I’d lost interest already. I let go of her and ran across her yard, picking up sand, grass, and at least one awful little spur. I paused on the porch, hopped on one foot until I’d dislodged it, and shoved her front door open. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed all the way, it was just swinging on the hinge like she’d run outside and forgotten about it. Probably that’s how it’d happened.
“Mr. Colby?” I called. The staircase wasn’t in the usual spot, but I found it around a corner. I paused at the bottom with a hand on the rail. “Mr. Colby? Are you up there? Are you all right?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I just started climbing the steps, guided by intuition and impatience. I’d never actually been upstairs in Dolores’s house. There were three stories to it, including the attic rooms, but I stopped on the second landing and got lucky. I looked left, looked right, and saw a door that hung ajar. A light was on inside the room, and I heard the rustle of someone sitting up in bed.
“Mr. Colby?” I nudged the door the rest of the way open.
He was upright, busily stuffing a second pillow behind himself. His hands were so spindly that his bones might have been matchsticks, his hair was ferociously white—almost the silver-white of Dr. Floyd’s, and just like that, I teared up all over again—and his knees were doorknobs on twigs beneath the blanket across his lap and legs.
“Alice, dear.”
I went to the bedside and dropped to my own much-better-padded knees; he smiled sadly and gestured toward a chair right behind me. I felt like an idiot. I stood up again, drew the chair forward, and shakily sat down. “Mr. Colby, it’s Dr. Floyd . . . she’s—”
“I know.”
“You heard from her . . . already?”
He swung his head smoothly back and forth. “No, dear. My eyes have failed me a bit, and my joints have rebelled. But my ears are still good.” He waved toward the window, which was open; whispers of the chaos outside rose and crept inside, teasing the light cotton curtains that hung from the rod above it. “I’ve caught it in bits and pieces. I’ve gathered the worst.”
I was crying again, silently this time—except for the drip of my nose and the subsequent sniffles. “Sir, I have to warn you.”
“Warn me? Oh, I think we’re well past warnings.”
“Yes, but last night . . . or earlier tonight . . . God, I don’t know what time it is. Mr. Colby, I spoke to Agatha Bloom.”
His eyes widened, and his brows crept up his forehead. “Agatha? I haven’t heard from her in years. She reached out to you?”
“Something like that. I mean, I reached out for her. She was kind enough to answer.”
“I’ve tried . . . many times. I wonder why she . . .” The eyebrows drooped again. “It doesn’t matter. What did she say? It must’ve been important.”
“She said I needed to warn you. I asked her how to keep this awful spirit out of the town, and she said I couldn’t. She said he’s already here.”
“I think it’s safe to assume that she’s right. What else did she say?”
“Something about good salt, and that it might bind him—but not for long. She said not even the lye could’ve kept him out. Please, sir—what does that mean? I know that salt is good for circles, for summonings and holdings, but I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with lye, or what good it is for protection.”
“It . . . Well.” He adjusted his thin spectacles with their light round lenses. “Lye, she said? She’s speaking of an old charm, a bit of granny magic. You spread lye at all four corners of the property and say your prayers—it’s a powerful ward to repel enemies and foes and any other visitors with ill intent.”
I nodded vigorously. “And if it won’t work, that’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t good.” A wail outside the window gave us both pause. I couldn’t tell what was being said, but Mr. Colby told me, “Dr. Floyd will be dearly missed. Tomorrow night, I’ll try to speak with her and find out what happened.”
“Why? Why can’t we . . . dial her up now?” I knew it didn’t really work like a telephone, but I had to ask in case I was wrong. Now would be an excellent time to be wrong.
He shrugged. “Very few people come through right away, though once in a while someone will straddle the line between the worlds. It may sound odd, but I’ve known of people who received spiritual visits from the living.”
I was boggled by the idea. “Living people? Who can . . . project themselves that way?”
He mustered a feeble smile. “You’re learning the language. You’re a good student, despite what Mabel says about you.”
I resisted the urge to demand to know precisely what she’d told him, because I could guess. I bet she told him I’d been hanging around Candy’s. I bet she exaggerated how many seminars and workshops I’d missed over the weeks, and I’m sure she didn’t tell him that I’d attended at least half of the ones I’d been assigned to.
I did not seethe. I said, “Thank you, sir. I am doing my best.”
“You came here to learn. It’s your goal, and your job to pursue it. No one here will compel you to do anything.” Good heavens, but this old man knew plenty. If the situation had been any different, he might have winked at me.
“I came here to learn, and I have learned quite a lot. But I have not learned how to handle anything like this. Even if I’d spent all week, every week, sitting and listening and taking notes, I doubt I’d have any better idea what’s going on here.”
He nodded unhappily and sagged against the pillows. I heard the sound of a truck and the crank of a fire hose unspooling. I wished to God that I didn’t recognize that sound well enough to identify it, but I did, and that’s what it was.
He said, “I don’t know what to do either, not with all my years of experience—but if Aggie thought the lye wouldn’t hold out the wickedness, then we truly have trouble in our midst. Does this have something to do with your visitor from Tampa?”
“How did you know I had a visitor? Or is that a silly question? And he’s not from Tampa.”
“From somewhere near the bay, then.” His feeble smile went softer. “Even if no one in Cassadaga was a clairvoyant, we would still have our gossip, and gossip never sleeps. A Cuban fellow, I hear? Very well dressed, says everyone.”
“He’s an American. Fought in the Great War, even.”
George gracefully ceded the point. “Then he’s also a patriot and a hero.”
“His name is Tomás Cordero, and he ran inside Dr. Floyd’s house to save her. He ran right through the door with a blanket over his head—like he wasn’t afraid at all. Like he’d seen it before . . .” I thought of the dream, when he was only the man in the mask who knew my name. “I know he worked with fire in the war. He must’ve gotten used to it.”
George was watching me thoughtfully. I wonder if he could see my dreams, or if his spirit guide could tell him my memories. He asked, “What did Mr. Cordero do in the war?”
“He worked with a machine that threw fire at the enemy. It was some kind of . . . it was like the opposite of a water hose. It was a hose that held fire and sprayed it out on the battlefield. But when he used the machine, he wore protective gear—and he looked very much like a firefighter. I suppose that was the point, wasn’t it? To protect him from the heat and flames.”
“How long has he been here in town?”
“Oh, no time at all!” I was quick to defend him. “He didn’t arrive until after the Calliope fire, if that’s what you mean. He isn’t afraid of fire, but he doesn’t love it enough to . . .” I almost said, “create it,” but I knew it wasn’t true. He’d told me it wasn’t true. George might know it wasn’t true if I said it out loud. “Look, he’s not some kind of violent arsonist,” I said instead. “He would never hurt anyone.”
“Not on purpose. But men bring things home,” he said slowly. “When they go off to war, it’s not just the memories they carry ba
ck from the front.”
“He would never hurt anyone,” I said again.
“No, but . . .” He folded his hands in his lap and stared thoughtfully toward the open window. “He did hurt people, once. He killed them. He was a soldier.”
“That’s different.”
“Very different, I agree.”
“Then why would you bring it up?”
He didn’t answer that one. He asked another question instead. “Where did he fight, do you know?”
“Germany and France, I think.”
He made a dismissive little noise that said I hadn’t told him anything of value. “I wonder if you could narrow it down. You said he had a machine that shoots fire? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I hadn’t either, until he told me about it.” It wasn’t really true. He hadn’t told me; I’d seen it, and that’s how I knew it was true.
He mused, “It was something new, made by the military. Something unprecedented. Everyone everywhere, dead or alive, notices when something unprecedented appears. Who might have seen that exceptional weapon . . . and wanted to use it? Who would want to turn the power of the flames against your friend Mr. Cordero? Who would use it against people like us?”
• • •
I thought of the angry, black-robed men who used to burn witches. A flame projector would’ve been more efficient than stakes and straw. Think of how many would burn, and how fast. That’s what I thought.
That’s not what I said.
• • •
“MANY people die in the process of war,” I said. “Who knows which one of them noticed? Who can tell which one might’ve followed him home?”
“You should ask Mr. Cordero,” he said. “Ask if he had any friends who died by his machine. He may have turned it on the enemy, but accidents happen. Did some unfortunate American cook to death on the front? Did another soldier carry a grudge?”
“I’d carry a grudge if I cooked to death anyplace,” I said from the bottom of my heart.
“Perhaps it’s something like that.” He yawned, though he covered it with the back of his hand. “Or perhaps it’s something altogether unrelated. I apologize. I am old, and it’s very early—despite the awful excitement.”
My stomach fell again at the mere mention of it. “Yes . . . the awful excitement. I’m sorry to bother you, sir. Please get some rest.”
I wanted to stay where I was, right there in his room, and not leave for a while. I did not want to go outside and watch the sun rise over Dr. Floyd’s body, and listen to the crumbling, burning ruins of her house. But I patted the old man’s hand, thanked him for his time, and that’s exactly what I did.
Back outside, I kept my eyes straight ahead and tried not to look at anything but the way forward, back to the hotel. I kept my feet one in front of the other, sinking in the sand, slapping on the sidewalks.
By the time I reached the lobby, they were as gray as ashes.
22
TOMÁS CORDERO
Cassadaga, Florida
I WAS EXHAUSTED, but after all the excitement that morning, I could not possibly return to bed. I opted instead to rise and make a halfhearted effort to begin the day. My ear hurt from where the fire caught it, and my throat hurt—my chest hurt, too—from breathing in too much smoke. I could not magically compel it to become an ordinary day, but I could drink some water, patch myself up, and ready myself for whatever was yet to come.
I took Felipe downstairs to the restaurant, to see about breakfast. He spent the meal on my lap, accepting scraps and peeking out from under the tablecloth to see if any of the nearby ladies wished to pet him. Or feed him a bit of scrambled egg. Or biscuit. Or ham. No, thank you, the greens give him gas. Even if he makes that face. Try a bit of cheese instead. That gives him the winds, too, but he won’t vomit later.
At last, he was almost behaving like a normal dog, and not a terrified mouse.
I was pleased to see it, though the improvement was small (and might well have been imagined). I was just thinking how a few days of relative quiet and comfort might turn him around, when Alice stomped up to join us at the breakfast table. I could not tell if she was angry or frightened, but she was definitely tired and dirty; she still wore a smudge of soot across her forehead, as if it were Ash Wednesday and this was a Sunday at Padre Valero’s church—not a hotel full of people who spoke to the dead.
Those two things aren’t as far apart as they sound.
“Tomás, you just left. How could you leave me? How could you leave . . . ?” Her question petered out. I do not know what else, or who else, I should not have left. The dead woman?
I sighed and suggested that she pull up a chair—a useless thing to say, since she’d already done just that. “Clearly, I did not go far. Sit with us. Have some food.”
“Us?”
Upon hearing a familiar voice, Felipe poked his head above the table line. “Yes, us. And what should I have done? There was nothing else . . . ,” I said vaguely, not wishing to be insensitive. “I retrieved your friend, but I could not help her. I am very sorry, Alice. I wish I could have done more, but I was a soldier, not a doctor.”
I was trying my best to calm her, but still I managed to fluster her. “Yes, you . . . you did bring her out—and that was amazing, it really was. You scared me to death,” she said, and immediately reconsidered her choice of words. “You scared me silly, I mean—running into that house like that. It was so brave . . . I wasn’t trying to say that you should’ve done more, or that you hadn’t done enough. I’m only . . . I wanted to see you, to talk to you, to ask you what had happened in there. But when I came back from Mr. Colby’s, you were gone.”
• • •
WHICH reminded me: She left the scene first. I have no idea why she was upset with me. I must assume that she wasn’t. She was angry with herself but needed someone else to share it with.
• • •
STILL, I tried to be reasonable. “It was not brave; it was sensible. I was the best-qualified person to make the attempt, until the firemen arrived. I stayed with the doctor until the ambulance came to take her away, but she was gone by then. You know that.” Her eyes filled up, and her nose and cheeks went pink. “After that, I returned to the hotel to see about Felipe. He’d been indoors for hours, and I feared for the hotel rugs. I did not intend to abandon you in your hour of need. I apologize.”
“No, no, don’t apologize. You’re right.” She sniffed. She collected a cloth napkin from an unused place setting on the next table over and used it to dab her eyes and wipe her nose. “I’m sorry, it was ridiculous of me to think you’d still be there, standing in the street. I was only confused—I’m still very confused, about everything—and I guess I must have been worried.”
“Did you think I’d gone back inside the house a second time?”
“No. Maybe? The house collapsed, and you weren’t there, Tomás. You could’ve been anywhere. I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer.”
“I must not have heard; I took a bath to wash off the smell of the fire. I had to change clothes and shave and make myself presentable. I was not trying to hide from you. See? You’ve found me now. Here I am, at your service, and I am so very sorry about your friend. She was the church’s minister, is that right?”
The poor girl was openly weeping now, trying to muffle the little sobs and hide herself behind the coral-colored napkin. When the hostess came over, I asked for a cup of coffee for myself and a glass of water for my companion. Alice came up for air long enough to add, “And some oatmeal and fruit, if you could be so kind. And some orange juice. And some toast, with jam.” After the woman had gone, she said, “It’s been a difficult day already, and it’s hardly eight o’clock. I deserve toast.”
When the coffee and juice arrived, I told her to go ahead—ask me any questions she liked, though I did not know what she wanted to
hear, or what she thought I could tell her. I could not have possibly predicted her line of inquiry.
“I wanted to ask you about the war.”
I was frankly surprised. Almost too surprised to reply. “What on earth for?”
“Because fire is the thread that ties everything together: the fire you used in the war, your difficulties at home, and our difficulties here. Your fires came first. Not the ones at your shop or at Felipe’s house . . . but on the front. I saw the machine—you know I did. You saw me when I saw you.”
Oh yes. The dream, where the young woman appeared in a nightdress on the battlefield, her hair long and wild, her eyes big and wet.
“You saw the Livens device. They called it a flame projector.” I did not want to talk about the war, and I’d certainly had enough of fire for a lifetime. But I’d come here for help, and to be free of the flames. It would do me no good to avoid the subject. I could not hide from it any better than I could hide from the unrelenting Alice. (Had I been trying.) “I had a knack for it, as they say, so I was assigned to the British unit that employed it . . . temporarily. Mostly, I assisted with its maintenance.” The flame projector’s basic mechanics were not wildly different from those of an industrial steam iron. Not in general principle.
“Are you making a long story short?”
I recalled the gloves, the masks, and the screams. “As short as I can, yes. It was a fearsome thing, and that was the point, I think. The projector was destructive, of course, but more than that—it was terrifying. Imagine being on a battlefield . . .” I tried not to imagine, only to remember. I didn’t succeed particularly well. I continued anyway. “Imagine you’re on one side of a fight, and on the other, there is a machine that hurls liquid fire a hundred feet or more, in a brilliant golden arc. It took hundreds of men to tote the thing around, and a crew of . . . well, there were eight or ten of us required to deploy it.” I laughed, small and rueful. “It was a huge waste of manpower, for all its magnificence.”