Phoenix (2 page)

The low sun shone directly into my room, reminding me it was early summer. Long, light evenings loomed – and more memories. The season had been ours, Phoenix’s and mine, the heat prickling our skin as we sat by Deer Creek, the delicious coldness of the water when we dipped our feet. We would take off our clothes and swim.

I closed the curtains, lay on the bed.

Downstairs, Laura told Jim that I’d agreed to see the shrink.

WHERE U HIDIN
? A text came through from Zoey.

HOW U DOIN
? I texted back.

DON’T CHANGE SUBJECT. DO U NEED TO TALK
?

THNX BUT NO THNX. SEE U IN SCHOOL 2MORO
.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains, my room was cooling. I lay without moving until it got dark.

Being in love with a dead person is similar to what happens when a fox is caught in a trap. The fox steps into the snare in the dead of night.
Click
– the trap closes on its foot, the saw-edge blade tears the flesh to the bone. The fox howls in pain, sees the blood, whimpers and endures.

Daylight drives it crazy, it begins to bite and gnaw at the trapped leg.

Sometimes it bites off its own foot just to be free.

The Beautiful Dead don’t exist
. I lay on the bed and made my last bloody bid for freedom.
I’ll see Kim Reiss, tell her
everything
–
how crazy I’ve been for almost a year, how I
invented a whole story to keep me close to Phoenix, a fantasy
world, and I’ve been wearing it like a bandage over the still-
gaping wound.

Darkness surrounded me. Outside the window, a breeze started to blow.

I’ll do it Wednesday – unpick this crazy secret and let Kim
heal me.

There would be a diagnosis and a cure. She would talk about post-traumatic stress and talking-therapy, cognitive behaviour methods, the value of good diet and exercise. I’d Googled the topic so I already had the answers. In future, when I fell into negative thought patterns I would catch myself doing it, put on my sweats and go for a healthy run.

It’s gonna take more than pulling on a pair of jogging pants
, I would tell Kim. She would smile that friendly smile and say we had to start somewhere.

‘Night, honey,’ Laura called through my door as she and Jim went to bed.

I switched off my light and let the darkness lap over me. The wind strengthened. There was going to be a storm.

I’ll tell Kim about my visions and I’ll be free
, I told myself.
Run, run, run
.

It was past midnight. My curtains billowed in the wind. I got up from my bed to close the window.

‘We need to talk,’ Hunter said.

The first time I saw Hunter he was a man of stone. You would have thought his features had been chiselled – there was no flicker of expression on his stern face.

The second time I saw him I thought he was made of
iron. Then steel. Think of any material that is unbending and cold. He has grey eyes that see everything, grey hair swept back from his face, a fading angel-wing tattoo on his forehead.

‘We need to talk,’ he told me now.

And the wind blew into the room and filled it like a million beating wings.

I stood by the window struggling for breath, only half seeing Hunter in the shadows, behind the Beautiful Dead shield of wings.

‘Sit down, Darina,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t say anything until you get your thoughts together.

Don’t do this to me!
I pleaded.
Don’t start the whole
thing up again!

‘I’ve been waiting, watching,’ he told me.

And I’ve come to Foxton looking for you, I truly have!

‘I know it,’ he said, without me having to speak.

I stood up but he forced me to sit again just with a look. My legs folded under me and I was sitting on the bed. ‘Were you there – at Foxton – all along?’ I whispered.

‘There was always someone – Dean, Iceman, me … OK, I know – so why didn’t we let you know?’ Hunter was at least two steps ahead. I underestimated that mind-reading power of his. ‘Let’s say it was a trial period.’

‘What is this – an
exam
? After all that I’ve done, I still have to pass a test!’

‘Dean and Iceman – they were under orders from me not to show themselves, only to observe.’

There, in my dark room, I recalled my recent visits to the ranch house – the stillness except for the barn door banging, destroying my hopes. ‘Have you any idea how cruel that is?’

‘… To observe you and test your courage.’ If Hunter heard my question he deflected it –
ping
, like an arrow off a shield. ‘I had to know if you have the strength to help Phoenix.’

I raised my head and held his gaze.
OK, is that why
you’re here – to tell me I failed the test? To zap my memory
clear of the Beautiful Dead? So that’s a heap of Laura’s money
saved on seeing a therapist
.

‘I’m not here to condemn you, Darina. I’m here to talk.’ Hunter stepped towards me, his eyes searching my face. ‘And you must know that the Beautiful Dead don’t show themselves to you unless it’s absolutely necessary and only after we’ve exhausted every other avenue.’

It was true – getting in touch with me was never their first choice, and I knew why. Making contact with people from the far side was always a big risk to their existence.

‘What else did you try?’ I whispered.

‘Dean – you remember Dean – he went to Henry Jardine’s office and learned all he could from the police records of the investigation.’

Dean was an ex-cop. I hardly knew him – only that he was Beautiful Dead and had been given the chance to return to the far side because of the way he died in a hit-and-run car crash. That and the fact that he was due to become an overlord once Hunter’s job was done.

‘Did he find anything new?’ I asked.

‘Not much. They never even identified the knife which killed Phoenix, let alone his attacker. They interviewed the gas station cashier, plus a dozen other witnesses. The case is still open but there are no fresh leads.’

‘No weapon,’ I murmured. And I pictured the chaos of the fight on the forecourt – Brandon and his gang versus a group of out-of-town bikers, Phoenix stepping in possibly to help his brother, getting stabbed in the back.

‘Most of the witnesses refused to co-operate with the cops. They closed ranks.’

‘What about Brandon?’ I asked.

Hunter watched my every move. He noticed the struggle I was going through to keep my voice level, to stop my hands from shaking. ‘Brandon was the exception. In his interview with Deputy Sheriff Jardine he provided names, gave a description of the build up to the fight, the
duration, the types of weapons used.’

‘But nothing that led the cops to the identity of the killer?’

‘The file is still open, case unsolved,’ he reminded me.

I let a long silence develop.

‘I know, Darina – this is hard.’ Hunter joined me at the window. He drew back the curtains and stared out.

I closed my eyes. ‘Sure, you read minds. You know I’m terrified. But how deep do you see? Can you work out exactly why I’ve stayed away?’

‘You’re scared you’ll fail, that you won’t solve Phoenix’s killing.’

‘Yeah, that’s one reason.’ I wasn’t sure where I was going with this, whether Hunter was even interested, but I stumbled on. ‘You know when love and loss overwhelm you? You ache from it, it fugs your brain, you’re caught in its trap.’

Hunter stood very close, very pale and cold. ‘I do understand. I lost my wife to Peter Mentone,’ he reminded me.

A hundred years ago, in the room with the stove and the rocking-chair, with the blood stain on the floor. I knew the whole story.

Hunter did something surprising – he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a faded picture. He
showed it to me but didn’t let go.

‘This is Marie?’ I couldn’t help it – I was trembling, wanting to cry as I looked at the brown-and-white, curling-at-the-edges photo. I saw straight away what Arizona and Summer meant when they said I reminded Hunter of his dead wife. Her hair was dark, her mouth was wide, you noticed her eyes.

‘Mentone was our neighbour, out beyond Angel Rock. He lived alone, ran a few cattle, drank in the bar at Foxton. He was a guy you didn’t want to spend time with.’

‘You don’t need to explain.’ It seemed wrong – Hunter the overlord opening up to me, sharing his tragedy. In the half-light of the moon appearing from behind a bank of clouds I stared at the faded angel-wing tattoo on his forehead.

He gazed at the sky as he slid the picture back in his pocket. ‘Marie thought different – she was too soft-hearted. She felt sorry for the guy, said she didn’t like to think of him all alone in the shack he called home. Once in a while she invited him to supper. He misinterpreted that, I guess.’

‘You don’t need to …’ I breathed.

‘We talked about it. I said I didn’t like the way Mentone looked at her. Marie said not to worry, it was nothing she couldn’t handle. I let it go.’

Startled, I looked straight at Hunter. ‘You’re not blaming yourself?’ The way I’d heard it, Mentone had broken in on Marie while Hunter was out. He’d gone right in there and raped her, Hunter had come back unexpectedly, torn Mentone off his wife. Mentone had pulled a gun and shot Hunter through the head. ‘They had a trial, they hanged him.’

‘I shouldn’t have let it go. I should’ve been there for her.’

Now, unlike the Beautiful Dead, I’m no mind-reader, but when Hunter came to a sudden halt, I knew there was more he wanted to say.

‘It was
not
your fault,’ I insisted. Then my mind did a back flip and I focused on the phrase he’d used –
I lost my wife to Peter Mentone
.

The moon disappeared behind the clouds: Hunter and I were in the dark.

‘Overwhelmed by loss,’ he sighed.

They tried Mentone and they hanged him. Where was the mystery in that? Why had Hunter been chosen to come back as leader of the Beautiful Dead?

‘The feelings don’t stop when you die,’ he explained. ‘You carry them with you. Limbo is a place of tortured souls, all looking for answers – for decades, for centuries, until the end of time. The lucky ones get to
come back to the far side to solve their mysteries.’

‘You said you lost Marie to Mentone? What did you mean?’

‘She had a child – a girl.’

‘I know – Marie named her Hester. I read about her in the newspaper archive.’

Hunter was set on telling me every detail and he continued along that road.

‘There were rumours. They said she was Mentone’s daughter, not mine. They wanted Marie to give her up for adoption.’ He spoke the painful words in a non-comprehending, almost detached voice.

‘But she didn’t. She kept Hester and brought her up, sent her to school, got her an education.’ I read that too.

‘They blamed her for doing that, said she wasn’t fit to be around decent folks.’

‘We’d reached the heart of Hunter’s mystery and I asked the core question. ‘And all this time you haven’t known – was Hester yours or Mentone’s?’

It was Hunter’s turn to let the long silence develop between us. ‘Worse,’ he admitted at last. ‘Was that really rape I walked in on, or did my wife consent?’

If I knew one thing, it was that Phoenix loved me. Without question, he loved me with all his heart.

I hung on to that knowledge through the dark days
after he died, through the funeral, and all the crazy weeks when I drove into the mountains looking for comfort and found it in that dark barn at Foxton whenever the Beautiful Dead appeared.

‘And now, Darina, you have to make a decision.’ Hunter had been patient with me, sharing his own doubts, his mysteries, but he was here for another reason. ‘Which way does your love for Phoenix take you? Will you work with us again, or do you prefer to walk away?’

I stood at the dark window. I took in the details of my room – the silver necklace hanging from my mirror, the tubes and pots of cosmetics on my table, the impression of my head on the pillow. My gaze swung past Hunter, no longer man of stone or steel, towards the sky. Wings beat against the window pane. Eleven days minus one – ten, because we were past midnight.

‘Well?’ Hunter asked.

‘I lost him once,’ I whispered. ‘And now I have to lose him again.’

‘Or you could forget.’

‘You would do that?’

He nodded. ‘You’ve seen how it works. I can take your memories of Phoenix and the Beautiful Dead and I can erase them completely. You can get on with your life.’

‘There’d be nothing left? No Foxton, no barn, no rituals? I would drive out there and find no trace?’

‘Nothing,’ he promised, fixing me with that deep-down stare. ‘None of this would ever have happened.’

‘Only memories of Phoenix and me together before he died, the good times?’

‘Yes.’

I would be like Zoey, learning to live without Jonas, putting one foot in front of another. Like Summer’s parents, Heather and Jon Madison, listening to her music, remembering.

‘Would I be happy?’ I wanted to know.

Hunter’s gaze flickered. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Sorry – stupid question.’

‘
Good
question,’ he insisted. ‘Phoenix would want you to be.’

Phoenix
. To me, even his name sounds like a sigh, like wind in the aspens. I held my breath.

‘Walk away and be happy?’ Hunter prompted.

‘I could never do that,’ I said.

Chapter 2

I
told Hunter I would drive out to Foxton early next morning. He promised me Phoenix would be there.

As he was about to leave, an idea popped into my head and, without stopping to think it through, I offered it to him. ‘I could follow up what happened to Marie and Hester.’

He recoiled, acted like I’d shot him in the head all over again. ‘Why would I want you to do that?’

‘To find out if they were – well, happy. Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Happy?’ he echoed. That word again. Without giving me an answer, he turned his focus inwards, created the shimmering halo from head to foot and dissolved into nothing.

At least he didn’t say no
, I thought.

And I kept myself busy during the long hours before
dawn by planning how I would do the research – go back to the website where I’d read the history of Ellerton, type in the early twentieth-century date when Hunter was killed and Peter Mentone was tried and hanged – get all the facts, refresh my memory. After that I would type in Marie Lee’s name and see what came up. Marie was a teacher before she married small-time rancher Hunter Lee, I remembered. Maybe she went back to teaching after he died. Maybe she kept Hester and moved a million miles away from this narrow-minded, small town to make a new life in the city. Or maybe she did give her daughter up for adoption in the end.

I only toyed with the life-story-of-Marie-and-Hester idea because it kept me from obsessing over my Foxton trip.

Even so, the night crawled by and other, unruly thoughts kept breaking in.

‘Tell Darina I’m sorry.’ It was Phoenix’s voice saying this and my mental picture was of him lying in his own blood with Brandon bending over him. ‘Tell Darina I’m sorry.’ They were the last words Phoenix spoke.

Flashback number two – ‘Who killed him?’ This was me asking Brandon the question that never got answered. We were in my old car, sitting outside Brandon’s apartment. Brandon wasn’t giving me anything back, he was blocking
me. ‘Were you ever in a fight?’ he said. ‘There were twelve or more guys. Kicking, punching, shoving. Someone pulled a knife. That’s all I know.’

More flashes, more unwelcome pictures before dawn, of me standing next to Logan Lavelle, staring down at a patch of Phoenix’s blood. An empty garage forecourt with red-and-green neon signs, no sound except the crime-scene plastic tape flapping.

Me refusing to believe that Phoenix didn’t make it to the hospital, that I would never see him again. My whole life torn apart.

The minutes crept by. Come first light, I was out of the house. I heard Laura rush to the door in her dressing gown, too late to stop me driving away.

How often in the last twelve months had I followed this road out to the Beautiful Dead? First for Jonas, then for Arizona and earlier this spring for Summer – sometimes eager and hopeful, more times in despair.

The best occasions would be driving when I had news for them, fresh information, a detail that would rescue each of them from everlasting limbo. The worst were full of doubt – crazy-girl, deluded Darina driving out to Foxton in a rainstorm because she couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that Phoenix was gone.

I drove through Centennial onto the interstate, gained altitude, felt the granite mountain slopes rise steeply to either side of the winding road. I was in the shadow of Turkey Shoot Ridge where Jonas died, glancing down on Hartmann Lake in the distance, perfect in the early sun. I glanced at my watch and calculated that I would reach Foxton Ridge by seven a.m.

Today, ten days before Phoenix’s deadline, was I hopeful-girl or was I crazy-delusional-Darina? Somewhere in between, with nerves stretched to breaking point, wishing every second that the drive was over and that I was in Phoenix’s arms.

I reached the lightning-stricken pine trees which line the road as you come into Foxton Junction, glimpsed a couple of luxury, western-style new-builds high on a hill, signalled left at the old grocery store onto the dirt track by the creek.

My car kicked up clouds of dust, hit a hollow, bounced and veered towards the cliff edge, giving me a snatched view of the white water rapids below. I steered it back on track past the fishermen’s shacks – on, on towards Foxton Ridge.

Hunter had promised that Phoenix would be there, waiting for me. I’d already glimpsed him in the classroom, in my kitchen, standing by the picket fence. He’d been
there an instant then faded. In the heartbeat after he’d disappeared I’d sensed his massive disappointment in me for turning my back on him.

Sorry, so sorry, my love!
I put my foot on the gas, sped recklessly towards the ridge. At the end of the track, I jumped out of the car and ran through the silky green grass.

You need me – I know you do. More than ever before.

Here was the stand of aspens and the rusty water tower, there was the valley, the poppy-strewn hill sweeping down towards the ranch house and the bam.

Please, Phoenix, don’t tell me that I’m too late!

I paused for breath, stared at the truck abandoned down the side of the house with two wheels missing, the hood dented, the glass in the windshield cracked and crazed. I looked from there to the big barn, so old and weathered that it almost looked part of the landscape. I saw weeds springing up outside the open door, the giant moose horns branching above.

Not too late, please!

I wanted wings to start beating, a barrier to keep me out, to tell me the Beautiful Dead were back.

‘You promised,’ I told Hunter out loud.

But there was warmth and sun – no wind, no wings as I set off again down the hillside.

I’d made maybe ten strides when a voice called out.

It came from the ridge so I stopped and turned. There was a man – a deer hunter or a hiker dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt hanging open over a white T – standing by the open door of a silver SUV. He must have driven off-trail, was maybe curious to find out why I abandoned my car in this deserted spot.

‘We need to talk!’ he yelled.

Bad timing, mister!
I’d been building up to this visit for weeks and didn’t want a stranger interfering with my big reunion. But what could I do? I had to walk back up the hill and throw him off the scent.

‘You don’t know me,’ he said as I drew near. ‘But I know you.’

I broke my stride, frowned at him. ‘Are you following me?’

‘Coincidence. I was up early, driving in your neighbourhood. I knew your car.’

‘You knew my car?’ If I was feeling uneasy before, double it now that I got a clear view of the guy. He was tall, late-forties and I felt as though I’d seen him before.

‘A red convertible. Zak told me.’

‘Zak?’ Since when did I develop this parrot habit?

‘It fits,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘You would be Phoenix’s type of girl.’

My eyes widened and I clammed right up. I looked again. His hair was dark, going grey at the temples, his face tanned, with wide, grey-blue eyes. Why so familiar?

‘Michael Rohr,’ he said, walking towards me and offering to shake my hand. ‘I’m Phoenix’s dad.’

We walked together along the ridge to Angel Rock.

‘I thought you were in Germany,’ I said.

‘I lived in Europe for ten years,’ Rohr admitted. ‘I came back when I heard the news about Phoenix.’

‘You didn’t make the funeral.’

‘I missed it by a week. Picked up my ex-wife’s email in an internet café, came back as soon as I could.’

‘Brandon never mentioned that you were in town.’ I was wondering what good Michael Rohr thought he was doing, showing up after the event when he’d played no part in family life for a decade. Most likely Brandon thought the same.

‘Brandon doesn’t like that I exist,’ Michael confirmed. ‘Ditto my ex-wife.’

‘What about Zak?’

‘The kid’s OK with me being around. He was too young to blame me for what happened –
when
it happened.’

‘Between you and Sharon?’ I relaxed a little as we walked away from the ranch house and barn, though it
freaked me out that what was familiar about Michael Rohr was that he was the double of Phoenix, thirty years on. I tensed again as it hit me hard that Phoenix would never get to his late forties, would always be young. ‘Phoenix never talked about the divorce. I just knew you weren’t around.’

‘The split wasn’t pretty,’ he admitted. ‘There were other people involved. Their mom was pretty angry. Still is.’

This part at least was true. Whenever I encounter Sharon Rohr she comes across as a bitter, worn-out woman – one of life’s angry victims. And she definitely doesn’t bond with me.

Under Angel Rock Michael and I stopped and looked out towards Amos Peak.

‘Is there something specific you want us to talk about?’ I asked.

‘They say you come out here a lot.’ He chewed the inside corner of his lip as he spoke so his words came out low and indistinct – another Phoenixism. And he left gaps in the conversation, just the same way.

‘It was our favourite spot,’ I lied. ‘Anyhow, who’s “they”?’

‘The guys in town. I hooked up a while back with Russell Bishop.’

‘You did?’ This took me a while to process. Russell is
Zoey’s dad –
Herr Commandant
. ‘I didn’t think he talked to anyone worth less than ten million dollars.’

‘We go way back to when we were kids. I grew up around these parts.’

‘You did?’ I repeated.

‘After I met Sharon we moved to Cleveland for work. After the split she ended up back here, I guess because this is where she has her roots.’

There was a lot I still didn’t know about the Rohr family, I realized.

‘So Russell tells me you’re good buddies with Zoey.’

‘The best.’

‘You helped her through a hard time. He also says you were dating my son.’

I nodded.

‘Can’t talk about it, huh?’

I shook my head.

‘Even after a year.’

‘
Less
than a year.’

‘
Almost
a year.’ With his hands in his pockets he stared at the distant mountains. ‘You know why I went to work in Germany? Because Sharon kept the kids away from me, wouldn’t let me anywhere near them. I tried the legal route, I tried everything.’

‘So why move away?’ If he wanted to see his kids
so much, how come he went to live thousands of miles away?

‘The problem got too big for me to solve. I had to turn my back, walk away.’

A small light went on in my head. ‘Gotcha.’ Think Mom and Dad, recognize how little I’d seen my own father these last five years – he wrote me once to say it was too painful. I nodded and turned to walk back towards the SUV.

‘So the rumours about this old place don’t scare you?’ Michael asked, nodding his head towards the barn and the ranch house. ‘It’s a little creepy, don’t you think?’

‘Why did you decide to follow me?’ I snapped.

‘Just to ask how you’re doing.’

‘No – really?’ I attempted sarcasm. It failed.

‘Sure. And I wanted to ask, about you and my son. But I understand you’re not ready.’

I swallowed hard. OK, so this was Phoenix’s father, but even he didn’t have the right. ‘I won’t ever be ready,’ I told him, dead set on walking away. Michael stopped me. ‘I guess I knew that. But I had to try. There’s a ten-year gap in my relationship with my son and I’m determined to fill it with a few details.’

‘Sorry.’ This time I did set off towards the two vehicles parked along the ridge and felt Michael follow close
behind. He took long strides and soon caught up.

‘I have something for you,’ he said quietly.

An older man shows me a precious picture, for the second time in twenty-four hours – this time it’s Michael Rohr sliding a photograph from his pocket and holding it between trembling fingers. ‘Take it.’

I held the colour print – two boys in profile, one tall, the other shorter and holding a football to his chest, wearing an oversized team shirt and gazing up at the older figure, giving him total eye contact. Brandon, aged maybe sixteen, is grinning down at kid-brother Phoenix aged ten.

‘Keep it,’ Michael told me.

I refused the offer. ‘No, it belongs with you,’ I whispered. But after that I decided to try to answer some of the questions.

‘What was he like – my middle son?’

‘He was beautiful.’

‘You loved him?’

‘Totally.’

‘How was he with other kids?’

‘Quiet. He preferred to be on the outside.’

‘A loner?’

‘At first. He was new to the school, he felt like he didn’t belong.’

‘But you liked that about him?’

I nodded. ‘He scared me a little. I thought maybe he would look down on me. It turned out he thought I was the moody one – until he got to know me.’

Michael soaked up every word I said, almost holding his breath as if this would help him store the memories more clearly. ‘What was Phoenix’s thing? What did he like to do?’

‘He’d stopped playing football,’ I said with a smile as I studied the picture again – Phoenix wearing his dark hair short, with his little-boy face, his skinny arms. ‘He liked listening to music, walking in the mountains, swimming in the lake.’