Firefly Rain Page 19

  “Interesting,” she said. “Who’s your local source?”

  “The librarian,” I replied. “Very helpful.”

  Jenna’s voice was pure deadpan. “I’m sure she was. Anything else going on in the haunted house or scary handyman department?”

  I hemmed and hawed a moment. “Shotguns that move themselves, doors that lock and unlock on their own, and strange noises. Other than that, not too much.”

  “That’s enough, I think.” She gave a low whistle. “Maybe you want to get that priest to take a look at that door, if not the shotgun?”

  “Catholics have priests,” I corrected. “I grew up with a preacher. And it’s the door to Mother and Father’s room. I’m sure they just want their privacy.”

  “You know, Logan,” Jenna started, and then trailed off. “… I have a question for you.”

  “Ask,” I told her, and I shifted the paper towel on my thumb. It had developed a pretty impressive red stain as I’d been talking, and Jenna’s earlier recommendation that I take care of it didn’t sound half bad anymore.

  “If I’m prying, I’m sorry, but did you ever notice that you never say ‘Mom’ or ‘my mother’ or ‘Mommy’ or anything like that? She’s always ‘Mother,’ and your dad is always ‘Father,’ and that’s all there is to it. Very formal, when you think about it. It’s like you’re keeping them at arm’s length, or under glass.”

  “You are prying,” I said very softly. “But I’m not mad at you. I’d just rather not talk about that right now, okay?”

  “Okay.” She sounded hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” I took a deep breath, counted to five, and let it out. “We can talk about it more soon, when you’re down here and you can see things firsthand. You might understand some of it a little better. Right now, though, well, we’re just going to miscommunicate and make each other mad, and I don’t want that.”

  Jenna gave a sad little laugh. “In other words, get off the phone, woman.”

  “Something like that,” I agreed. “But said with love.”

  “You Southern charmer,” she said. “All right. I’ll call tomorrow night to check in, but no prying. I promise.”

  “Scout’s honor?”

  “I never got past Brownie, Logan. Don’t push your luck.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Good night, Jenna.”

  “Good night, idiot,” she said affectionately.

  I hung up, then stepped over the remaining glass and water to make my way to the bathroom. The thumb was really bleeding more than it ought, and smearing some kind of medicine on it was sounding smarter and smarter.

  A quick rummage through the medicine cabinet, one hand kept firmly on that swinging door, and I found what I was looking for. I pulled the paper towel off and did an awkward one-handed squirt of antibacterial goop onto my thumb, then wrestled a bandage onto it and pulled it tight.

  “That ought to do it,” I said, and I replaced everything neatly. “Now, let me finish in the kitchen, and then I can go to pieces about the fireflies in the library.”

  Nothing moved, opened, closed, or slammed in response, so I assumed that I was cleared to proceed with my plan. Indeed, cleaning up took remarkably little more time. I knotted up the bag with the glass and tucked it inside another one, then decided to chuck the whole thing into the bin outside. No sense having sharp objects around the house unnecessarily, after all.

  As I stepped outside, I realized how late it was getting. We were coming into high summer, so the nights started late and ended early, but even with that, the sun was hurrying toward the horizon. Adrienne’s visit had been longer than I’d expected, it seemed. Night was coming on, a prospect I found I wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

  I was tossing the bag into the bin with a jangle and tamping the lid back down when the sound of an approaching car made itself known. I looked up to see which direction the dust trail was coming from. Town, it seemed, headed out past me into the deeper hinterlands.

  As the vehicle got closer, I recognized it. It was a truck, a white one.

  Unless I was mistaken, it was Sam’s.

  It was. He zoomed past, slowing down only slightly when he passed my place. In the back, I could see Asa, his ears pinned back and his teeth bared. He watched the house as the truck rumbled along, staring in the way dogs have that says there’s wolf in their family tree, and it’s on a branch that hangs mighty low.

  I stood there, not moving, and watched. The dust the truck raised rolled up and over me, then faded into the air. By the time it was gone, so was Sam, his truck melting off into the distance.

  “That was mighty friendly,” I mumbled to myself and turned back toward the house. Something nagged at me, though, something more than Sam’s sudden turnaround.

  It was only when I’d gone back inside that I realized what it was. I hadn’t seen anyone else in the cab, but Asa was still riding in the back.

  For some reason that worried me.

  Dinner was a joyless affair, consisting mainly of a grilled baloney sandwich with mustard. Carl had gone heavy on the Oscar Mayer this time, but I wasn’t feeling up to preparing anything more complicated. My thumb ached out of all proportion, and when I looked at the Band-Aid, it had a big red spot of blood in the middle of the pad.

  I did the dishes, such as they were, and got myself a beer. Outside, the sun went down in a hurry. The sky sensed its mood and went dark right quick. Inside, I nursed my beer and waited for the sounds of the crickets and frogs to drift on up with the night.

  I wanted to think about what had happened, but my brain was good and fogged. Mysterious shotgun movement? Fine. Doors that locked and unlocked themselves? Whatever. Officer Hanratty and her semi-mysterious past? Her own damn business.

  The fireflies in the basement, though, were something else. The easiest explanation was that I had fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing. Certainly Adrienne hadn’t made mention of anything unusual when she’d brought me back to the real world. A hallucination brought on by my misadventures over the last few days was also a strong contender. You take enough knocks on the head, I figured, and disappearing staircases and magical lightning bugs really ought to manifest.

  It hadn’t felt that way, though. My eyes, when I checked them in the mirror after taking out the trash, didn’t seem dilated. There was no strange taste in my mouth, nothing more than a little dull pain when I turned my head too fast. The lump from the fall I’d taken in the bathroom wasn’t even noticeable unless you got up real close.

  The other alternative was that something flat-out weird had happened down there, the latest in a string of flat-out weird things that had followed me since I’d left Boston. At this point, there was almost more evidence for the weirdness than there was for anything a man of science might understand, and that was troubling. A concussion, a man could take bed rest for. A dream he could wake up from. Magical fireflies crawling under his skin, however, were a horse of a different color.

  “Fuck,” I said, and I took another sip of beer. It went down smooth and cold, and I realized just how hot the house was getting. Might as well go outside and not watch the fireflies, I told myself. At least there would be a breeze.

  I shoved the porch door open, a beer (one open, one not) in each hand, and strode out. The sky was already the deep shade of blue that jewelers use in velvet to make diamonds look good. Stars were out, plenty of them, and in the distance heat lightning flashed on and off. The rustle of the branches down in the Thicket was loud enough to hear, though the pine trees screened most of the wind off from the house.

  It seemed peaceful enough. I settled into a chair and took another swig of beer. My view mostly faced downhill, toward the trees. As I expected, the land was dark and getting darker. I could almost imagine the land was a vast ocean, rolling up toward the rock of my home.

  Home. When had I started thinking of the house that way? It was a good question, and I still wasn’t sure the word fit. Mind you, I wasn’t sure whether it was the house
or me it wasn’t right for, and that question bore some examination.

  More beer followed, and soon it was time to crack the second one. There was an advantage to sitting out here, I decided. If there was one place on the planet where I wasn’t going to be pestered by the fireflies, I had surely found it.

  Chuckling to myself, I tried to plan the next day. The information about Hanratty was interesting, but I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to do with it. Asking about her ex-husband didn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe I could ask Carl. Invite him over for a beer or something, like Adrienne had suggested. Ask his advice, maybe poke him a bit more about that promise he kept hinting at.

  Maybe I could even get back into town. Talk to Reverend Trotter again, maybe stop by the library for a little more research.

  “Easy boy, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I said. “No sense rushing things, if there are things to be rushed. Besides, you need to get the house clean for company.” I looked at the second bottle of beer, which had mysteriously emptied itself in a way that I suspected was connected to my current euphoria. “Right. Time to go in.”

  I lurched to my feet, leaving the beer bottles behind, and shuffled my way inside. Locking the door behind me was habit now, but I still double-checked. No sense taking chances, not now.

  Bed seemed like a good idea, so I brushed my teeth, drank a couple of glasses of water, and stripped halfway down. Something gnawed at me as I did so, a fuzzy reminder that I’d forgotten something, but it was too late. Exhaustion and beer had taken over, and I could only plod my way to the bedroom and lay myself down, jeans and all.

  I’ll figure it out in the morning, I told myself, and I closed my eyes. Sleep pounced and carried me away.

  The numbers on the clock told me it was three in the morning when I sat bolt upright in bed. I blinked, trying to figure out why the hell I’d woken up. The dreams I remembered weren’t bad, just not the sort of thing I’d share with Adrienne or Jenna anytime soon. A hand on my brow told me I wasn’t soaked in sweat, neither. Something had jerked me up out of deep sleep like a fish on a line, though.

  Overhead, dull thunder rumbled. It seemed as if the heat lightning had given way to the real thing, and more rain was on the way. I sat and listened, wondering if that was the case, but all I heard was all distant drumrolls up above. Rain was coming, yes, but it was taking its own sweet time getting here. If that’s what had awakened me, I was a lighter sleeper than I thought.

  Another roll of thunder came and went, and I lay back down. “Go back to sleep,” I told myself out loud. “It was nothing.” I wadded up my pillow and folded my arms across my chest. Slow breaths told me I was well on my way.

  Outside, something growled.

  My eyes flew open. “What the hell?” I muttered, and I waited for the sound to repeat itself.

  It did. Something was out there, something angry and hungry, and it gave a growl like something not of this world.

  Softly, I swung my feet onto the floor and stood. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath, and I took stealthy steps out into the hall. Maybe from there I could get a better sense of where the sound was coming from, or a better idea of what it was.

  Another growl forced itself into my ears. It seemed to be everywhere, shaking the floorboards and rattling the windows. I turned in place, trying to get a sense of where it was coming from. Thunder mixed in with the sound, strengthening it and giving it a place to hide.

  Through a window shade, I could see a brief flash. The lightning was getting closer, the thunder louder. The storm would be here soon.

  The growling was getting louder, too. It seemed to be circling the house, moving from place to place. So help me, it felt like whatever was making it was looking for a way in.

  I thought about that for a second. There were three doors and a whole mess of windows, most of them high off the ground. I couldn’t do much about the windows, but the doors were more in my power. I sprinted to the kitchen and checked the door there. Locked. Smiling with a grim purpose, I turned and hurried back down the hall. Every door I passed, I shut. Even if whatever it was out there got in a window, it would still have a door between it and me.

  Bedroom door. Bathroom. Front door. Checked and locked. I went down the hall like a man possessed. Growls and thunder chased me along. One after another, they checked out.

  The last door was the mudroom. I reached to open it, then hesitated. The door was already closed, after all. I didn’t need to open it, even if there was a door to the inside in there.

  But there was a shotgun in there, too, and I suddenly wanted that in my hands very badly.

  Gently, I turned the doorknob and pushed. The door slid open noiselessly. I could see the gun, gleaming in the dim light that came down the hall. Thunder boomed, but the growling, I noticed, had stopped.

  Maybe it had gone away. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.

  Maybe. I reached for the gun.

  Something slammed into the outside door.

  Startled, I fell back. The impact was repeated and the door shuddered. My hands stretched out instinctively for the gun as the door shook again, and a demon howl went up. Holding tight to the shotgun, I hurled myself against the door and threw my weight against it, just in time for another dull thud of impact. I could feel claws scrabbling at it, tearing into the wood. There was another slam, like a gut punch to the house, and then the rain came pouring down like the tears of God for His lonely children. It drummed down on the roof, thunder giving the sound accent and shape.

  Outside, there was one last snarl, then silence. The only sounds were the voices of the storm and the pounding of my heart. My hands were clenched tight around the gun, my eyes wide open and staring. I sat there in the dark, listening, not daring to move, not daring to believe that whatever it was, it had gone away.

  Eventually, I slept, and the sounds of the rain washed my bad dreams away.

  seventeen

  I woke up with the shotgun still in my fingers, which is to say I woke up in a hurry.

  I was still curled up on the mudroom floor, my back to the outside door. My back and my butt hurt like hell, and my fingers were cramped from hanging onto the gun so tightly. My head throbbed, and my neck made little popping sounds every which way I moved.

  “Jesus, I feel old,” I said. I used the gun as a prop to help me up. Daylight peeked in under the door, just enough to reassure me that the door itself was still set on its hinges and hung proper in its frame.

  Holding the gun in one hand, I unlocked the door with the other. It stuck a little bit, then came open. It swung in with a creak, and I gave a low whistle.

  Something had done a number on it. The door itself was heavy enough—Grandfather Logan never believed in half measures—but whatever had been howling outside last night had done its damnedest to get through it. Much of the paint on the lower panel had been clawed off, and the wood was all torn up. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn someone had taken an axe to it. Most of the splinters had been washed away by the rain, but there were still a few on the half flight of steps that led down from where I stood. Some of them were a good four inches long.

  The soldiers I’d placed out the night before weren’t that big. I’d skipped the mudroom, I remembered, but thinking about that was nothing but foolishness. A gesture in the dark to make myself feel better wouldn’t have done a damn thing, not against whatever had torn those gashes in the wood without half trying.

  But I might set one in there anyway, once I’d dealt with other things. There was, after all, no sense taking chances.

  Being careful not to disturb things too much, I took two steps down those stairs and looked at the ground around the base. The rain had turned it to mud, and old memories told me exactly how deep the mud around that part of the house could get. I had no intention of stepping in it, not if I could help it.

  Besides, that would have messed up the very interesting prints that I could now see. The rain had blurred the outli
nes some, but the markings were still pretty distinct. Four toes, claw marks at the tip, and a broad pad in back—I knew that sort of print.

  It was a dog. Damn big one, too.

  I scooted down another step to get a closer look. The prints were near two inches long, the sign of a big dog indeed. They sank deep into the mud as well, which told me two things.

  One, that meant the dog that had attacked my home last night was heavy as well as long.

  Two, it meant that it had stuck around a while after the rain had started. I didn’t find that very comforting, seeing as I now realized he’d been there long after I’d thought he’d gone. He’d been prowling around those steps, waiting for something.

  Maybe even waiting for me to open the door.

  I shook my head to clear the image and peered down closer at the prints. A closer look confirmed what I already suspected. There was only one set of prints here, even though there were a lot of them. That meant one dog and one dog only.

  Leaving the door open was a calculated risk, but I didn’t have my keys on me and I was afraid that if I went back into the house for them, I wouldn’t be quite so willing to come out again. So, wearing jeans and nothing else, I left the door open behind me and set out to follow the tracks.

  They weren’t too hard to pick out. Here and there the ground had bare patches where the weeds had given up, and in those spots were enough paw prints to keep me on the track.

  They led, unsurprisingly, up to the edge of the drainage ditch, and that’s where they vanished. I leaned out over the ditch, now graced with a fast-moving stream in its bottom, and checked the other side. Sure enough, there were a couple of prints, but not many, and they vanished into the gravel of the road.

  I thought about hopping over myself but decided against it. Not the way my luck was going, no, sir. Instead, I walked down to the driveway, and then around to get myself a good feel for the road and how well it took prints.