کتاب 06-12

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 unobserved.

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.

“Shit,” she said. “You’ve developed an atelectasis. I don’t have a thermometer, but I can tell you’re feverish. Shit, shit. I don’t understand.”

“I think Atelectasis was an early album by Genesis. One of the ones they recorded before Phil Collins took over singing and they turned to middlebrow MTV crap.”

“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 passed out. I always pass 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 assumed 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.

“That’s impossible. You can’t have seen all that.”

“Oh, let’s not get carried away. It’s only improbable. And besides. I didn’t say I saw it. I didn’t see it. But I remember it.” He saw her getting ready to interrupt and held a hand up, palm out, to forestall questions. “You know that the Dragonscale, over time, saturates the human brain. It listens in to your thoughts and feelings and reacts to them. It’s dendritic in nature and it bonds with the mind.”

“Yes. That’s why people catch fire when they’re afraid or under stress. Panic releases cortisol. The Dragonscale reacts to cortisol by assuming the host is no longer safe. It erupts into flame, producing lots of ash, enabling it to depart for better real estate.”

He looked at her with admiration. “Yes. That’s the mechanism exactly. Who have you been talking to?”

“Harold Cross,” Harper said, pleased to surprise him for once.

The Fireman took this in, then lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “You found his notebook. I’d love to see it sometime.”

“Maybe after I’m done with it,” she said. “Cortisol kicks off spontaneous combustion. But oxytocin—the social-networking hormone—puts the Dragonscale at ease. Anytime you feel the pleasure of group approval, you increase the Dragonscale’s sense of security and make it less likely to burn you to death later. That I understand. I can’t understand how you could be here in your cabin, while also seeing things that were happening two miles away.”

“But I told you, I didn’t see them. I remember them, and that’s the difference. The Phoenix has a cloud of Dragonscale burning at its core. That Dragonscale contains a crude copy of my thoughts, my feelings, my responses. It’s an outboard brain. Eventually it returned to me, came back to the nest, where it died out, having done its job. The ash fell on me like snow while I was unconscious on the beach, and in the hours that followed, I dreamt everything the bird did and saw. It all came back to me, fragmentary at first, but eventually the entire awful scene.”

Harper weighed this notion in her mind. Ash that could think and flame that lived and a spore that could swap impulses and memories with the human mind. It was, she thought, just exactly the sort of fantastical nonsense that evolution was always going in for. Nature was a grand one for sleight of hand and magic tricks.

When she spoke again, it concerned the Dragonscale not at all. “You need a course of antibiotics. As it happens, I have some. I’ll send Michael over with a bottle of azithromycin. He should be able to slip over during the changing of the watch at dawn. Come on, Mr. Rookwood, let’s have a look at your arm.”

“I take it you won’t be available to bring my medicine yourself?”

She declined to meet his gaze. Instead she gently loosened the sling and unbent his elbow. He grimaced, but she thought it was more from the anticipation of pain than any actual suffering.

“Things are going sour here, John. I’m confined to the infirmary, on house arrest and forbidden to leave Father Storey’s side. I’m only here tonight because Michael drew watch, and Mike isn’t playing by Carol’s rules anymore. Neither is Allie, who is on permanent house arrest in the girls’ dorm. Michael was afraid if he let me go see you, I might not come back. He doesn’t want me driving off without him.” She considered for a moment. “It’s only a matter of time before a couple dozen defectors try to make a run for it. Fill some cars with supplies and light out. Renée has already talked about leaving with Don and the prisoners and a few others.”

“Where would you go?”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’d head out with them, whatever Michael thinks. While there’s still a chance for Father Storey, it wouldn’t be right to abandon him.”

The Fireman did a strange thing then. He glanced past her at the furnace—then leaned in and spoke in a soft voice, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “I admire a good bit of foolishness more than anyone, Harper, but in this case it won’t do. Your first obligation is to yourself and that baby, not to Tom Storey. He had the biggest heart of any man I ever knew and I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to stay for him. He’s been under for—how long? Six weeks? Seven? After a crushing blow to the head? At the age of seventy? He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

“Men have recovered from worse,” she said, although as she spoke, Harper found herself wondering if she even still knew the difference between a diagnosis and a denial. “Besides. John. I’m close. Nine weeks? Eight? I need somewhere to have this baby. The infirmary is a good place. I don’t know if I can find better. Don could deliver the child. He’s reeled in plenty of fish—I’m sure he can manage one more. Right now, so close to my due date, I wouldn’t leave camp unless there was no other choice.” She did not mention that if Father Storey died, she really would have no other choice. She would run with the baby or be sent into exile without it. But she did not want to distress John by telling him about Carol’s threats, not now. John was sick; he was beat up and feverish and his lungs were full of filthy damp. Her job was to give sympathy and care, not elicit it.

She got up, went through some drawers beneath what had once been a worktable, and came back with some scissors. Harper snipped the filthy tape away from his wrist. It was still swollen and grotesquely discolored but it was only a little stiff when she asked him to rotate it, and she decided it didn’t need to be re-bound.

“I think we can be done with the sling as well. But keep the brace on your elbow until you can bend the arm without sharp pain. And try to rest it. Until you’ve had a little more time to heal, you better limit yourself to intellectual masturbation only. We don’t want to put any undue strain on this wrist.”

For once he had nothing to say.

She sat back and said, “You know, Michael won’t leave camp without Allie. And I’m sure Allie won’t run without Nick. It scares the shit out of me to imagine them ditching camp and taking their chances out in the wild. What about you? They’d be safe if they went with you. You could look after them: Allie and Nick.”

His gaze shifted briefly to the furnace behind her, then dropped. “And do you really think I’m in any condition to go anywhere?”

“Maybe not now. But we’ll make you better. I’ll make you better.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There isn’t even a plan yet. Just a lot of loose talk.”

Harper cast a slow and uneasy glance at the open furnace herself. She saw no one looking back at her from the flames: not a mystery woman and not Sirius Black. She thought of how John had glanced at the fire before leaning close to speak in a soft voice, as if he did not want to be overheard. Something else occurred to her, almost randomly, something he had said about the Phoenix: It’s an outboard brain. The thought raised a chill on the nape of her neck.

“No,” she said. “But we better get working on one. I think we should try to meet here. All of us. Even the prisoners, if it can be managed. We don’t need to work out just how we’re going to leave, but also where we’re going to go and how we intend to survive.” She steeled herself and added, gently, “You say Father Storey wouldn’t want me to risk my life or the baby’s life by staying. I say Sarah wouldn’t want you to risk your life by staying.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It wouldn’t be so bad: to be buried here. Why not? In some ways I feel like this is where my real life started. Here in Camp Wyndham, where I met Sarah, and where we all returned after we came down with Dragonscale. There would be a certain narrative elegance in my life ending here as well.”

“Fuck narrative elegance. How did you all wind up deciding to hide out here?”

“Nowhere else to go. That simple, really.”

“You can do better than that,” Harper said.

“If you insist,” he told her.