by Eden Maguire
“Not Foxton,” I insisted, thinking, Phoenix, where are you? Dean, get someone down here fast! “But there’s a place out on the Forest Lake road, a trailer park, where the kids hang out.”
“I know it.” He swung his leg over the saddle and told me to take Kyra’s place. “You’d better be right, Darina,” he said as he started the engine. “And you pray that we get there in time!”
• • •
The Dyna swept out of town, past the fast-food joints lining the entrance to the interstate. Brandon leaned into the bends until our knees almost scraped the asphalt, soared up the hills, over the brows, and down into the dips with gut-churning speed. I crouched behind Brandon’s broad frame and held on tight.
The sign told us that Forest Lake was eight miles ahead. “We’re almost there!” I yelled at Brandon as the wind tore the words from my mouth. “See the trailers on your left—slow down!”
He eased off the accelerator, and the world regained focus. I took a deep breath. “That’s the one—up ahead.”
Brandon stopped the bike fifty yards from the derelict trailer. Through the tall pine trees we made out a vehicle parked on the far side of the trailer, the sun glinting on the windshield and bouncing off the sleek bodywork of a black Mercedes.
“Oscar Thorne!” I whispered.
Quiet! Brandon raised a warning finger to his lips, got off the bike, and crept forward through the trees. For a big guy he moved smoothly and silently, crouching slightly and taking care not to crack fallen twigs underfoot. I held my breath and followed.
Ahead, I made out familiar details of the dull silver trailer—the small, grimy windows, the door with the smashed pane of glass, the metal steps kicked carelessly to one side. And I pictured the scene inside of Zak with his hands tied behind his back, a gag across his mouth, with the Thorne brothers taking their time, taunting him, telling him exactly the way it would end.
Twenty paces away, Brandon stopped. He listened to every sound—the flap of a blue jay’s wings as it rose from a tree overhanging the trailer, the hum of traffic on the interstate, the breeze rustling through the pine branches overhead. Meanwhile, I was picking up a sharp smell that penetrated my nostrils and hit the back of my throat—recognizing it as the smell of gasoline.
Brandon smelled it, too, and after a while he jerked his head in the direction of the parked Mercedes and made his way around the back of the trailer.
We skirted carefully between the trees, upwind of the smell and along a ledge of rock behind the trailer then came down again a few feet from the car, where we crouched low. What now? I mouthed at Brandon.
He signaled for me to stay in hiding behind the Mercedes while he crept forward to look in through the nearest window. I watched him do it, my hands balled into fists, hardly breathing. He reached the trailer, cupped his hand to the window to cut out his reflection, and peered inside.
“Hey, you must be Darina,” a voice hissed at me from behind. “I’m Oscar Thorne. Happy to meet you at last.”
This was one of those moments when everything happens faster than you can tell it, yet the whole of time seems to slow down and the adrenaline pumping through your system gives everything crystal clarity.
Oscar Thorne said hey and clamped his evil-smelling hand over my mouth. He’d been handling a can of gas—the stench came off his skin and filled my lungs. Brandon peered in through the trailer window, and the door flew open. Out came baby face Nathan, carrying a weapon—a small, gray gun—snug in his hand. He ran around the side of the trailer and held it straight at Brandon’s head.
Brandon stood as still as a statue, the barrel of the gun pressed to the spot between his eyebrows. Oscar kept his hand to my mouth and shoved me out from behind the car. I made a strangled cry.
Nathan held his arm braced and the gun in position. He glanced at Oscar for instruction.
“Take care of the girl,” Oscar ordered as he released me and sent me staggering toward them. “Give me the matches.” With his free hand Nathan felt in his jeans pocket then tossed the box to his brother, who caught it and strode on toward the trailer. As I fell against Brandon, he steadied me and gave me a look that said, Do nothing. Don’t move! Don’t scream!
“Oh, by the way,” Oscar said, pausing in the doorway and rattling the box of matches toward us. He allowed us a glimpse inside, where we could make out Zak’s body slumped motionless on the floor. “We were planning to torch this rusting pile of crap—we soaked it with gas, ready to watch the baby burn. Then you two showed up without an invitation, to make the event even sweeter.”
Brandon’s gaze flicked from the trailer to Nathan, who held the gun steadily in position. As Nathan took his eye off Brandon to watch Oscar open the box, take out a match, and strike a light, Brandon exploded into action.
He swiped his fist up toward the gun and knocked it clean out of Nathan’s hand. I flung myself on top of it and lay there while Nathan tried to kick and drag me clear, leaving Brandon free to run at Oscar, who threw the lighted match into the trailer.
There was a whoosh and a burst of bright orange flame inside the doorway, which I saw through the blows that Nathan was inflicting. Oscar took a step back from the force of the flames, and Brandon thrust him to one side, heaved himself up the trailer steps, and disappeared inside.
I fumbled for the gun, grabbed it in my right hand, rolled onto my back, and aimed it at Nathan with my finger around the trigger. I rose slowly to my feet.
“She’s got the gun!” Nathan yelled to Oscar, his face crumpling, his whole body starting to shake.
Oscar backed away from the burning trailer, turned, and started to run toward us until I swung the gun and aimed at his head. He stopped suddenly.
“Don’t come any nearer!”
I was shaking more than Nathan. Could I do it? Could I actually pull the trigger? I couldn’t bear the picture that flashed into my head of a bullet exploding inside Oscar’s skull—a bullet that I had fired. Still I pointed the gun and warned him to stay back.
Behind Oscar a wall of fire blazed in the trailer doorway. Black smoke billowed into the air. Seconds seemed like an eternity. Here we were—a sheet of flames, a cloud of smoke, and me with a gun in my hand facing two guys who wanted to kill me.
Then Brandon broke out of the trailer. He’d flung his own jacket over Zak’s head and carried him out on his shoulder, emerging from the flames like a figure out of the jaws of hell.
“Grab the gun!” Oscar yelled at Nathan.
Nathan made his move. I fired over his head. It turned out I couldn’t shoot to kill. The shot cracked, the bullet missed. I kept on firing my warning shots—once, twice, three times. Nathan jumped sideways, yelped, and ran off through the trees. I turned the gun on Oscar. Behind him, Brandon lowered Zak to the ground, bent down, and listened to his chest.
“Is he breathing?” I called, hating the gun in my hand and the way it kicked and leaped when I fired. I kept it aimed at Oscar Thorne’s head.
Brandon nodded and raised himself to his feet, his face blackened by smoke.
I aimed and stared at Oscar—he had the same bulging eyes as Nathan, but a meaner face, a harsher mouth. His dark hair was shaven close to his head. He stared back at me, small muscles flicking in his jaw, his eyes calculating the chances of me firing another shot.
“One move and I shoot!” I hissed.
His eyes narrowed. I don’t believe you!
“I will—I’ll shoot to kill!”
Shaking his head, Oscar took two steps toward his car. Another step and he was opening the door and getting in. He slammed the door and turned the ignition.
My hand shook so hard that my finger slid from the trigger.
Oscar put his foot on the accelerator and drove away. With a groan of self-disgust I threw down the gun and ran to Brandon and Zak. Brandon leaned back his head and sucked in air. On the ground, Zak turne
d his head sideways and coughed. His eyes flickered open.
Behind us the trailer was an inferno. Heat cracked the windowpanes and buckled the metal walls, flames burst out, the black cloud gathered between the branches of the trees. Falling to my knees, I held Zak’s head and told him he was going to be OK. He looked up at me, tried to sit, but slumped back down. I wiped the streaks of soot from his face. “Brandon saved you,” I murmured. “He didn’t care about himself. He just went in there and carried you out. In my whole life I never saw anything so brave!”
After the trailer fire the Rohrs closed ranks. I was there when the paramedics arrived to treat Zak for smoke inhalation and minor burns, but after I got a ride into Ellerton in the back of Sheriff Kors’s car, I had no contact with Brandon. I gave my version of events to Kors then went straight to Michael’s apartment, which was empty. Then I went to Sharon’s house where Brandon opened the door. He’d already showered and changed his clothes.
“How’s Zak doing?” was my first, anxious question.
“They’re keeping him in the hospital overnight. Mom and Dad are there with him.”
“But he’s going to be OK?”
A slight nod was all I got. Brandon obviously had no plan to invite me in.
“What’s wrong?” I asked the hero of the hour. “What did I do?”
His hostile look intensified as he stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. “Darina, you don’t have to do anything. You just are.”
“Am what?”
“Trouble. It follows you, sticks around like a bad smell.”
“Didn’t I just help save Zak?” I was shaken and still torn apart by the fact that I’d let Nathan and Oscar escape, trying to make sense of Brandon’s negativity.
“And would they have even thought about trying to kill him without you stepping in where you’re not wanted?” he pointed out.
“I wasn’t…I didn’t mean…”
“I…I…I…This isn’t about you, Darina.” Brandon sat me down forcefully on the bench under the kitchen window. “Last time we spoke, we decided you were grown up enough to take care of yourself without my help. Even though it turns out that’s not true, it was still my way of saying thanks but no thanks—I want you out of our lives.”
“That’s not fair,” I pleaded.
“Sure it is—for all the reasons you already know.” Sitting on the doorstep beside the bench, Brandon rested his arms on his bended knees. “Number one—it’s hard for Mom to look at you without blaming you for Phoenix.”
“Not anymore. We talked. Everything’s cool.”
He spoke over me, drowning me out. “Two—whatever you do turns bad. Today Zak almost died.”
“Yeah, and without me he would still be hanging out with Taylor Stafford and Jacob Miller, spending time with drug addicts like Black and Hall. He’d most likely be in jail!”
“Better there than dying in a trailer fire.”
I gasped and stopped. Brandon really meant what he said.
“Go figure, Darina—this obsession with finding Phoenix’s killer will end in someone else dying. Look what you unleashed—from now until the cops find the Thorne brothers, I can’t let Zak out of my sight.”
“Kors will catch them,” I swore. “And today is the anniversary. How come your family isn’t involved in this with me, chasing every lead, talking to witnesses, putting pressure on guys who were there—those people who know stuff that they’re not saying?”
“Because!” Brandon spread his palms upward but refused to go over old ground. “Darina, if you want to keep on being a one-woman army on a mission to root out evil, whatever it is you’re doing and for whatever reason, you go ahead. But leave us out of it.” Jab, jab, jab with his forefinger—Brandon gave six jabs for every word in the last sentence then he stood up and opened the door.
“You don’t talk to me, to Zak, to any of us ever again!” He stepped over the threshold. Bang! The door slammed behind him.
So, Phoenix, your brother won’t help me find your killer. And where were you, out at the trailer park? What’s your new overlord’s take on this? Does he know the cops got Hall and Black? Is he pleased? Does anyone even care?
I was dazed as I got in Laura’s car and drove to the gas station, doing things on automatic pilot, only knowing that I was alone and time was racing on. Why the gas station? Kyra was the reason—her name popped into my head with two unanswered questions: how well did she know Brandon Rohr, and why hadn’t she disclosed their friendship during our earlier conversation?
Luckily—or unluckily—she was working a shift behind the cash register when I arrived. This time she was busy filing her nails.
“I came to tell you Brandon’s OK,” I began. “I knew you’d be worried.”
Kyra gave a lip gloss pout. “Brandon’s a big boy.”
“He saved Zak’s life.”
Surely this would drag her attention away from her manicure. But no—sst-sst-sst went the emery board.
“Oscar Thorne set fire to the trailer. Brandon ran right in and carried his brother out.”
“Quite the hero.” She perched on the edge of her seat, legs crossed, poured into her shiny leather pants.
“You didn’t tell me you two knew each other,” I reminded her. The time she talked to me, she’d left out Brandon’s name until I’d brought it in. “What’s not to notice?” she’d asked, like she admired him from a distance.
Only at that point had she remembered that Nathan ran at Brandon with a piece of heavy pipe and knocked him to the ground.
Kyra flicked the emery board across her nail one last time. She pressed a button to activate one of the gas pumps out front and watched as the customer filled his tank.
“What happened after Nathan hit Brandon?” I asked. “After Brandon hit the deck?”
“It was a year ago.” She sighed. “You think I can remember every detail?”
“You could try!” I said, leaning over the desk and letting my feelings show.
Kyra was my last shot at getting the necessary information. After this I hit an unclimbable brick wall.
“Why would you not want to help me?”
“Because look what just happened to Zak,” she said, right in my face so that I saw every individual, curled mascara-lash. She was staring at me, perhaps with a hidden warning that I wasn’t able to read. “You want me to end up as toast?”
I stared her out. “Back to the day it happened. Brandon’s on the ground, Nathan’s standing over him. Black, Hall, Oscar Thorne—they all arrive on the scene. Who pulls the first knife?”
There seemed to be a long pause, and I never did get an answer because, at this exact moment, Oscar and Nathan Thorne burst out of the storeroom behind Kyra’s desk.
And again at that precise second, between the shelves of potato chips and Snickers bars, Phoenix, Iceman, and Dean suddenly appeared.
• • •
The Beautiful Dead got me out of there before the Thornes could rush past Kyra and grab me. In broad daylight, in front of witnesses they cast the shimmering light and vanished me, took me out to Foxton in the blink of an eye.
“People saw you!” I gasped. I was in the ranch house with Iceman, coming to terms with the fact that they’d surrounded me with that magic glow and transported me through space. For this, don’t think kerpow supersonic speed—think floating, spinning, hazy free fall. One second I was eyeballing Oscar and Nathan at the gas station, the next I was sitting in the rocking chair at the ranch—and what happened in between I didn’t really get. “You’re not allowed to let far-siders know you exist!” I stressed.
Iceman nodded. “That’s how come Dean and Phoenix had to stay behind to deal with them,” he explained quietly.
“They’ll do the memory zap thing on the Thornes and Kyra?”
“Yeah, and those guys will wake up with sore
heads and no clear idea of what just happened. So for them, what’s new?”
I raised my eyebrows at Iceman’s warped sense of humor. “This is so not funny!”
“I agree—it’s serious. That’s why Dean decided we should step in. After yesterday at Forest Lake and today at the trailer park, he couldn’t risk those guys getting hold of you again.”
“Your overlord has been monitoring my progress?” I queried, sounding calm and trying to stamp down my inner turmoil.
“Or lack of it.” Iceman didn’t pretty things up—he told it like it was. “You know, I’m starting to see things Phoenix’s way. I figure there was total chaos there the night he was killed—too many guys, too many weapons. The cops have tried and failed, so what real hope do you have of finding his killer?”
“And Dean—does he see it that way, too?” This was the big question that everything else hung on.
Iceman heard noises outside and went to the window.
“Ask him yourself,” he told me, pointing to two figures striding across the yard.
Dean was the first to enter. He flung open the door and looked at me long and hard with that stony overlord gaze.
Phoenix stood behind him on the porch.
“Don’t listen to Phoenix and Iceman,” I began, springing from the chair and running toward Dean. “This is our last day. Give me one more chance!”
Dean’s gaze intensified and stopped me in my tracks.
Then he glanced over his shoulder, stood to one side, and let Phoenix come into the kitchen. “Take all the time you need,” he told him, like a doctor who has just delivered a killer diagnosis and who recognizes that the patient might need help to adjust.
Phoenix took me by the hand and led me out of the house, across the yard, and through the meadow where the green grass grew tall and the scarlet poppy petals drooped and dropped. A fresh breeze blew down from the aspen ridge.
“Why does this feel like giving in?” I whispered, my heart filling with dread.
“Listen to me,” he murmured, keeping hold of my hand and walking on. “I will not let this happen. I will not let you get killed.”
