Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) (38 page)

“No, don't hurt them!” I cried. “That will make things worse.”

I didn't know if I shouted to the people or the bugs. It worked both ways. No one listened to me.

Matt handed me the shivering dog. I was shivering, too, too hard to say anything but “You saved my dog.”

“Great. Now what should I do?”

He was right. We weren't done yet. “Get them to stop trying to hurt the luminaries. Tell the people to be quiet so I can talk to the beetles.”

He whistled—the loudest whistle I'd ever heard. “Stop. Stand still. The fireflies won't bother you if you leave them alone. Willow needs quiet.”

The Paumanok Harborites who knew what was going on—the sensitives—hushed the others. Healers took the hands of those most hurt or frightened. Aunt Jasmine took Little Red from me.

I closed my eyes.
Come to me, guys. Come to Willow. I'll take you to M'ma.
I flashed pictures of him, the way I'd last seen him, then the way I'd first seen his image, like a sky dolphin in lights.
I am so sorry one of us hurt you. Come, I won't let anyone else do so.
I held my hands out again, begging again.

Tiny flames started toward me, then went out.

“What the f—” Piet yelled, then went around making sure all the other fires were out.

The firemen and -women started herding the crowd out, setting up a triage station for the EMTs and the healers and the empaths to work in the parking lot. Matt handed me the now empty brownie tray, with three beetles on it. I plucked two more unlighted fireflies from my hair, one off my shoulder. “There you go, guys. Safe. Call your friends.”

Then I called directions to the people who were leaving, those checking on the fires, the few espers who were gingerly trying to gather the bugs, now that they weren't small torches. “Be careful where you step. Hold them carefully.”

Big firemen, little old ladies, two community-service teenagers, and the blind postman cautiously handed me beetles. They all smiled. Some could see the pretty colors; some could sense the relief and the gratitude. Others were simply glad they got to touch a once-in-a-lifetime creature.

I prayed it was once-in-a-lifetime! I doubted I could live through another encounter.

Susan pressed a wad of napkins against my scalp to stop the bleeding. “You've really gone and done it now,” she said, but she dabbed at my face to wipe the blood and tears away. Janie held a glass of water to my parched lips. Someone else tucked a sweater around my shoulders.

Now I could see that some of the beetles were injured, a few barely moving. All I could do was try to send encouraging thoughts to them. I hoped M'ma could fix them.

No one could fix Roy Ruskin, I heard.

When Piet returned from the parking lot, he had seen Roy running from the firehouse. Officer Shaw shouted at Piet to get down, then fired, but guns were another thing that didn't work around Piet. So Piet tackled Roy, then the other police piled on, with a plumber and an accountant adding their weight and their fury.

Shaw's first shot had been aimed to stop Roy, not kill him. It struck a thigh artery, though. The ambulance corps tried to put a tourniquet on the wound, but they were too late. No one mourned his passing except Robin, who fainted.

They covered Roy with one of the singed tablecloths, then stationed cops to guard his body until the medical examiner could be sent out from up island, hours away.

Mayor Applebaum went around talking to nonsensitive villagers, reassuring them that everything was under control and the madman with the matches couldn't start any more fires.

I waved him away from Matt, who had his vet bag out to examine Little Red. I watched, holding the brownie tray and my breath until he declared the Pom okay but in shock, which is how Matt could handle him at all. Little Red had blood on his ear and his snout, but there was no telling whose blood it was. He might have a broken rib, so Matt was going to take him back to the clinic for X-rays as soon as he knew I'd be all right, too.

The EMTs mopped up the gash on my temple from Roy's boot and declared it minor, just a scalp wound that bled a lot. No stitches, thank goodness. I might have a headache, they said, so I should go home and rest.

With a tray full of traumatized beetles in my lap? “I promised to take them to M'ma.”

A couple of the telepaths must have picked up the urgency if not the words. They ran to get cars and help.

Piet nodded to Mac, the fire captain, who called out to Uncle Henry. They both sent signals out to all their men and women. Matt said he'd meet us at the salt marsh after taking care of Little Red. No one argued with him. Susan brought me a carton to lay the brownie tray in, to make it safer for the beetles that couldn't fly. I sent her home to check on the house and Grandma Eve, who'd left with Lou before the auction.

Everyone else piled on the fire trucks parked outside or got in the cop cars and unneeded ambulances. Piet and I and the beetles rode in Mac's SUV.

I wasn't sure M'ma would like all the tumult and the crowd, but the
Hurry. Soon.
kept getting more intense. The beetles in the box started to stir and show agitation. A couple of the strongest ones flew out the car window, headed in the same direction we were.

“Tell him we're coming,” I called after them.

Heaven knew what we'd find.

“Put on the sirens, Mac.”

CHAPTER 37

T
HE HEADACHE THEY SAID I might get? I got it. The flashing lights, the piercing sirens, the speed, the bumpy roads, the urgency. And I think one of the beetles died on the way. The color faded, and it blinked out of sight. Or I was concussed and hallucinating.

Mac jounced the chief's car through the gate and right down that widened path to a few hundred feet from M'ma's glow. The others had to leave the big rigs up by the parking area and carry equipment and floodlights down the path or wait for the ATVs to arrive.

Mac, Piet, and I, still holding the carton as if it were a heart ready for transfer, walked closer. The glow went out.

Mac and Piet had flashlights, and the full moon was out. We had no trouble finding the mass that was M'ma. No maggots crawled over his smooth, sleek outline. A few faded-looking Coleoptera hovered over him. Several of the ones on my tray rose to join them. The others disappeared into the night or the ether.

I knelt by M'ma and put one hand on his skin. It felt warm, alive. Suddenly my headache disappeared, and the shivering, too. “Is it time?” I asked, picturing him in the sky, not stuck in the mud on earth.

The same picture came back to me, in colors I could never duplicate, with the sound Matt must have heard when he listened to a heartbeat. “What can we do to help?”

He smiled, in my head. It was such a strange feeling, but not threatening, not intrusive. Just a friend sharing a joke, as if we puny humans could hardly assist a being from Unity, but thanks for the offer.

As the others arrived, they must have asked the same question, and I wondered if M'ma answered or conversed with people far more attuned to communication across ordinary boundaries. No one said anything. They all filed past, each laying a reverent hand on his side, then they started to dig out the channel around him, using shovels or just their hands. Bill, from the hardware store, used his telekinesis to move the mud faster, but everyone helped. I stayed kneeling beside M'ma, waiting for a sign that he was ready, or growing annoyed at our silly efforts.

“Do you see the colors?” I asked Piet, who studied the large form.

“A little, I think, if I squint.”

“He's beautiful. All technicolor with changing highlights.”

“Maybe you're seeing stars after getting kicked in the head.”

“I don't think so.”

They had the channel almost cleared all the way to the water, where the full moon tide nearly obliterated the narrow beach.

“Should we bring the water into the ditch?” a couple of the weather mavens asked. In tandem with the water wizards and Bill, they could move a current anywhere they needed. I asked M'ma. Those were easy pictures, water flowing around him, over him, so he floated.

You cannot breathe water.
The picture I saw had people floundering, falling, maybe drowning.

“We can move back.”

Okay, no water. I gave the order, and everyone stood around, waiting. I took the opportunity to ask where the missing fireflies were. “Did they die? I know some burned in Roy's fires, but not all.” I had no mental picture except a beetle on its back, feet in the air, wings not moving.

Ah. His peaceful acceptance made me feel better, that and knowing my fiery friends weren't as short-lived as ordinary, earthly insects. They lived on in their home world.

Then Matt arrived with a flashlight and knelt beside me. I could feel the disapproval of those around me, but they didn't dare comment or try to get rid of the un-psi vet. I didn't care if he was a plain, ordinary man. He'd saved my dog. He'd stood by me to visit M'ma. “Red?”

“Red will be fine. He is sleeping off a sedative. I'll check on him later and bring him home to you.”

I touched his hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

Embarrassed, he said, “The creature looks better.”

“Do you see colors?”

“Try squinting,” Piet suggested, from my other side.

Matt shone his flashlight directly at M'ma. “Just gray, but shinier.”

Piet seemed pleased that the interloper didn't see as much as he had. Then Matt took out his stethoscope and listened. “The odd sounds are a lot stronger.”

He handed the stethoscope to me. I heard the surf breaking on the shore, a breeze through an aspen tree, snow falling, rocks tumbling, birds singing, a baby's laughter, a rabbit's heartbeat, a butterfly's wings beating, rain, humpback whale songs, and a hundred, no a thousand more sounds. Stunned, I passed the instrument to Piet.

He didn't say anything, but he let someone else take the stethoscope. Phyllis the clairvoyant listened, then whispered, “It's the music of the spheres. Shakespeare wrote about it.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Everyone took a turn. Some heard the music, some just random noises. They each said thank you. To M'ma? Me? Matt? I didn't know, but I was grateful to have heard it, too.

Then we waited. Nothing happened, no movement, no words, no lights, no images. Some of the Harborites looked disappointed. A few walked back to the parking area. They'd seen enough and the night had grown cold.

I sat in the dirt and let my mind float, waiting for whatever was going to happen. I couldn't control it, couldn't stop it, couldn't speed it along, couldn't understand it. That felt right, too.

Restless, Piet started pacing around. The others clustered in groups, talking quietly among themselves. Matt stayed by my side. After an hour of waiting with nothing changing, I asked why in the world he'd bid so much to name a character in my book.

He shrugged. “It was for a good cause.”

“So do you want to be the hero in the book?”

“Not really. I, ah, want to be a hero in your eyes.”

That had to be one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to me. I started to reply, but M'ma shifted and raised his front half. People jumped farther away.

Now I could see he did resemble a huge dolphin, although not perfectly. His eyes were closed, but he opened a cavernous mouth. Thousands of glistening fireflies flew out, all 3,549 of them. They hovered an inch or so above their host. We all held our breaths.

An hour later, M'ma shook out those six appendages and brought two to his back, where wings might be positioned. Two more surely looked like fins at his sides, and the last two might have been legs, or a split tail.

Another hour went by before M'ma opened his eyes. I heard the gasps of wonder around me when people saw orbs as big as car tires, all swirling gold and blue and green, like the music of the heavens if a master artist tried to paint it.

“What?” Matt wanted to know. “Why is everyone's mouth hanging open?”

He didn't see it and I had no way to describe it. I should have brought my pad and charcoals, but I knew I'd never be able to duplicate eyes full of such coruscating colors, but also wisdom and benevolence. M'ma gazed around at all of us and liked what he saw. I knew that the same as I knew my name. A few others seemed to also. They smiled.

More time went by, but M'ma did not rise; the newborn beetles lost their sparkle.