Whenever someone was having a rough go of it, Kyra was the one they came to for emotional support.
Though I was reluctant to socialize at first, Kyra dragged me with her wherever she went. She got me out of the janitorial duties I was originally assigned, and managed to convince the social counselor to give me a job as her administrative assistant, which was a cushy position. The only downside was that I had to attend every group session and take notes.
Every night before lights out—and sometimes well past—Kyra would talk continuously about her life before prison; her boyfriend, John; the daughter she had to give up for adoption; her life on drugs; and a hundred other topics. I didn’t mind. Listening to her go on was therapeutic, and helped to take my mind off my own troubles. Usually, the sound of her voice relaxed me to the point where I would fall asleep without hearing the end of her stories.
It was during one of her life narratives that Kyra mentioned the mantra of control that a rehabilitation coach had taught her when she was first trying to break her addiction.
In the six months I had been her cellmate, I never interrupted her when she was in the middle of a story, but this time I prompted her to give me more detail. “A mantra? Did that work?”
“Well,” she said, thinking about it for a moment. “Sort of. There were a lot of other exercises he got me to do. I mean, there’s no magic cure for addiction. Like they say, you take it one day at a time. Once an addict, always an addict. You can only do as good as you can. But, yeah. There have been moments where the need grabbed me, and I couldn’t for the life of me think of a reason not to snort a line. Maybe it’s kind of like when they tell you to count from ten backward when you’re angry. It distracts you long enough for some part of your brain to take back control.”
I asked, “Can you teach it to me?”
Unusual for her, Kyra was silent for a long time. “Of course, honey. And I won’t even ask you why you would want to learn it.”
She was as good as her word, and she never asked me why. Though Kyra knew the most intimate details of practically everyone’s lives, she rarely got that information by sticking her nose in their business; people just felt comfortable enough around her to open up naturally.
Many nights I had lain awake, wondering about the blaze that took my parents’ lives and puzzling about the cause of the fire that consumed the bunks that first night in prison. Had I started it? The memories were clouded. Though I had been in both fires, I remained untouched—unscarred physically.
In a rare moment, about a month after moving in with Kyra, I had stolen a lighter from one of the other girls in the exercise yard and played the flame against the skin of my forearm. The pain was unimaginable, and the area where I applied the fire turned an ugly black color.
Tossing the lighter away from me and trying bravely to suppress the cry that welled in my throat—lest a guard or other inmate came to investigate—I clamped my hand around my forearm and bit back the tears.
When the agony lessened to a dull throbbing ache, I pulled my hand away. At first, I wondered how I would explain the burn to the nurse in the infirmary; but when I tentatively brushed my fingers against the blackened area, the dark patch flaked off. After a bit of rubbing, every trace of the burn was gone, and my skin was as clean and unmarred as it had ever been.
It was at that point I knew there was something unnatural about me. I knew, deep down, that somehow I was the one who had caused those fires.
It was because of Kyra that for the first few years inside I had never been pushed or angered to the point where I lost control—except for that first night. I wanted to believe that those flare-ups had been isolated incidents. Rationally, I knew better. Prison was a violent place. There was always the possibility of confrontation, and that could lead to something very terrible—unless I could find a way to keep control.
Although it was never designed for someone like me, I learned the mantra from Kyra that night, and—except for one other incident—it had helped me through the remainder of my stay in prison.
* * *
Behind me a horn honked and jarred me back to the present. I yelped and hopped off the bench. Down the street some kid had raced in front of a car on his bike, completely oblivious to the danger. The driver poked his head out the window and yelled something I couldn’t hear.
As the boy sped off on his bike, he passed the Middleton Library.
The prison library had a computer with an internet connection, but I had never used it. The guards monitored usage, and there was no way I could do any kind of research about my affliction without alerting them.
But now there were no guards, no wardens, and no other inmates looking over my shoulder. I had a few clues; a starting-off point. I was not the only person in the universe to have suffered this burden. My great-grandmother had endured it until the end of her days, and had effectively hidden it from her family and friends.
Maybe there was a way I could look up my ancestry, and see if anyone else in my family had this ability. I had a million questions. How far back did it go? Why did Beatrice and I have it, and not my mother or grandmother? Was it just the women? Was miscarriage the trigger, the break in the bond of blood? Or was there more to it? Was it just my family? Did anyone else have this problem?
…Was there a way to control it?
My mind kept coming back to that one main point I had taken from my aunt’s revelation of my family history: control. It was possible to control it. Up until now, I had only been able to suppress it.
There had to be a way for me to get a rein on this thing. It was time to stop letting it consume my life. I stood and crossed the street to the library. It was time to find some answers.
Chapter Sixteen
I never made it into the library, though.
Avoiding the traffic on Main Street, I hurried across the road and stepped up on the sidewalk. When I got to the front door, I swore: I was fifteen minutes early. The doors were locked.
I peered through the glass to see if there was anyone moving around. The place was deserted.
Momentarily frustrated, and more than a little chilly, I looked around for someplace more hospitable to wait out the duration, when someone called out my name.
I turned and blushed when I saw Neil wave at me and call my name again.
“Darcy!” He grinned and headed toward me.
“Hi,” I said when he got closer. I was a brilliant conversationalist.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said. With a glance at the closed sign on the library door, he asked, “Grabbing a book?”
My gut reaction was to be defensive, as if he were prying into my business; but then I realized he—like anyone else—was just being polite.
“No, uh…”
Neil raised his eyebrows, still smiling that disarming smile of his. Why did guys like him have to be so charming? With my past, I should never even look twice at another man; yet every time Neil was around my stomach got butterflies.
Also, he had never been anything other than a perfect gentleman. Despite my natural misgivings, I found myself letting my guard down.
“The motel doesn’t have the internet. I was going to do some online research.”
Neil perked up. “Yeah?”
I had to be careful what I revealed and how, but Neil was a firefighter after all. I was certain he was as good a person to help me as any. “About fire, actually.”
“Oh,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “My area of expertise.” He gestured down the street. “I was just headed to the fire hall to fill out some forms. Want to come with me? There’s a computer there you can use. Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for, I can steer you in the right direction.”
When I hesitated, he lifted the large paper bag in his hand. There was a stamp on it from the deli down the street. He said, “I think I bought too much lunch. I can split my sandwich with you.”
My stomach growled at the mention of food. “That sounds like a plan.”
&
nbsp; As we walked, I felt passersby staring at us. I kept glancing back at them, trying to meet their eyes, but whenever I did, I saw they were looking elsewhere.
“Something wrong?” Neil asked.
“Oh, uh, nothing.”
* * *
The fire hall was warm, and for that I was grateful. I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands to get the circulation going again.
Neil led me into the office. No one else seemed to be in the building.
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “We have the place to ourselves, unless someone calls in. Let me put the password into the computer for you.”
After he fired up an internet browser, he gestured for me to take the chair. “All yours. You hungry?”
“Famished.”
While Neil divided up his lunch, he glanced over at me. I hadn’t typed anything into the address bar.
“Did you need help?” he asked.
“I know how to use the internet,” I said.
“Sorry. I didn’t know if they let you in—”
“Yeah, the prison library had computers, but they were monitored closely. I went on it a few times, but not for anything personal.”
He passed me half a sandwich and opened a soda for me. “If you want, I can give you some privacy.”
“No. I’m more hungry at the moment,” I said, and smiled as I bit into the bread. We ate in silence for a moment.
“Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for specifically, I can suggest a starting point.”
“How about spontaneous combustion?” I asked, and glanced at him out of the corner of my eye to measure his reaction.
“Interesting,” he said. “We had a demonstration when I went through the academy on various chemical reactions. It’s an important part of what we investigate. Compost heaps, manure, grain dust, even pistachio nuts can ignite in large quantities. It’s a combination of fermentation and oxidization. Chief Hrzinski has a list around here somewhere. One of our duties is to go around to the ranches and farms in the district and inspect their holding areas and barns for possible combustibles.”
“What about … human combustion?” I asked, and held my breath.
“Yeah, sure,” he said in a casual tone. “It can happen. But it’s not the same as with chemicals. Human fat can ignite from the wick effect. There are a few cases where someone smoking a cigarette fell asleep and the hot cherry smoldered long enough to ignite him or her. It’s most common with those who are significantly overweight.”
I blinked. “The wick effect, huh?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Are you talking about the other night with Barry in the motel office? Like you said, he might have had an ember in the cuff of his shirt or something. Is that what you want to research?” Neil grew concerned. “I heard Sheriff Burke called you in to his office. Did you need someone to testify—?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I think we agreed not to press charges against each other.”
“That’s good.”
“But—” I started to say, trying to form the words in my mind, trying to decide how much to reveal and how close to the vest to play this. “Just out of curiosity … what if there aren’t any external sources? I mean, what if there is no ‘wick effect’ to set a person on fire.”
Neil leveled a stare at me. I knew I sounded crazy, but I had to know. “What if it just … happens?”
A long pause hung between us. When Neil spoke, his voice was even. “You mean telepyrosis: creating fire with the power of your mind.”
Another millennium passed between one beat of my heart and the next. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks. There was no reaction on Neil’s face one way or the other. Did he think I was some kind of superstitious flake? Did he think I was reaching for an explanation of the other night’s events? Did he suspect the truth? How could he?
“Yes.” I held my breath.
“I guess it depends on who you talk to,” he said finally. “I mean, there haven’t been any scientific studies, if that’s what you want to hear. You won’t find anything on the internet about it other than what you read in fiction and comic books.”
I shot the computer a desperate look.
Neil’s next question was drawn out and careful: “Is that what you think happened with Barry? And with … your parents?”
“What do you know about my parents?”
Neil looked a little uncomfortable, and he dropped his eyes.“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I looked at the official report of what happened that night. To be honest, Chief Hrzinski practically shoved it in my hands my first day here. Said people would probably be talking about it forever, so I might as well have the facts straight.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be outraged, embarrassed, or devastated. With my lips tight, I asked, “And what were the facts?”
“Largely inconclusive,” he said, keeping his face expressionless. “As far as I could tell from the report, your conviction wasn’t based on official findings, but on your testimony at the trial. We never found any accelerants other than a whiskey bottle across the room. The point of origin was the carpet near the basement apartment door.”
Neil watched my eyes while he finished his report. “It was snowing that night, and that area should have been wet since you’d just arrived home. Chief Hrzinski officially stated that he found no cause for the blaze and was at a loss for an explanation. An inspector came in from Phoenix, and he was completely stumped.”
Neil wasn’t cushioning his words. I gave him points for that. It didn’t make hearing them any easier, and I was torn between screaming at him to shut his mouth, and running out of the office. I didn’t want to play those events over in my mind again; it was too painful.
He said, “It’s not that uncommon for a fire investigation to come up empty. The nature of the occurrence makes it difficult to come to any conclusions.”
I stared at him, stunned, my mouth open and working, but my voice was lost to me.
Shrugging, he said, “I can show you the report if you like.”
* * *
No matter how many times I read those typed words, no revelations were forthcoming. The report was basically what Neil had said: inconclusive.
We were in the filing room in the basement of the fire hall. A lonely overhead light in a metal cover threw a pale yellow glow over us.
“This doesn’t help me,” I told Neil.
He shrugged. “What were you looking for? If there was an electrical problem in the wiring, or if a hot coal from a fireplace jumped onto the carpet, or any of a hundred other reasons were the cause, we would have found it. I know I’m being indelicate, but if the jury believed it was an accident, they would have let you off. Do you believe it was an accident?”
“It was an accident!” I said it louder than I had intended.
Neil put his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling. “So … you think it might be something paranormal?”
“I’m not crazy! I’m not!” I knew I sounded defensive, but it was a sore point.
“I never said you were,” said Neil. “You were the one who brought it up. Obviously you were thinking it.”
I peered at him and put my hands on my hips. “All right, so I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.” He nodded.
“Why aren’t you dismissing this as the ravings of a madwoman? Anyone else would think I was off my rocker.”
“Well, since we’re baring our souls here,” said Neil, “there have been some things I’ve seen in my life that were beyond explanation. Let’s just say I don’t disbelieve.”
I blinked at him several times. “Really? You’re not just playing? I promise you I won’t appreciate the joke.”
I stared into his eyes, searching for a hint that his words were anything less than genuine. As far as I could tell, he was being honest.
“I wouldn’t tease you,” he said.
“Not for something like this. There might be a rational explanation for these kinds of powers, but until someone proves one way or another that these things can or can’t exist, I’ll reserve judgment.”
I relaxed and dropped my hands to my sides. “You sound like my father.”
“Must have been a great guy.” Neil smiled.
“He was.” I nodded as I remembered him. “I loved him. And I loved my mother. I didn’t kill them. I would give anything to have them back. But—”
Neil gently prodded: “But?”
“It was an accident.” I took a deep breath and faced him squarely. “But I think I did start that fire.”
“With your mind?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t have any other explanation.”
He looked away for a moment, as if weighing the information. “All right. Let’s say I believe you.”
He didn’t sound like he was mocking me, or stringing me along to make fun of me later. As a matter of fact, he sounded like he was seriously considering the possibility. I could barely breathe. First my aunt, and now Neil. It was surreal that I wasn’t the only person in the universe who believed that this was possible.
“What do you think you have?” asked Neil.
Barely able to contain my excitement, I wondered if this was what it was like for a parishioner to confess to a priest and unburden their sins.
“I think I have this telepyrosis, as you called it. I don’t know if it’s a gift or—my great-grandmother thought it was a curse. A way of punishing us for some ancient sin. I’m not sure I believe that. But I do know that any time the power comes out, people get hurt or—”
I leaned against the filing cabinet. “I stayed up all night last night talking to my aunt. She told me that this ability was passed down in my family from one generation to the next, only sometimes it skips a generation. This ability is what came out that night with Barry at the motel, and last night at The Trough. It’s what happened the night my parents were killed, and it’s happened a few other times since.”
B004K6MHSI EBOK Page 10
