Angel Fire (15 page)

Throwing my hands up, I said, “It’s all right. If he wants me to go with him, I won’t resist. Send me back to jail, if you want. But since our truce is over, I would like to press full charges against Barry for assaulting me last week, and for assaulting me last night.” I pushed my hair back from my face to show him my swollen cheek.

I gave him a humorless smile. “Your own words, Sherriff:
everyone goes down together
. I can prove I didn’t have anything to drink besides water. Can Barry prove he didn’t throw the first punch?”

Sheriff Burke was so outraged that he vibrated, but he had clearly run out of arguments.

Uncle Edward broke the silence. “Now, Martin, get the hell off my property. The next time you come around here, you had better have a legal warrant or, badge or not, I’ll finish what I started thirty years ago.”

Sheriff Burke outweighed my uncle by fifty pounds, had police training in combat techniques, and had a gun and baton.

Even with all that, he still turned on his heel and quick-marched out of my aunt’s house, his face as red as an apple.

The moment he left, I sank to the kitchen table and held my head in my hands. “When will this ever end?”

In the back of my mind, I registered that this was the second time I’d had a confrontation with Sheriff Burke, and the power had not shown its unholy presence. Maybe some part of me didn’t think of him as a serious threat. He was all bluster and pose: a man harsh of word and empty of action.

I should have taken him more seriously.

* * *

My aunt put her hand on my shoulder, a consoling gesture which I appreciated, but Uncle Edward’s voice cut through my anger.

“Are you a complete idiot?”

Eyes wide, I stared up at him, unable to protest.

He continued: “How dare you go out drinking when you’re on parole? Do you have no consideration or respect for us? We took you in, gave you work and a roof, and this is how you repay us?”

“Edward,” Aunt Martha cautioned, but her husband flipped his hand at her.

“No. This is too much. I won’t have it.” With a sigh, he turned around and walked out of the kitchen. “I wash my hands of it all.”

“Edward,” Aunt Martha called out to him, pleading.

I grabbed her arm to stop her from going after him. “No. Let me make this right.”

With a nod, Aunt Martha made herself busy by gathering dinner fixings from the pantry.

* * *

By the time I caught up with Uncle Edward, he was already halfway up the hill behind the motel. I had no idea where he was going, but he was making time as if he were a soldier on the march.

When I reached him, I was out of breath and couldn’t say anything. He glanced at me, but did not slow his pace. Maybe he just needed to walk off his anger, but I needed to make peace with him.

For the past few days, I felt we were getting closer, that I was tearing down the wall of distrust between us. He was right. It was foolish of me to take that kind of chance last night. I’d betrayed whatever trust I’d gained with him. When I finally regained my wind and matched his stride, I told him as much.

“It was stupid. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Another glance out the side of his eye and a grunt was the only acknowledgement he gave.

I knew I could apologize until I was blue in the face. Uncle Edward was a mule when he wanted to be. I had to come at it from a different angle.

“I’m sorry I put you between Sheriff Burke and me. He’s looking for any excuse to get rid of me. He’s hated me ever since I took up with Barry. But I can fight my own battles, you know.”

“Ha,” he scoffed.

Suddenly indignant, I thrust my hands on my hips. “I can!”

“No,” he explained. “I know you can fend for yourself. But if you must know the truth, he’s hated not just you, but all our family since before you were born.”

“Why?”

At first I thought he wouldn’t answer me, and wondered whether I should press him on the matter. Without warning, he adjusted his course and headed for a large fallen tree. I followed, and when we reached it, he sat down and rested his hands on his knees.

Reverently, I sat beside him. I could see he was trying to gather his thoughts. I didn’t need to urge him on; I just needed to give him enough room to feel comfortable. In silence, I watched a pair of swallows alight on a tree in the distance.

“I won’t apologize for it,” said Uncle Edward. “The way I see it, it was providence that brought your aunt and I together.”

I had no idea where he was going with this story, but the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt him. I kept my mouth shut.

He continued his story. “When Martha’s family moved to town, oh, I would have been about twenty … twenty-one or something. Her folks hired me to help settle them in, make some adjustments and repairs to their house. Run some errands. I was working full-time for my father, but every moment I could spare I was over there.

“She was a looker, your Aunt Martha—still is as far as I’m concerned. Turned more than one head back then, I can tell you. With her being new to town, well, that just added to the mystery of it all.

“I counted my lucky stars that her folks had enlisted my help. She liked me, or so I thought. She found any excuse to get in my way, to spill my wash water when her father got me to scrub the porch, to misplace my tool box when I was tasked to repair the fence.”

Uncle Edward glanced up at me.

“You know I’ve never been much for sharing feelings. It wasn’t that I was shy. Maybe I just needed more time to gather my courage. I waited too long to court her. She got tired of waiting and when Martin Burke came sniffing around, she agreed to let him take her to a movie and dinner.

“I was mad. Anger and youth is a bad combination. I followed them. I don’t know what I meant to do, but I wasn’t thinking straight. My heart was broken and I was hurt.”

Uncle Edward fell into a quiet contemplation for so long, I thought the story was over and I had somehow missed the ending. Before I could prompt him to continue, he did so of his own accord.

“The Burke family has been trouble from day one. Martin’s father was a bully, Martin’s son is a bully, and Martin himself is the poster boy for bullies.

“He figured he was due some payment for shelling out his hard-earned cash, and he thought Martha owed him a favor.

“I knew something was up when they turned off the road down near old man Sawley’s pasture. Most nights, that stretch is deserted—except for that night, because I wasn’t in my right mind and, like some love sick puppy, I was following them.

“I saw what he wanted. And Martha was not going to give it to him.

“Men like Martin and Barry don’t understand what the word ‘no’ means. He got rough with her. I was close enough to see, and I … I got there in time.

“I pulled him out of that car and beat him senseless. In some countries, they castrate people like Martin Burke. I always carried a buck knife with me, and that’s what I intended to do to him.

“Your aunt is the very soul of forgiveness, and she stopped me. I promised him if he ever crossed me or Martha again, that would be the end of him.”

When Uncle Edward finished his long story, I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. But my thoughts were awhirl.

It all fell into place for me then, why my parents were so furious with me for marrying into the very family that had caused so much pain and turmoil thirty years ago.

Looking back, I realized how much of an idiot I had been as a teenager.

And now Martin Burke was Sheriff Burke. I was both angry and embarrassed at the same time. How could someone who had such little regard for the law seek a career in law enforcement? I guess some people got off on that kind of power. Suddenly it made sense that Barry’s father, a bully by nature like his son, would be drawn to that line of work.

In conclusion, Uncle Edward said, “It took a lot of
control
for me to keep from killing him that night.” Then he looked at me fiercely, as if the words bore a particular significance.

Sometimes I can be pretty slow on the uptake, and there had been more drama over the past week than I had experienced in the previous ten years. My mind was flooded with conflicting thoughts, questions, emotions and indecision. Somehow, though, I cut through all that and replayed Uncle Edward’s last words through my mind.

Control?

My eyes widened. Did he suspect the truth?

Uncle Edward said, “I’m not a fool, though everyone treats me like one. Sometimes you can learn more by keeping your mouth shut and your ears open.”

“Uncle Edward…?”

Dropping his voice, he said, “I heard folks talking down at the barber shop yesterday when I went in for a trim. I heard the accusations about Barry when he came to the motel. I overheard you and Martha talking last night about bursting glasses and chairs too hot to sit in. I also recognized that journal you tried to hide in the kitchen when we came home just now.

“But that’s not everything I know.”

I could barely believe my ears. Did everyone know my secret? Was this why Uncle Edward was opening up to me now; he knew it was not me who killed his sister—my parents? Did he know it was an accident? That the power controlled me? Did he believe me now?

“Come with me,” he said, standing and setting a brisk pace over the hill he had been walking toward originally. I followed, and when we reached the crest, he pointed to Circle Lake, the small body of water in the distance where I had played as a child.

“One day, when I was very young, I saw my grandmother come over this rise by herself. Your great-grandmother. I trailed her at a distance, curious, as young boys can be.

“I wanted to block what I saw that day from my memory. I didn’t want to believe it. It was a mirage. A fancy of a child’s imagination.”

It was obvious what he wanted to say was of great importance. His jaw was set and his eyes stared out over the lake as if remembering.

“What did you see?” I asked. At first I had no idea what he was talking about, but as my thoughts raced back to Beatrice’s last journal entry, my mind made the connection.

Uncle Edward spoke in a hushed whisper. “I saw my grandmother set the lake on fire.”

Fire?

Beatrice’s last journal entry was years before Uncle Edward had been born. He had witnessed her use the power again years later. It occurred to me that she had used the power more often that I had assumed. She had somehow mastered the fire. How?
‘I embraced the flame,’
Beatrice had written.

I stared at Uncle Edward, searching his face for more clues. All I saw was the fear in his eyes as he remembered.

“The steam rose like a thundercloud,” he said and shook his head, as if he could still not believe what he saw after all these years.

He continued, “I ran home before she saw me. I have never been more frightened in all my life. For years, I pretended it was all in my imagination. When you—when my sister died in that fire…”

Uncle Edward said no more, and turned on his heel and left me at my crossroads, to decide for myself which direction to take.

Chapter Nineteen

Control.

Wherever I turned, that word took center stage in my every action and thought. It was all about control. Some people thought control was nothing more than an illusion, a comfortable blanket in which to wrap oneself and pretend the world was not an unpiloted freight train hell bent for disaster.

Control could be had, but it came at a very steep price.

I knew, deep in my heart, if I did not grab the reins of this horror inside me, it would control me instead.

When Uncle Edward turned back in the direction of the motel, I headed the opposite way.

To the lake.

She set the lake on fire,
Uncle Edward had said.

How?

I embraced the flame,
great-grandmother Beatrice had written in her journal.

To gain control, she had to give herself over to it.

Was that the secret to controlling this thing? Did you first have to surrender to it?

It was time for me to make a stand; just I had with Barry and his father.

I walked purposefully toward the bank of Circle Lake. There was no one around as far as I could see. When I arrived at the edge of the water, I held my arms out as if in surrender. I willed the flame to come out, and if I lit up like a candle, at least I could throw myself in the water.

But nothing happened.

I cursed and then tried a new tactic.

I focused all my thoughts on the water and I imagined it boiling. I imagined it was gasoline and I was the tinder, and I visualized the explosion.

A bird chirped in the distance. Wind whistled through the long grass.

With a sigh, I sat down on the rocky beach, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. It landed with a splash, but the lake did not give me any indication of what was wrong.

Why wouldn’t the fire come when summoned?

A thought came to me. The only time I was consumed by the power of the flame was when I was very angry or very frightened. At the moment, I was neither. A little frustrated perhaps, but otherwise calm.

A dragonfly hovered nearby, as if curious about my business.

Perhaps it was a state of mind? I was reluctant to do so, but I tried to recall the night Barry had beat me, and concentrated on how frightened, scared and hurt I was.

My heart beat faster, I grew angry, but my efforts were in vain; I could not summon the flame. Perhaps there had to be an element of danger as well, a tangible threat?

But then, according to her journal, Beatrice had been able to set the lake on fire at will. How?

That was one piece of information I wished she had included.

In a final gesture of frustration, I threw a rock in the lake and, hanging my head in defeat, I gave up and headed back home.

* * *

I half hoped Uncle Edward would be there, and maybe shed some light on my failure. After circling the motel twice with no sign of him either outside or in any of the rooms or office, I made for the house. He wasn’t there either, but I heard my aunt laughing. She wasn’t alone.