Firefly Rain (19 page)

The good news, to steal a phrase, was that the church itself wasn’t that far away. Three blocks up Maynard and halfway down Porter: that’s where I wanted to go. Back in the day, that had been the edge of town, the sign that you’d walked a long, long way. Now it seemed almost painfully close, like the walk wasn’t giving me enough time to figure out what I needed to say.

Then I was at the church, and it was time to stop wondering.

The church we used to go to was still standing, which I suppose surprised me a little. We didn’t go often—Christmas and Easter and the occasional Sunday when Mother was feeling bad about how we might have stood with God at that moment—but I remember it as slightly frightening. It was all white paint and pointed steeples and heavy wooden doors, and a simple sanctuary with pews twenty deep on either side. No stained glass—it wasn’t that kind of place—and not a lot of other frills. It was a church for people who treated their churching like they did everything else: a serious part of life to be done seriously and without any fuss.

The minister had been a tall, slender man named Jefferson Trotter, but he’d never been anything but the Reverend Doctor Trotter to any of us children. He was a soft-spoken man, firm in his beliefs but with a steady heat, not a raging flame. Doctor Trotter taught Sunday school and ran services and organized covered dish suppers and pretty much was the hub the church’s wheel revolved around—and he did it with humor and grace and an
unusual tolerance for the misbehaviors of small boys who didn’t understand why you had to sit still in church.

Town had caught up to the church, I saw when I walked up to it. It used to sit on a lot all by itself, with the graveyard out back and stretching away. Now there was a sandwich place hard on its right, and a hardware store on the left. But the church building itself still stood, still painted white in the places where the years hadn’t turned it gray. The same old sign stood out front announcing the weekly service schedule, and I was pleased to see that the Reverend Doctor Trotter was apparently still in residence. And the doors might have been painted a solemn shade of green, but they were just as heavy as I remembered when I pulled them open and walked into the church itself.

The lobby on the other side of the doors had a tile floor of that same green, as well as double doors leading to the chapel. There were also a couple of doors leading off to the necessaries, and a couple of display cases for pictures and other knickknacks the reverend thought important. A short hallway led off to the right. If memory served, that was where the offices for the reverend and the church secretary were, along with the Sunday school classroom and, most important in my memories, the water fountain.

I walked down the corridor slowly, well aware of the sound my heels were making on the tile floor. At the end of it was Doctor Trotter’s office, and the door was closed. There was no window in it, either, a change from the old days. Back then, you could always look in and see what he was up to. Now, it was a big solid slab of wood.

Not quite sure how badly I wanted an answer, I knocked a couple of times. After a few seconds, I could hear the reverend’s voice calling, “Yes? Who is it?” It sounded like it was coming from way far away.

“Reverend Trotter?” I answered. “It’s Jacob Logan. I don’t know if you remember me.”

The door opened. “Oh, yes,” Dr. Trotter said. “I remember you. You’re quite the topic of conversation these days. Come on in.”

He’d been honed by the years rather than worn down, that much I saw as he stood there in the doorway. His face was thinner, his nose sharper, and that knife of an Adam’s apple he’d always had stuck out farther. But the lines on his face were still few, his eyes were bright, and he didn’t look a day over fifty. He looked like he was ready to go out and play a round of golf, and that he’d beat you handily if you were fool enough to challenge him.

“Come in, come in,” he urged, and then he turned back into his office. I followed him in and sat myself down in the hard wooden chair opposite his desk. For his part, he sat himself down behind the desk, a thick wood thing made from trees that probably went extinct before the dinosaurs did. Neat stacks of paper covered the desktop like the skyline of a young city, with a tower of books at one side. Something about that desk bothered me, and it took me a minute to realize that it was the first one I’d seen in years that didn’t have a computer on it.

“So what finally brings you back to Maryfield?” he asked once I’d made myself comfortable. “Missed the home cooking?”

“Just taking some time to relax and pull myself together,” I answered. “I thought I’d come back to where I’d started.”

He leaned forward. “A lot of men have thought that. It’s worked out better for some than for others. I noticed you haven’t been back to church since you’ve arrived.”

I chuckled. “Well, I figured not to break any old habits, Reverend. No sense doing now what I didn’t do back then.”

He chuckled softly. “That’s one way to look at it. But you’re here now. It’s been, what, five years?”

“Since Mother’s funeral, yes.” I nodded. “Thank you again for that. It was a lovely service.”

“Your mother was a lovely woman. Kind, loving, tolerant to a fault—you could have done a lot worse for a parent, you know. So what I’d like to know is whether the lessons she taught you stuck?”

I blinked in surprise. “I figured you’d want to know how I was with Jesus.”

Doctor Trotter shrugged. “You know where you stand with Jesus, and if you didn’t listen to me about that when you were nine, you’re not going to listen now. Your mother, on the other hand, made a right strong impression on you, and a good one. I’m hoping that held.”

“Actually,” I said, and I coughed. “It’s about Mother—and Father—that I’m here to see you.”

“Really?” One of his eyebrows shot up in a move I’d spent hours trying to imitate as a kid. “Something troubling your conscience?”

“Something troubling my house, more like it.” I looked up at him, into those sharp blue eyes. “You know I moved back into the old family place, I reckon?”

He nodded. “Jacob, everyone in Maryfield has heard that, with the possible exception of you. It’s a lovely house, and a sturdy one, too. What seems to be the matter with it?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Someone seems to be trying to drive me out of it. I just haven’t decided if it’s land speculators or Carl doing it.”

Doctor Trotter chortled to himself. “Land speculators? Lord, you have been away for a while. All the building’s going on a good long way from here, and it’s liable to stay that way. Someone tried to come in a few years ago and build big fat McMansions out on the old Hayter place a few years back. They chopped
down a few trees, made a hole in the ground, and then promptly lost their shirts.” He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Never filled in the hole, either, but a bunch of folks from town took care of that. Replanted the trees, too, while they were at it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“That depends on whom you ask.” His eyes were twinkling. “If you ask the bank, they were unable to get infrastructure improvements necessary to make the project viable and profitable. Meaning, of course, they weren’t able to get the town or the county to pay for four lanes of blacktop going to and from the Hayter farm, and devil take the hindmost.”

I laughed. “That must have been some town meeting. I can just imagine some city lawyer trying to flimflam folks into voting to spend their tax money on that.”

“It did not go quite as they expected,” the reverend agreed, and he scratched his nose. “I think you can probably understand some of the… culture shock they might have been dealing with.”

“A little,” I confessed. “Less every day, though. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. So what did everyone who didn’t work for the bank think happened?”

Doctor Trotter folded his hands in front of himself like a sphinx and gave a half smile. “That depends. The men working construction had all sorts of equipment failures. Mechanical breakdowns, paperwork snarls, all that sort of thing. Other folks just said it was plain bad luck.” He nodded knowingly.

I sat back in my chair. “Industrial sabotage? Here?”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t say that. Things just… didn’t go as planned. Mind you, I think it worked out for the best. The town didn’t need those houses or the people who’d buy them. They’d come out here looking for the country life as long as it came with all the conveniences of the big city, and when they didn’t find
them, they’d import them. If they want that, there’s Raleigh or Charlotte. Maryfield’s best off being Maryfield.”

“That it is,” I said neutrally, and I thought about my car. Gone now, it had fit in about as well as those homes would have.

Just plain bad luck.

Doctor Trotter coughed once, gently, into his hand. “I’m sorry about that, Jacob. I do go on a bit, but that’s a necessary trait in a man who has to give sermons.”

“And eulogies,” I added.

He nodded. “And eulogies. I did both of your parents’, as I recall. But we’re off the subject, or might be. And since we’ve eliminated land speculators”—he gave a little chuckle at that—“tell me why you think Carl Powell might be trying to drive you off your land.”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to imagine the list of all the strange things that had happened, that could only be traced back to Carl, if you bothered to trace them at all. “Little things. My car getting stolen, and Carl knowing way too much about it. My mail getting intercepted. Doors slamming open and shut, things showing up in places where I didn’t leave them. Stuff like that. And since Carl’s the only one besides me who’s got a key to the place, I figure if anybody’s behind this, it’s him.”

There was silence for a moment, and then for another. Doctor Trotter sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, then looked at me down past them. “Do you really believe that?” he finally asked in a tone that indicated that just maybe he didn’t.

I thought about it. “I don’t see any other way it could be, Doctor Trotter. He’s had that place to himself for a long time, he seems mighty protective of Mother’s memory, and here I come setting up house in a place he’s kept like a shrine. Why wouldn’t he want me out?”

“Maybe if he’s got more going on in his life than just you and
that house?” he inquired gently, and I felt myself flushing. “You’re doing a fine job of putting together something from what you know, Jacob, but you don’t know everything. Leap to too many conclusions or leave out too many things, and you’ll find yourself jumping into things you’ll need some help to climb out of.”

“Okay, fine.” I waved my hands to indicate surrender. “I did leave a few details out, things that maybe don’t fit with my ideas about Carl. But I’m not seeing anything else that it could be. I mean, no one’s in that house but me, and no one’s been in that house but Carl.”

Reverend Trotter frowned a little bit, the sort of frown that used your face and half your body, too. “That’s not true, Jacob. Your mother’s been in that house. Your father, too, though he’s longer gone. You might want to think about them before you go imagining what’s going on in your life.”

A slow suspicion crossed my mind, and it made its way to my mouth before I could stop it. “Are you saying that my parents’ house is haunted? That it’s Mother who’s spooking me? Oh, come on, Reverend. If it’s not Carl, it’s Carl and his buddies doing the same number on me that they did on that construction project. You shouldn’t have told me about it.”

“You should have listened more closely,” he replied. “You’re assuming it’s Carl, and you’re assuming that whatever it is wants you gone, and you’re assuming a whole lot of other things, all of which revolve around you. Try thinking about things from your parents’ point of view. Maybe there’s something someone wants from you.”

“Yeah, they want me gone.” I snorted, but the fire was out of me. I thought for a moment about what he’d said. Objects that moved on their own, doors that slammed open and shut, the fireflies—those were all things Carl would have had one hell of a time rigging. Maybe, just maybe…

“Wait a minute.” I sat up a little straighter. “Leaving out the whole question of what Mother would or wouldn’t approve of, are you telling me you do believe in ghosts?”

“The Witch of Endor called up the ghost of Samuel, after all, and if ghosts are good enough for Saul, they’re good enough for me. The Bible’s sort of the original ghost story, when you think about it. With that in mind, why shouldn’t I believe in ghosts?”

I blinked. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it makes sense. Just a bit of a surprise, really.”

The frown faded. “You’d be surprised less if you thought more, you know. I’m not one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers who thinks anything that isn’t wearing white and playing a harp must be the devil’s work. You want one of them, I hear there’s a church over in Stem that’s got a fine one. Me, I prefer to think God understands shades of gray, and that His creation is capable of more than absolutes. So that leaves plenty of room for ghosts.”

“Okay, I can see that.” I shifted in my seat, feeling like I was twelve and in trouble all over again. Reverend Trotter always had that effect on me—you never wanted to slouch in front of the man, lest he be disappointed. He was like everyone’s grandfather, the one you wanted to make proud of you.

Even when he was echoing my crazy talk about ghosts right back at me.

“So,” I continued, “let’s say maybe you’re right—not that I’m necessarily saying so. Seeing as you—unlike Officer Hanratty or my one lifeline back to civilization—don’t think talking about ghosts or other high strangeness is pure crazy, what does the Bible recommend for ghosts?”

He waggled a long, thin finger at me. “I’m not saying you’re not crazy, and don’t assume Officer Hanratty is. She didn’t seem to think so when she came by earlier to ask about you. As for the
ghosts, I’d suggest clean living. Ghosts are usually unhappy about something, and if you live right, you might make whoever it is happier.”

“There aren’t a lot of suspects for who it might be,” I argued. “My family built that house. My family’s the only ones ever to live in it. And there weren’t ever any ghosts in it before. If it isn’t Mother, I don’t know who it might be.”