“About—”
“Everything.”
HOURS LATER WE REACH OUR destination, the town of Canton, specifically the brick house with a twelve-foot metal sculpture dominating the front yard. I named it the Weeping Rose. The sculpture is alive with flowers that cascade down from the multiple beds built into it. I remember hauling junk with Salome from the salvage yard to Mom’s place. We dumped it on her lawn and she made it into something beautiful.
I follow Salome out of the car and into the backyard. Mom’s home sits on a private pond. She has a tiny dock and a hidden patio littered with sculptures and statues. And on that dock sits a small person on the one small lawn chair.
I know her. I know her from behind and in the dark and from a distance. I know her and love her and quicken steps toward her.
My feet pound the deck boards. She jumps up, and I freeze.
There are things I want to say now, words that should fall from my mouth and surround my mom. I want to tell her everything that’s happened these last months, but I can’t. It’s not where we’re at anymore. Though my mind is clear, I stand and stare at someone I know less each time I visit.
“Jake,” she says, and buries her hands in her pockets. “It’s been a long time.”
Her voice peels years from me, and I feel ten years old again. I hate that.
“Too long,” I say, and jam my hands in my pockets, too. “How are you?”
“I’m feeling much better. In fact, I told Scottie—”
I straighten. “Is he here? Where is he?” I push away from Salome and storm toward the back porch.
Mom calls gently, “Why are you mad at your brother?”
I pause and throw my arms in the air. “Doesn’t matter. He wins again.”
Mom approaches me from behind, strokes my head, and continues on around toward the front of the house. “Let’s walk.”
I lock my fingers behind my head and exhale hard. My legs feel like lead. But Salome nods gently, and I follow my mom.
We walk in silence, twice circling the neighborhood. The third time around, Mom presses into my shoulder. I stare down at her.
“Why didn’t you call these last months?”
“Of course, that’s the question you should ask.” Mom’s voice wavers. “Scottie told me you were rappelling and making new friends. I didn’t want to intrude.”
I breathe deep. “Isn’t that a mom’s job?”
“And, I suppose, you could have called me? Your e-mails are always so short.”
“Things are complicated.” I exhale. “I’m into stuff that needs working out. Doesn’t make it right, though.” A burn ignites in my gut. “Is that how things were for you when you left? Just too complicated?”
I shoot Mom a glance. She faces me, but her gaze can’t stick, and it falls to the pavement.
“I wasn’t well, Jake. Up here.” She touches her head. “I felt so overwhelmed. I was frozen.” She slows way down. “I needed to escape, maybe not so unlike you. So I used art. And you have your own wild trapdoor to freedom.”
I see it now. I see the replays of Mom years ago, the feeble mom I knew I needed to protect, but didn’t know the enemy. I see her trembling and remember sitting on her lap, turning the pottery wheel. The kitchen, my kitchen, and weeks of mac and cheese as she lay on the couch. It didn’t seem strange then; it was life and Dad’s absences were normal fireman behavior.
Another bump on the shoulder. “I was nothing for your father. I had nothing to give him.”
“You’re my mom.”
She steps in front of me. “And I’m so proud of you.” Mom kisses my cheek.
“Sure you don’t mean Scottie? He hasn’t been expelled, or—”
“He has been a help since he’s moved in . . . He loves you,” she says.
“He loves Salome.”
“Yes. Is there a problem with that?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t own her affections. Did you think you two would stay kids forever?”
“No.”
“Well then, my grown son, why not make a new start with a new crew? Maybe you could end up at that smoke-jumping base you wrote me about? I think it’s time for you to leave Brockton.”
You’ve been talking to Salome.
“You and Dad agree on something. He wants me to leave, too.”
Mom smiles. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You and Salome both doing what you love?”
“It would.”
I FIND SALOME SITTING on the dock, her knees drawn up to her chest. The moon shimmers, and she searches out over the water.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
“You don’t see it. You don’t see that there are places outside Brockton where people love you. Unless you’re out of town, you can’t see it clear . . . You don’t need them—the Immortals.”
I squat down next to her. “No. But they need me. Because I thought of a way to stop the club. I can take it apart. I can make it so nobody ever gets hurt by Mox again. And I’m the only one who’ll do it.”
Salome stretches out her legs, dips her feet in the water. “And what happens to you?”
“I don’t know.” I lift my eyebrows. “But when this is done, when I’ve all the information I need, will you help me kill the club? Will you write it up? Splash it in big letters in that college newspaper you write for. Nobody will ignore it then.”
“Jake, I’ve been waiting on you for what seems like a lifetime. I get what you’re doing. It’s only that . . .”
I cock my head.
“I need you to come back for me. Once you do whatever hideous thing you have to do for the club, you’ll leave, right?”
“I’ll be back, Sal.”
“You’ll be free to fight fire anywhere. Probably all sorts of crews would pick you up.”
“I’ll be back, Sal.”
“I won’t stalk you like Brooke, and she’d give you whatever you wanted. But I can’t, and I have my own dreams.”
“Sal.” I reach out and place my hand on hers. Our fingers intertwine. “I’ll come back to you. And Sal, Mox knows. He knows what happened to Drew.”
Her fingers tighten, and she nods. “I’ll do it; I’ll write about it.” Without warning, she lets go of my hand and slides off the dock into the water. She resurfaces, and her eyes dance. “Do you know I need you?”
“I need you, too.” I smile. “So how much do you like Scottie?” I ask.
“I like him.”
“The same like as a pet, or what?”
“Not a pet. But if he was, he’d be a big dependable Saint Bernard that rescues people and has some sense.”
I yank off my shirt, dive down into the water, surface ten feet from her big eyes. “Saint Bernard. Ever wanted a pit bull? You know, the ones that bite without warning and don’t obey and terrify the neighbors?”
“I used to, and I thought I could get over that desire.”
I swim a couple of feet away.
“How about you?” She splashes me. “You like leash types or wild types?”
“I’m confused about that.”
“That’s fair.” She bites her lip. “What are you feeling right now?”
“Unsafe.”
Salome smiles and submerges. I go after, and somewhere beneath the water, her body brushes mine, moonlight glints in her eyes, and we dance—a beautiful submerged dance full of touch and light. I don’t want air. I no longer need it, but after a minute, Salome must and breaks toward the surface. I turn a somersault and follow.
We swim toward the boat.
It’s Salome, my ultimate rush, who I want.
It’s time to destroy the Rush Club.
CHAPTER 28
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I HELP Troy move essentials from his house to the villa. He’ll spend days with the crew during fire season. Cheyenne doesn’t speak to me, but she peers at me as if I know something she doesn’t. It’s disconcerting, so I smile and nod and scurry each load out to Troy’s truck.
Troy doesn’t spea
k much either. His something approaches, and it scares the wits out of him. Weeks ago, I would have thought him weak for being scared. Not now. Not since my swim with Salome. All I’ve known—the cloudy wall separating me from the world—is gone. In its place is fear. Fear in the morning and at night. Fear I understand—because I finally have something to lose.
THAT NIGHT I FIGHT SLEEP, the battle raging as furious as a wildfire blaze. Hours pass and I can’t take it and slip into the living room. Troy is face to carpet.
“What are ya doing?” I ask.
He looks up slowly, his cheeks red and sweaty. “Do you pray, Jake? Do you ever pray or anything?”
“No. The thought of being watched all the time freaks me out. Figure if I don’t talk to Him, I’ll slip under the radar.”
“But you do think there’s a Him up there.”
“Salome does.”
I stare down at him, and he drops his gaze.
“I’m scared, Jake,” he says.
“Me, too.”
Troy pounds the floor.
“Tell me what you gotta do,” I say.
“What time is it?”
“One thirty A.M.”
Troy stands, puts on his jacket—the Immortals one—and slaps my shoulder. “Live short and loud, right?”
He quietly steps toward the entryway, turns the knob, and leaves the villa.
I stare at the closed door and listen to my ears ring. I don’t remember this feeling before, and can’t name it now, but it’s close to cowardice. And the urge awakens, like it used to months ago, not the need, but the urge. I want to do whatever Troy’s doing and risk whatever he’s risking.
I throw on my clothes and set out after my friend. It’s silent in the compound—fighting a fiery beast does that to guys trying to catch a few hours of sleep. I round our villa and pop onto Winders Street. Four shadows stand in the distance.
“Hey!” I holler. “Wait up.”
All face me, and I start down the middle of the street—first slowly, then faster and faster until I’m nearly in a jog. Three shadows—Troy, a chubby one, and his friend—jog in the other direction, but the fourth one strides straight for me. We take the same line, and as his face comes visible, it’s fierce.
“Stop, Jake,” Mox orders.
I pick up my speed. I’ll lose Troy.
“I said let it go,” he hollers.
I break for the curb, so does Mox, now a bullet that fires straight for me. He lunges at my legs, but I cut back, and Mox sprawls onto the grass. I race after my friend.
“I know where she lives,” Mox calls.
Mox’s voice is weak, barely audible over the pounding of my boots, but it stops me, chills me, spins me.
He slowly rises, brushes off his jacket.
“The turret room. I know where she lives.” He turns his back on me and vanishes into the dark of the night.
My head swivels from Troy to Mox. Feet stick where they’re planted. He wouldn’t do anything to Salome.
I jerk legs forward and turn the bend behind Troy. Fatty and Fez are big, they won’t move fast.
I pound around the corner and pull up. Ahead, the three hop into Fatty’s Jeep and speed down Dowling.
Dowling dead-ends. There’s nothing beyond it. Nothing but the Spires. Crap.
I break toward Dad’s, and five minutes later I pound his door.
Inside, a light flickers, and I hear a shuffle, a curse, then the door opens. Dad’s face turns white. “What’s wrong? Come on in.” He reaches for my arm, but I pull it away.
“I need your truck. Can I borrow—”
He disappears for a moment, returns, and jams the keys into my hands. “You’re not in any trouble? This isn’t about you, is it?”
“No. Thanks.” I race toward the truck.
Moments later, I squeal onto Dowling, where the thump of tar morphs to gravel’s crunch. Stones plink and ricochet off the Ford’s underbelly, and I slow, turn off the lights, and descend. I’ve walked this road a hundred times, but never driven it—the Beetle would never have made it. Winding deep down into one of the many canyons framing Brockton, the road is the only way in or out of our main tourist attraction: the Spires.
A half hour later, I reach them—enormous, jutting swords of rock that thrust one hundred feet out of the canyon bottom. Gray and angular, the fifty spires are razor sharp at the peak.
At least they were the last time I climbed one.
I’m alone here. It makes no sense. The road leads nowhere else.
Voices. From up above.
I strain my gaze, and against the moonlight I see shifting and wings. A hang glider. Some fool strapped in. Some fool named Troy.
If he flies down here, he’ll be carved to shreds.
I grab the flashlight from the glove compartment, jump out of the truck, and weave between the spires. I race away from the cliff on which Troy stands. Toward the knoll I know well—the only one where you could land a glider before you crashed into the opposite cliff.
Breath quickens. Thighs burn.
Wait, Troy. Stall.
Hard earth turns to weed and finally grass beneath my feet, and I double over to catch my breath. I peek up.
Troy pushes off.
His glider catches no air and the wings totter side to side.
“Fight it! Pull hard!” I shout, but he can’t hear. An updraft catches his glider and lifts him high before it releases him and he plummets toward rocky needles.
I flash my light over and over. Wave it above my head. He straightens the glider, skims the top of the spires, and angles down, straight for me. I drop my light and leap out of the way.
Troy hits hard, his glider cracks, and he tumbles wing over wing. I peek toward the cliff. Fez and Fatty stare down. They can’t see me, not yet. I duck into a spire shadow and crawl toward my friend. He groans, and coughs, and starts to laugh. It’s a weak laugh, but a laugh just the same. He’ll make it. He’s okay.
“That was the worst landing I’ve ever seen.” I start to unstrap him.
“What are you doing? Get out of here,” he whispers. “I’m not doing another one of these. They can’t know you helped. Go!”
I slink back to the truck, wait for the watchers to vanish, and slowly creep up the hill.
The rush. This isn’t a game.
I WAKE THAT MORNING TO Troy’s war dance. His face is puffy, one arm’s in a sling, and his right knee is wrapped. But he leaps and bounds on the bed, jumps off it.
“Looks like you’re, uh, just fine,” I say, and push up to an elbow.
“Better than fine. Initiation over. Cheyenne gets her wish. I get mine.”
“Okay, I’m happy for you.” I swing my feet over.
He jumps on my bed, leaps up, bangs his head, and laughs. “Feels so good.”
“You’re crazy.”
He exhales, “Maybe.” Troy coughs hard. “But what was really crazy was that little light. If I hadn’t seen that light, I would’ve hit—Well, I would’ve been done.” He steps off my bed and winces. “I tell you, that might have been my first serious prayer. That’s probably why God sent me this funny-looking angel.”
I rub my hand through my hair. No halo.
“Glad to help.”
His voice lowers. “And Mox told me—your spin comes tonight.”
“Tonight.”
“I wouldn’t worry. There’s nothing on that wheel that you haven’t already done. This should be no problem.”
I rub the carpet with my feet and feel a shock. That was before fear crept in and took up residence. That was before Salome brought fire to my heart. Then it didn’t matter, these stunts didn’t matter.
I touch my face the way Salome did underwater.
Now life counts.
CHAPTER 29
MY SPIN COMES TONIGHT.
I spend the afternoon at the train depot, swinging my legs out of a boxcar and talking to Salome on my cell. The old “us” has returned, and the words fall free. I joke and she laughs, and
spaces of quiet feel like home. But toward evening, our conversation turns heavy, and I can feel her fear.
The 8:10 rumbles by, and Salome falls silent.
“I need to go,” I say.
“Are we going to be okay?” she says. “You could go to your dad’s right now and borrow his truck and leave and—”
“He knows where you live. We can do this.” I pause. “I guarantee it.”
DARKNESS FALLS, AND I wander back to the villa. I open my door and stare at twenty men in jackets. They have the look I know well, the insatiable glimmer of a monster that needs to be fed. My shoulders droop. My monster is gone, and I’m alone.
“It’s your night.” Mox smiles evil. “Are you ready, friend?”
“Let’s get this over with.”
We march quietly down the path toward the clearing. I look around. Everyone seems confused. Except me. For the first time I’m crystal clear on pretty much everything.
I push by Troy and grab Mox’s sleeve.
“All that ceremony takes a long time.” I pat his back. “Are you all right if we skip that and jump to the spinning?”
He stops. I stop. He starts, and I quickly catch up.
“This isn’t Wheel of Fortune,” he hisses. “This isn’t a game.”
“What is it, then?”
Twenty minutes later, we trundle into the clearing. It takes twenty more to get in position around the post that will soon support my destiny wheel. The Immortals speak as if they’re in church, as if this is a take-off-your-shoes moment. Theo from the hand crew lays his hand on my shoulder. From across the fire, Brian from Dozer #2 shakes his head. I don’t need their sympathy, and I glance at Mox. He speaks and people nod, but his voice garbles.
“Jake!” Mox backhands my chest.
“Sorry, not paying attention, what’s up?”
He seethes, and it hits. This is his moment. His most fearsome moment. It’s strange not to care right now. Bet that pisses him off.
From the corner, a laugh. Mox walks toward it, whispers. It silences.
“Bring out the wheel!”
The big wooden disc comes out, and I stare down. Made from the gigantic side to a spool of cable, the wheel looks old and rickety, not terrifying. I get the feeling it would apologize, if it could, for how it’s being used. Hunks of wood that could be its twin are in my mom’s sculptures. Except for the names. This wheel is covered with them, charred by a soldering iron into the pine. My gaze zeroes in on two.