold.” His back was straight, his tone confident.

  Ruth had always
felt indifferent toward Arnold, thought of him as an inevitable stop on the way into the future. Now, just looking at him made her want to cry.

  She looked out into the distance as they walked, refusing to meet his eyes. If he looked too closely, he might see how upset she was, and she didn’t want him to ask questions.

  Her heart had been so willful, lately, dreaming of things her father had never prescribed. If she had been better, then maybe ….

  “Come on,” Arnold said, interrupting her thoughts. He tugged on her arm excitedly. “We’re here.”

  The old church loomed large in front of Ruth. She’d passed it more times than she could count, but she had never been inside. The stone façade was built high to a single tower that looked out over the town, and the front doors were enormous, made from intricately carved wood. It seemed ornate, after being practically raised inside the shack on the back of her father’s property. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go inside this big stone building every Sunday, with its archways and finery.

  Ruth was so caught up in looking that she nearly missed the person standing at the top of the steps: June.

  “Ruth!” June came flouncing toward her. Her dressed bounced with her as she moved between the clumps of people standing and chatting in front of the church. She grinned at Ruth and completely ignored Arnold’s existence. “You came! I was so hoping. We haven’t had a chance to talk since ….”

  Arnold stepped between them, glaring at June. “Get away from us. You’re one of them.”

  A look of hurt flitted across June’s face. But she didn’t cower. She balled her hands into fists and stood her ground, and when she met Arnold’s eyes, her gaze was cool. “Excuse me, Arnold,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

  “And you’re not allowed to speak to her. I don’t even know why you’re allowed here at all.”

  The June Ruth had known in their childhood would have smiled and backed down. But this June was someone else entirely. “I’m a member of this church,” she said, poking her chin toward Arnold’s face. Her voice was icy. “And I am allowed to speak to Ruth if I want to.”