Midnight came and went, and at zero two hundred his solitude was broken by a man, middle-aged, tall, and broad-bellied, climbing up the makeshift steps and into the living room. The stranger didn’t notice Jacob sitting immobile in the dark. He walked to the kitchen table and unrolled the construction plans. He spread them out, leaned over them, pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and shone it on the first page.
In exasperation, Jacob asked, “Who are you?”
Unperturbed, the man looked up over the top of his wire-frame reading glasses. “I’m Dr. Frownfelter, your neighbor.”
Crap. A doctor. “Doesn’t anyone on this street ever sleep?”
“I’m the physician here on the peninsula. I finished with a forty-eight-hour shift at the hospital and a stopover at the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility. I’m just now getting home and I thought I’d come by to see what Berk has planned for your place.” Frownfelter looked at his massive wristwatch. “It’s two A.M. I should be the only one up. What’s your excuse?”
Jacob figured what he was doing up was none of Frownfelter’s business. He got up, rummaged in the refrigerator, brought out two white bread sandwiches, and offered one to Frownfelter.
Frownfelter grimaced, rolled up the plans, put them back on the table, and took the sandwich.
Jacob sank down into the piece-of-shit recliner. “Where do you live?”
“Next door.” Dr. Frownfelter waved a vague hand toward the corner.
In an obnoxiously knowledgeable tone, Jacob said, “So your house is one of the two largest in the neighborhood and was built for a sawmill superintendent.”
Dr. Frownfelter grinned, perched on the edge of the trunk, and placed the sandwich beside him. “You’ve been talking to Candy Butenschoen.”
Jacob paused, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Candy?”
“I went to school with her. I promise that’s her name. She hasn’t changed much.” With the edge of his right hand, he chopped at his left palm, and in a staccato voice, he said, “Clean house. Clean yard. Clean conscience.”
“So she has a clean conscience?”
“Indeed.”
“She’s a bully.”
“That, too. But she doesn’t see it that way.”
As if they had roused her with their conversation, her kitchen light flashed on, and Mrs. Butenschoen rushed to the cupboard beside her sink.
Jacob sat up straight. “That’s not keeping with her schedule. She works in her yard until nine, goes inside, washes her hands at her kitchen sink, and right after the news, her lights go out.”
“So, unlike other disreputable folks, she is never up in the middle of the night?” Dr. Frownfelter watched as she pulled a bottle out of the cabinet, shook out some pills, and swallowed them with a glass of water. “Hmmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just hmmm.” He unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite, but not once did he look away from Candy Butenschoen.
Clad in that atrocious pink robe, Mrs. Butenschoen stood looking out her window, unaware that two men watched her with very real interest. At one point she rubbed her forehead with both hands. Finally she put the bottle back in the cupboard and turned away from the window. The light went out.
All was quiet again.
Frownfelter stood, walked to the roll of paper towels and yanked a couple free, then came back and offered one to Jacob. “Napkins on a roll.”
Jacob took it and almost smiled. That’s what his dad used to call them.
“Have you seen our resident fashion model?” Frownfelter asked.
“Who?”
“Chantal Filips.” Dr. Frownfelter flapped his paper towel toward the street. “She lives in the house next to Madeline Hewitson. She disappears on shoots for weeks at a time. When she comes back, she’s not what you’d call friendly, but she’s good to look at. She comes and goes late at night, too.”
“Why late?”
“She dates. Remember dating?”
“Vaguely.” From about a million years ago. Jacob looked toward Maddie’s house. His most recent date had been a haircut at Maddie’s house. Jacob eyed Maddie’s blackout shades. He didn’t want to talk about her. He didn’t want to remember her.
“Have you met the Franklins?”
“No.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“No.”
“Young family, nice kids. Kids accidently broke my window with their baseball, tried to run away. Well, hell, I wasn’t home when they did it, but of course Candy saw the whole thing. Kids had to come and apologize and they’re working off the cost by weeding my yard.”
“Under Candy’s supervision?”
“God, no. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. She’d have them out there with tweezers. Who else is up late?”
The good doctor was one nosy son of a bitch.… Was Dr. Frownfelter specifically asking about her? About Maddie? Or was Jacob being too suspicious?
Then Dayton Floren’s car drove up, and Jacob was rescued. “Him. The guy who wanted me to sell my house.”
Dr. Frownfelter did a double take worthy of another viewing. “He wants you to sell your house? That’s interesting. He talked to me about selling my house, too. Seemed to think the doctor in town should own a fancy house.”
Jacob examined Dr. Frownfelter. His clothes were rumpled and baggy. His white, thinning hair looked as if it had been styled by a nesting bird. The bags under his eyes drooped like a basset hound’s. He finished his sandwich in two huge bites. Jacob couldn’t see him living in high style. “Dude shows up occasionally, usually late, pulls a bag out of his car, goes in. But he’s always gone when I come out the next night.”
“So he doesn’t really live here.”
Jacob shrugged.
Dr. Frownfelter dug a bottle of Tums out of his pocket and shook a couple into his palm. “You want some?”
“I don’t have heartburn.”
“That’s good. But you could probably use the calcium.”
“I’ll eat cottage cheese.”
“See that you do.”
Yeah, Frownfelter was a doctor, all right. Couldn’t mind his own business. Had the formidable presence to make himself heard. Jacob moved to distract him. “Every night, a cop does a drive-past.”
“Which cop?”
“Varies. Sometimes Sheriff Kwinault. She always waves like she sees me. Mostly it’s the red-haired kid. He’s oblivious.” Oblivious to Jacob, anyway. He never took his gaze off Madeline Hewitson’s house.
“Young Rupert Moen.”
Drawing on his gut feeling, Jacob said, “He’s not going to make it as a cop.”
Dr. Frownfelter peered at him. “Very astute. His dad is a cop, so Rupert was expected to go into the profession, too. He’s not happy. Whether he’ll work up the nerve to try something different…” He shrugged. “I always see Madeline Hewitson’s light on when I come home.”
The two men gazed across the street at the window leaking light from the sides.
“She’s awake at night,” Jacob said. And, “She sleepwalks.”
“Not surprising, after her kind of trauma.”
“You her doctor?”
“Around here, I’m most people’s doctor.”
Which wasn’t an answer, but probably was as much as Dr. Frownfelter could say. “Did she tell you about … what happened to her?”
“God, no. She’s famous around town for being close-mouthed about her past. And her present, for that matter, although that’s a matter of public record.” Humor laced Frownfelter’s voice. “Anyone who can make Candy Butenschoen fall out of her rut and into a frenzy is a friend of mine.”
Right on cue, Maddie’s front porch light flashed on, her door opened, and she came shooting out, her hair standing up, her eyes wide and cartoon-terrified. She was visibly trembling, and she slammed the door behind her as if to keep the nightmares at bay.
At the same time, Mrs. Nyback let Spike out. Spike went berserk, wiggling through the fence—true t
o Moore’s prediction, Spike’s entry to Mrs. Butenschoen’s had been repaired—planting himself about three feet away from Maddie and barking furiously. Maddie stared at the puny excuse of a dog as if she weren’t sure he was real. Then she sat down on the lawn and held out her hand. It took a while, but Spike finally stopped yapping and sniffed her fingers. She scratched under his chin.
Spike stuck out his head, as if in pleasure. Then in a reversal that surprised even Jacob, the little beast bit her.
She yelped and yanked her fingers away.
As if he were the one whose trust had been betrayed, Spike started barking again and only left when Mrs. Nyback called him.
Jacob passed judgment. “That’s a ghastly little dog.”
“It’s all Mrs. Nyback has.”
“I got it. We don’t want to kill it.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.”
Maddie stood up, climbed over her picket fence, and strolled down the street toward the ocean.
Jacob ignored the urge to follow her.
She wasn’t sleepwalking. If the woman wanted to go for a walk at two thirty in the morning, who was he to stop her?
Besides, Dr. Frownfelter wandered to the front of the house and watched, then turned and came back.
“Did she head over the cliff?” Jacob asked.
“No, she took a right, headed toward town on the cliff walk.” Frownfelter rubbed his hands over his red-rimmed eyes. “Madeline Hewitson’s brother is an author. Have you read him?”
“No.”
“Scared the hell out of me, but I was too wrapped up in the story to put it down. Andrew Hewitson must have been interviewing her for the info, because I can see the fingerprint of her terror on the pages.”
“She told me she wrote books, too. Or she draws graphic novels. Or something.”
“Maybe so, but Andrew is clearly the hand at the wheel. The books are written by a man. They look at horror without flinching. They are filled with dreadful anticipation, mutilation, and death. You ought to download one.”
“I’ve seen mutilation and death. I don’t need to read about it.”
“Sometimes it helps to know the experience has been shared by others.”
Jacob felt the rise of irritation. No, of fury. He knew better than to think he could have a normal conversation with a doctor. Nosy, all-knowing, interfering bastards, every one. “I don’t have an e-reader.”
“With the right app, you can read on your tablet or your computer.”
“I don’t have a tablet. I don’t have a computer. I don’t have an Internet connection.”
Dr. Frownfelter could not have looked more appalled. “How do you live in the modern world?”
“I don’t.”
With a physician’s assurance, Dr. Frownfelter said, “The time is now. You’re not an old man. So start.” He hefted himself off the trunk. “I’ll bring over one of the hardcovers. You can read that. In the meantime—you’re not dead. Act like it.” He stomped off to get the book.
Jacob went into his bedroom, locked the door, and knelt in the corner in the dark.
The neighbor’s dog bit her & she kept trying to pet it. She’s pathetic in her need for affection.
Dog bit me. I drop-kicked that little fucker across the yard.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In his dream, Jacob heard sirens, softly at first, then louder, shrieking their message.
GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT
He sweated and groaned.
Dr. Kim is coming. He’s coming.
He’s here!
Jacob found himself on his feet, staring into the darkness of his bedroom, sweaty and anguished.
He had fallen asleep.
But he still heard sirens. On the street. Police sirens.
This was his home in Virtue Falls. He was at home. Not in Korea. Not …
My God, what had Maddie done now?
He didn’t care. Unless she’d driven into his house again.
He knew she hadn’t, she didn’t have a car, but he opened the door and walked into his living room.
A different nightmare billowed toward him on a cloud of black smoke and orange flame. Something was on fire. His kitchen was on fire. His house plans. The wooden table …
The sirens screamed. Closer. Turning onto the street. Sirens flashing, red and blue and … not white. Not spinning white lights that looked so much like a death he welcomed.
Jacob clutched at his head.
The roof. They needed to get to the roof. His kids needed to get to the roof. Would they all make it? Would they survive? Would they be trapped and die?
A hulking figure appeared out of the smoke. “Sir, this way!”
No. He wanted to stay, to die here, to sacrifice himself for his kids.
“Sir, I’m Peyton Bailey, one of the Virtue Falls firefighters. Follow me!”
But Brandon was shot. Jacob had to get him out. Jacob had to save him.
The figure took off his mask, stuck it under his arm, and shouted, “Sir, please, your home is on fire. Let me help you!”
The smoke cleared for a second. Jacob saw a young man’s face topped by wavy blond hair.
Brandon had black hair. Not blond. And no gear had protected him from the fire, the flames, the bullets that tore through his flesh.
Jacob snapped back to reality. “I can take care of myself.” He inhaled smoke and paint fumes. He choked, coughed.
Bailey put his mask back on, took Jacob’s arm, and led him toward the front of the house, to the porch, out of danger, and into the chaos of fire engines, shouting firefighters, surging hoses, flashing lights, sirens, and neighbors. Curiosity-seekers. A carnival atmosphere pervaded the air, an excitement brought by the danger of a fire and the daring of the men who fought it. From blocks around, Virtue Falls citizens were watching, gossiping, staring. At him.
What were they doing here? It was still dark. It was still night. Why weren’t they in bed? Hadn’t Jacob already played this scene?
Bailey said, “There you go, sir. Get some oxygen. Down there!” He pointed toward the ambulance parked at the curb.
“No.” Jacob was not walking into the crowd.
“Move out of the way, sir, so we can save your house!” the fire chief shouted. “Bailey!”
The boy joined the other firemen.
Someone shone spotlights inside to give the firefighters illumination.
One caught Jacob and he blinked, momentarily blinded by the brightness.
Deliberately the firefighters dragged the hoses under Jacob’s feet so that Jacob had to jump away, onto the ground.
Immediately an EMT took his arm. “Sir, are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Let’s give you some oxygen.”
“No.” Jacob was standing in his yard. On the grass. His sanctuary was burning. People stared. People crowded the street. Mrs. Butenschoen in her pink bathrobe. Dayton Floren in his suit. The Franklins and their two oldest children—the toddler must still be asleep. Across the street, Spike was barking and Jacob could see Mrs. Nyback’s dim outline holding the tiny, hostile dog.
Jacob tugged at the saggy neckline of his T-shirt. Too many people. He couldn’t breathe.
The EMT tugged him toward the ambulance. “Here’s the oxygen,” he said, placing a mask over Jacob’s face.
Jacob pushed it off.
“Are you claustrophobic? Here, you hold it. Breathe, then take it away.”
Jacob didn’t want to. But it helped. It did. And he noticed that having the mask over his mouth meant he could hide.
Maddie was crazy. She really was Mad Maddie.
Lit by shifting spotlights and flickering flame, Sheriff Kwinault loomed out of the darkness. He stared. Tonight, her black hair was loose around her shoulders, her bronze skin absorbed the crowd’s elation, and he saw her as she had been before the accident that had broken her body. Beauty and strength cloaked her; was he seeing her true form? Or was this an illusion of night and crisis?
<
br /> She seemed unaware and she sounded normal as hell. “What happened?”
“I woke up and my house was on fire.”
“Did you set it?”
Of course she would ask that. “No.”
“Was it possibly set by faulty wiring? Maybe something the electricians did without the proper precautions?”
He thought back on his impressions as he had been rushed through the smoke. “Unlikely.”
“Do you think someone deliberately set it?”
He knew who she meant. “Possible.” Maddie made me talk. But even he knew that wasn’t a crime.
Her red-haired deputy joined her. Rupert Moen.
Officer Moen nodded, spoke to him. “Hi, Mr. Denisov, sorry to see this happen. Man, you have the worst luck of anyone I know.”
“Moen, shut up,” Sheriff Kwinault said.
Officer Moen did.
“Who called it in?” Jacob asked.
More light flooded his yard; now he could see that weariness rimmed Sheriff Kwinault’s eyes, and she leaned heavily on her stick. “Who do you think?”
“Mrs. Butenschoen.”
“Right.”
The neighbors were pressing closer.
This was worse than the first time, because now he knew them. They wanted to talk to him, exchange information, find out how he felt, what he was going to do.
“Madeline Hewitson is conspicuously absent.” Sheriff Kwinault turned to Officer Moen. “Where’s Maddie Hewitson?”
“In the house?” Moen seemed uncertain.
“You don’t know?” Sheriff Kwinault sounded exasperated. “I thought you were parked at the end of the street for a reason.”
Moen hung his head. “I don’t know where she is. I fell asleep.”
“Go to her house and see what you can discover!” Sheriff Kwinault turned back to Jacob. “Excuse me. Mrs. Butenschoen is summoning me.” She stalked away, leaving Jacob alone by the ambulance. He groped for a seat on the bumper, put the oxygen mask over his face, and ignored the murmurs of curiosity and speculation. About him. About Mad Maddie. These people assumed she had done it. Just assumed. Probably she had. But it wasn’t their business. They should go away.
Dr. Frownfelter wandered over, clad in a tattered navy blue robe and striped pajamas. “Damn it. I just got to sleep.”
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