He sat in the crowded room, drinking watery beer and watching the dream die. Again. Muriel and Saul, seated on either side of him, were as quiet as Will, but the tavern’s other patrons were not taking the matter calmly.
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Jesus, Grady, get him out of there.”
On the television over the long wood bar, Pedro Martinez looked tired. He had gone seven strong innings, spoiled only by two solo homers by Giambi, and the Red Sox entered the bottom of the eighth up five runs to two over the Yankees. Game seven of the American League Championship. World Series berth on the line. But Pedro had thrown more than a hundred pitches, and it was time to turn the game over to Boston’s superb bull pen. The announcers knew it. Everyone in the bar knew it. Everyone in New England, not to mention retirees in Florida and transplanted Bostonians all over the country and world, glued to their television screens, knew it was time to pull Pedro. The only person who did not seem to know was Grady Little, the Red Sox manager.
A double by the hated Jeter. Howls of protest in the bar. A single by Bernie Williams. Little bounced out of the dugout and headed for the pitcher’s mound.
“Thank God,” said Tony Pascarelli.
Tony had been the only one to greet him when Will and Muriel entered Murphy’s. Muriel said he needed to get out, and demanded he join her to see the Sox victory in some public place. Will reluctantly agreed, but regretted it the moment they entered the crowded tavern. Faces turned away from his gaze. Did they fear a hex? Will didn’t even recognize most of them, but they knew him, apparently. Saul Markowitz joined them at their table against the wall, probably out of pity. The favorable progress of the game distracted everyone, until the ill-omened eighth inning. Grady left the mound with Pedro still on it, and the momentary relief of the bar patrons turned to dismay.
“What is he doing?”
“He’s got to bring in Embree to face Matsui. Got to.”
But he did not, and Pedro gave up a double to the dangerous Japanese batter, bringing Jeter and Williams home. Posada’s single tied the game. Will looked over at Saul, who only shrugged.
“A curse is a curse,” he muttered.
Couldn’t have said it better, thought Will.
The faultless Mariano Rivera stifled the Sox batters and the game went to extra innings. The atmosphere in the bar turned hostile. Will could smell anger on the men and women around him. The way Sam claimed to smell it on him. A hot, rancid scent.
“Let’s go,” said Muriel abruptly. Not waiting for a reply, she stood and headed for the door. Will hesitated. You didn’t leave a tie game between the Sox and Yankees—it was disloyal. Yet he felt more allegiance to Mure than to the Red Sox. He dropped twenty bucks on the table, nodded to Saul and got up. A few hard looks followed him to the door. Traitor.
On the car radio, they listened to Aaron Boone hit the game-winning home run. Listened to the crowd at Yankee Stadium celebrate wildly. Another chapter in the book of Red Sox futility. Muriel jabbed the off button.
“Wasn’t their year,” she said. With the equanimity of someone inoculated against disappointment by a lifetime’s exposure.
“It’s never their year,” said Will. “You thought they were going to turn on me, didn’t you? The gang at Murphy’s. That’s why you got me out of there.”
Early in the game, Will thought he saw Eddie Price enter the bar and leave again, but he couldn’t be certain. The day before he thought he saw Jane and Alice Hall walking hand in hand down the street, so he did not trust what his eyes reported. The line is getting thin. Between you and them. Between here and there. Despite her warnings and her guilt, Sam had not been in touch for two days. He didn’t know if she was trying to find the book or trying to forget he existed. He didn’t know which was better. Muriel did not answer his question.
“So this thing with Samantha has run its course?” she said instead.
It was not reasonable to think that there was a conspiracy to provoke him. It had to be coming from him. And it was like Muriel to be blunt.
“We’re friends,” he replied. “I hope that’s not something that runs its course.”
Muriel shrugged, simultaneously lighting a cigarette and rolling down the window.
“Depends,” she said casually. “Hard to be friends with a crazy woman.” Then a mad cackle that was uncharacteristic. “I should know.”
“You think she’s nuts?”
“She’s a strange girl. You don’t need me to tell you.”
“You’re not friends with Sam,” he said, zipping up his jacket against the chill invading the car. But it was better than choking on her cigarette. “I thought you might be talking about my mother.”
“I was making a little joke about myself, actually. I never called Abby crazy.”
“What happened that day,” he asked suddenly.
“Can’t let it go, can you?” she sighed. “Your mom is the only person who can help with that. I was out in the car. I wasn’t even in the house when the lightning hit.”
They were at cross-purposes, but maybe this was the way. By misunderstanding his questions, she was giving him more interesting answers. Could he perfect the technique and apply it to others?
“You meant the day Abby fell down the stairs, didn’t you?” Muriel said, catching on.
“Yeah, but you can answer either one.”
“What a lousy choice. She was just having a bad day. It was like she never woke up from the dream. She was talking to me, but she was seeing whatever was in her head. And then she gave me this look. This, this terrible look, like...”
In the blue light of the dashboard gauges, he could see pain in Muriel’s eyes.
“Like you were evil,” said Will. Knowing it was so, but not understanding how he knew.
“Yeah,” she answered. “Like that. Then she was out the door.”
“Poor Mure,”he said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been looked at like that since I’ve come back here.”
“You must like it,” she grumbled. “You won’t leave.”
“Why were you out in the car that night?”
“Oh man, you’re going to squeeze it all out of me, aren’t you?” She was trying to locate her usual sarcastic tone, but her voice jumped with anxiety and grief. “We were going to get you out,” she said, so fast he almost didn’t catch it.
“Get me out? Who was?”
“It wasn’t safe for you in that house. They were going to involve you in the ceremony. They were going to use you. We had to get you away from here, but it didn’t work.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The car was losing speed and her pale face had a frozen look. Will thought suddenly of Molly Jordan. “Pull over,” he said quickly.
But she was already doing it. Before they had completely stopped, she had popped her door opened and leaned out to retch. The chill that spread through Will’s body had nothing to do with the cold air rushing in. Logic should have told him that if she was there for the aftermath—as he remembered—she would have been under the oath. But this was Muriel. The woman who didn’t believe in any of that nonsense. If she was subject to such control, against her will and even her belief, then what else might be true?
She sat up. The fear gone from her face, looking more embarrassed than anything.
“Shouldn’t have eaten those nachos. Friggin’ Saul, he knows I can’t say no. Could you get me a tissue, hon? In the glove compartment.”
He handed her the packet and she wiped her mouth. Then closed the door and put the car back in gear. She didn’t speak again for another minute or so.
“You’re trying too hard,” said Muriel.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “Half this stuff you think you need to figure out, you don’t. You know all you need to. You just can’t see it. Because you’re missing one piece of information.”
“Okay,” he exhaled. “And that is?”
“Ask Abby about your father.”
“My father?” It was the last thing he expected. “What does he have to do with this?”
“It’s connected, trust me. But I can’t tell you. It has to come from your mother—it’s only right. She should have told you a long time ago.”
Even as he considered just how resolute her refusal was, if there might not be a way to move her, something bothered him. And then he had it. “Your father” she had said. Not “Joe,” which was the only way she ever referred to the man.
“Get your answer and then get out of here,” she continued. “I’ll drive you to New York if I have to. If you won’t do it because of the danger to yourself, do it for the pain you’re causing everyone else.”
They had swung around the bend and were passing Sam’s house when he saw the police cruiser parked along the roadside.
“Stop,” Will commanded. “Right here, stop.”
She complied, with a huff of annoyance. Will looked hard at the police car, but it was empty.
“What?” Muriel demanded.
“This idiot has been following me around since I got here.”
“Who?”
“Jimmy Duffy. This must be his cruiser, the door is even dinged where he...never mind.”
Her cell rang before they could say any more. Muriel listened a moment.
“Yeah, he’s with me,” she said into the phone. “No, we’re right down the street, what’s up? Yeah, sure. Call me back when you can.” She slapped the phone closed and put the care in reverse. “Your mom.”
“And?”
“There’s something going on at the house. Jimmy is there and she doesn’t want you anywhere near—Will!”
He opened the door and stepped out before she could hit the gas. He half expected her to get out and chase him, but he didn’t look back. In a few seconds he was running. That sonofabitch, harassing his mother now. He would break his other arm.
It was late; most houses on the street were dark. The porch light was on at his mother’s place, and several lights inside the house, as well. Will had almost reached the stairs when he saw a dark shape moving swiftly across the side yard. He hesitated. Was that a flash of blond hair? Then he was running again, around the house and across the little field. Trying not to stumble. For just a moment he heard voices, calling back and forth urgently, but could make nothing out. A jagged line of tall shadows marked the edge of the woods behind the house and it seemed like the voices had come from there. Anyway, he could see nowhere else they could have gone. He dodged around the rosebushes and headed for the trees.
The yard had been dark, but beneath the oaks and pines it was nearly pitch-black and he had to slow down. Holding one hand before his face to prevent getting scratched again, he took careful steps forward. His feet made too much noise among the twigs and roots, but even so he could hear others. Feet kicking through leaves. A male voice cursing. He wanted to yell to Sam, but restrained himself. Moonlight opened little gray pockets among the trees and he waited to see a figure pass through one of them.
“Will?” Samantha’s voice, far off.
“Over here,” he called.
“Shut up,” Jimmy ordered from somewhere closer. “Get down on the ground.”
There was a hard, flat bang to his left and a simultaneous thunking sound near at hand. It seemed a long gap of time, but was likely only a moment later that his brain processed this as a bullet striking a tree. A tree quite close by. A bullet aimed at him. All the blood seemed to flush from his head into his legs, and he dropped dizzily to his knees. This was the right move, he knew, even if accidental. Then another quick bang-thunk made his whole body jump.
“Motherfucker.” A deep, angry voice. “I told you to stay away.”
Will found himself flat on his stomach, clutching the cold earth. Pine needles were in his mouth and his heart beat hard enough to shake the ground. His brain felt sluggish. Too stunned and starved of oxygen to even accept what was happening, let alone make a plan. After long deliberation, he lifted his head slightly and looked back along his body to see if any of it was catching the moonlight. No. So it was his voice alone that had drawn the shots.
“Devil boy.” The angry voice was closer now, only a few yards away. The speech was slurred. “Where are you?”
“Cool it, Eddie,” Jimmy called. “This is stupid.”
“Stay out of it, you Mick son-of-a-whore.”
Will could see the muzzle-flash from the corner of his eye as the gun boomed again. Both men were quiet then. He was about to risk a look around when something struck him in the side. The force of the blow, coupled with his terror, made him flip all the way onto his back. A tall shadow loomed over him. All Will could see clearly was the big boot that had kicked him, and the flash of moonlight off the pistol’s blue steel.
“Get up,” said Eddie Price.
“Why?” Will rasped. Embarrassed by his strangled tone. “You can shoot me just as easily down here.” It must have been that other voice inside him that spoke—he would never say anything that stupid. Yet it sounded like him. “I didn’t go anywhere near you. You came into the bar.”
“Nah.” He saw the big, shaggy head shake. “Last night, night before. Standing there across the street. You going to tell me that wasn’t you?”
“That’s what I’m going to tell you, yeah. You going to believe it?”
“No,” Eddie said, aiming the pistol at him.
“Why didn’t you come out and face me then?” said Will quickly. Desperately. “If you thought it was me, why didn’t you come out and shoot me then? Skulking around my mother’s house, you coward.”
His senses became suddenly, painfully sharper. As if someone turned up the moonlight, and he could make out individual trees around him, make out Eddie’s face. Sounds came from far away. Animals scuttling through underbrush, alarmed by the human intrusion. He could see or somehow feel all four of them where they stood in this small, mystical forest of his childhood, and he thought how funny it was that he should die here. A woman’s voice spoke from a long way off, but he could hear it right in his ear. Chanting incomprehensible words.
He came back into the moment to see the arm with the pistol shaking. Whether in anger or fear, Will could not say, and guessed he wasn’t going to find out. He only wished that something would happen before he threw up or pissed himself.
“Eddie, you stop right now,” said Jimmy, very close. “Put that gun on the ground.”
Eddie exhaled deeply. Like a man done wrong. Then he spun around fast.
“I told you to stay out—”
Two sharp bursts came from five yards away. Eddie staggered backward, stepping on Will’s hand. Will managed to extract his fingers from under the heavy boot as the big man straightened up. Swaying, fighting for balance. Then he crouched deeply, rocking there a moment. Then rolled over on his side.
Jimmy came on slowly through the trees. A tight black shadow, his arms forming a V in front of him, meeting where they clutched the pistol. There was a loud thrashing of branches farther off.
“Is he down?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes,” Will said, too softly. Then again louder. “Yes.”
“Is the gun still in his hand?”
“I don’t know,” Will replied, starting to crawl toward the fallen man.
“Never mind, stay away from him.”
The thrashing sound got closer. Coming this way, fast and recklessly, snapping branches and tripping on roots.
“Will,” she called.
“I’m here,” he called back.
“Both of you stay where you are,” Jimmy insisted, hopelessly.
But the figure came weaving and stumbling on. Through the last cluster of saplings separating them. Not slowing down, Samantha tripped over Eddie’s outstretched leg and fell headlong on top of Will.