TORCH (7 page)

I
roll over onto my back in bed and push the damp hair off my forehead, panting. That wasn’t just any dream. It was one of
those
dreams—the ones that are true. Somewhere, right now, a church is on fire.

Reaching for the phone, I dial 911.

“There’s a fire,” I blurt, when the operator answers. “I need to report a fire.”

“Stay calm,” she says. “Where is it?”

“In a church,” I say. “It’s really bad. I think someone set it deliberately.”

“Which church?” she asks.

I pause, realizing my predicament. “I’m not sure.”

“There are five in the Rosewood area,” she says. “Can you describe it?”

“There was, uh, a white cross and a stained glass window.” Realizing how stupid that sounds, I add, “I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything else you can give me, Miss Seaver?”

Crap. Call display. If I’d been wide awake, I’d have foreseen this, instead of just the fire. It’s too late to hang up now. I’ve been tapped. “No. That’s all. I’m sorry.”

“Honey,” the woman says, “do you think you might have had a bad dream?”

“I did have a bad dream,” I admit. “It seemed so real. I have no idea where this fire is—if there is a fire. I am so sorry to have bothered you.”

“Never mind,” she says. “Go back to sleep. This happens more often than you’d think.”

I don’t bother pulling up in front of church number two, because it’s obvious from a distance that there’s no fire of the magnitude I saw in my dream. Checking the map on my phone, I drive on to church number three. I keep my speed down, because I can’t afford to get pulled over when I’m driving without an adult after 11 p.m. In addition to getting a ticket, I’d end up in big trouble with Dad. I didn’t want to call him at work and share my suspicions. But after what happened with the factory fire, I can't just ignore this dream, either.

I reach St. Paul’s Baptist Church in less than 10 minutes. Even from a mile away, I can see the glow from the church, which sits in a valley. The fire is raging inside, and it’s surprising no one has called it in. People in Rosewood must sleep very soundly.

When the road begins to descend, I turn right onto a dirt road, pull a U turn, and let the Jeep idle while I think. If I call 911, I have to explain I’ve spent half an hour driving around Rosewood in search of a fantasy fire, only to discover it was real. Plus, I told the operator I thought someone set the fire deliberately, and I have nothing to back that up. In fact, they might think I had something to do with it.

I’m still pondering when I hear the sirens in the distance. Pulling further off the road, I turn out the Jeep’s lights. One fire truck passes, then a second. And last, an ambulance. I wait another five minutes before pulling out, and driving a little closer. There’s a gravel road where the view of the church is unobstructed. With no houses in sight, I decide it’s safe to park and get out of the car.

Climbing onto the hood, I sit watching as the firefighters roll out their hoses and direct torrents of water at the church. The steeple is ablaze now, a brilliant streak against a dark sky. It’s terrible... and beautiful. My heart, which has been racing since the moment I awoke from my dream, finally slows. I can relax now. The situation is being handled by experts. A fire this big will take hours to quell, so it won’t hurt to linger for awhile.

Crossing my legs, I stare down the hill, fascinated by the fire’s ferocity. At the center of the church, it’s white hot, but the flames turn to red above that, and then orange, and finally, at the top of the steeple, nearly yellow. How is it that I never noticed the color variations in fire until recently? It’s incredible.

“Enjoying the show?” someone asks.

I’m so startled I slip off the hood of the car, ready to bolt. Fumbling with my iPhone, I hit the flashlight app and direct its feeble beam at Kai Seaver, who’s standing a few yards away, dripping wet from head to foot. His white T-shirt clings to his chest, and his dark track pants are sodden.

Squelching in wet sneakers, he comes toward me. “Did you set it?” he asks.

I take a couple of steps backward, toward the driver’s side. This guy is menacing, and with all the commotion below no one would hear me scream. “What?”

“You heard me.” He puts one hand on the hood and stares at me with eyes that look black in the dim light. “Did you set that fire?”

“Of course not,” I say. “Are you crazy?”

He runs both hands through his hair and drops of water come flying off. Some of them land on my bare arm and tingle—or sting. I’m not sure which.

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” he asks. “Watching a fire at three o’clock in the morning.”

“That makes me an arsonist?”

“It puts you at the scene of a fire in suspicious circumstances.”

“Excuse me, Officer Rudeness. Is your being here any less suspicious?”

“My father’s fighting that fire,” he says. “Where’s
your
dad?”

“At his security job,” I say. “Like it’s any of your business.”

“It is my business, because his truck is parked just down the hill. And he’s watching the fire, just like you.” He smiles at my reaction. “I know, weird, huh?”

“It’s not a crime to watch a fire, especially when you’re a firefighter by training.”

Kai continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “You know what’s even weirder? Your dad’s naked.”

“Naked!” I feel my face flush, and hope it's dark enough that Kai can't see that.  “Well, he was getting dressed when I walked by.”

I remember my last dream, where my dad emerged from the fire carrying the security guard and wearing very little.

“So what?” I say, trying to sound as if it were perfectly normal for my dad—or anyone—to be out on a hill in the middle of the night watching a fire naked.

He laughs. “Okay, maybe I’m the only one who thinks it’s strange that two Forsythes are so drawn to fire.”

“Maybe you should stop thinking about us.”

“I can’t exactly turn my back on you, can I?” he says. “Not after seeing what you can do.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, inching toward the car door.

“You set Bianca Larken’s purse on fire.”

“That’s ridiculous. I didn’t get anywhere near it.”

“You didn’t need to,” he says, coming closer. “I know what you are.”

I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat, but Kai holds onto the door so I can’t close it. “What I am is scared,” I say, pulling on the door. My dad was obviously right about needing to avoid him. “Get away from me.”

“Oh please,” he says, still holding the door ajar. “You can defend yourself.”

I pick up my cell with my right hand, while trying to close the door with my left. “I can call the police.”

“Do that. I’ll hang around to hear you explain what you’re doing here. And I’d be happy to give a statement about your dad.”

“Fine,” I say. “I think Bianca’s dad will be glad to meet you. I’m sure she mentioned that you tried to steal her purse.”

We stare at each other through the crack over the door. His fingers, wrapped over the door frame, are dripping, and water runs down his face, as well. Even if he had a run-in with a fire hose, he can’t still be that wet. The guy must have a serious perspiration problem.

I use that problem to my advantage now, placing the heel of my hand against his fingers and pushing. He jerks his hand away abruptly and I hear a slight hissing sound as I slam the door closed.

Starting the car, I pull away from Kai, half-hoping to run over his wet sneakers. Leaving the lights off, I pause at the corner to look down the hill. If Dad is there, I can’t see him. There’s just the gorgeous orange glow coming from the church. The huge arcs of water from the fire hoses are still losing the battle. I have to fight to keep my eyes off the rearview mirror and on the road as I drive away.

I’m still awake when Dad comes into the house just after six a.m. My brain’s been racing for hours, and the burn on my hand, from where I touched Kai, throbs so much I needed an ice pack.

I expect Dad to head down the hall to his bedroom. Instead, I hear the fridge door open and the pop of a soda can. At least I hope it’s a soda can at this hour. I give him about fifteen minutes to settle in, knowing I only have another half hour to talk to him before Graham wakes up and we have to get ready for school. I try to figure out what to say, but it’s hard to know where to start. Hopefully, he’ll lead the conversation. After all, he promised to tell me more about Kai’s family and hasn’t yet.

Creeping down the hall in my pajamas, I stop short of the doorway and peek into the family room. Dad is in his recliner with his back to me, watching a crime show on TV. In his hand is a beer can. There’s a second can waiting on the table beside him.

As I try to work up my nerve to go in, he tips the beer down his throat, crunches the empty can and drops it to the carpet. His hand dangles over the side of the chair closest to me, and there’s a sudden flash of light. At the end of Dad’s fingertips is a fireball. It’s a bit smaller than a golf ball, and white in the centre with a green tinge around the edges. His eyes still on the TV, Dad rolls the fireball from finger to finger, as if he were dribbling a tiny basketball. Then he opens his hand and the fireball swirls around his palm, and then back to his fingertips.

I stand, transfixed, understanding, at least in part, what I am.

Dad clenches his hand before reaching for the TV remote. The fireball is gone.

He turns up the volume and I sneak back down the hall to the bathroom. I run the water till it’s cold and splash my face. When I can breathe normally, I stick my head out the door and call, “Morning, Dad.”

“Morning, Phee.” He sounds annoyingly casual, considering he’s just toppled my entire world. “Get your brother up and make sure he eats, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “You should go to bed. You must be tired.”

He gets out of his chair and comes down the hall. “You have no idea.” Ruffling my hair, he adds, “You look beat yourself. Sleep okay?

I shake my head. “I’m having bad dreams.”

It’s an opening, and I hope he’ll take it. Instead, he just nods and turns toward his bedroom. “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.”

R
egan shoves her bushy hair out of her eyes to stare at me. “You look like crap,” she says.

“I know. I didn’t sleep much.” I lean against the wall in the school’s lower hallway as we wait for the first yearbook meeting to convene. Regan’s hoping her calling might be writing clever captions. I’m secretly hoping we don’t have to go to all sorts of school activities. With everything that’s happened in the past week, I’d be better off keeping a low profile.

“More bad dreams?” she asks.

I nod. Normally I confide in Regan, but this is different, and at the moment I have more questions than answers. Besides, unlike me, Regan is close to her dad. If she gets worried enough about me, she’ll spill to Uncle Rick and he’ll spill to my dad. That could cause the flow of answers to dry up fast. Worse, I might find myself packing my things to move somewhere else. Not that I love Rosewood, but this is where my problems started, and it’s probably where I need to be to figure them out. Besides, the only person who seems willing to give me any information at all is Kai Seaver.