But in times like this, her Catholicism rose involuntarily within her like a vine unfurling, and she didn’t question it. In the dark, she did a quick Hail Mary. She hoped that everyone was all right. And that wherever the emergency vehicles were headed, they got there in time.
EightWendell
The blast went off and Wendell jerked upright. Back arched, fists clenched, he screamed out in the darkness.
It was happening again.
Eyes wide, he scanned his surroundings. He was in his room, once his parents’ room. In his childhood home. He was safe.
As he struggled against the heaving in his chest, Wendell fought to catch his breath. “It’s over, it’s not real,” he repeated silently, like a mantra.
But the sudden roar of a siren outside his window caused Wendell to shudder involuntarily. Sirens: one of his worst triggers.
Heart still pounding, Wendell swung his legs over the side of the bed. The sheet was already soaked in sweat.
The last few years, his night terrors had quieted, and he’d almost allowed himself to believe he might finally have shed the worst of what haunted him. At least the night hours, just so he could lay his head on the pillow without fear of what darkness might bring. And for a while he had.
But lately, they’d begun to creep back in. Nothing like before, thankfully. He no longer awoke standing on the front porch injust his boxers, wondering how the hell he’d gotten there, how long he’d been outside. Nor did he feel like he might choke to death, something that used to happen when his heart raced so hard against his ribs that he passed out. Each time it felt like death was coming. That’s what the whole first year home had been like.
Shakily, he stood and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. This one was not bad, he told himself. It was just a siren from a fire truck. There was nothing for him to do, no one for him to try to save.
Wendell stared at his reflection in the mirror as the sirens grew louder. They were coming closer. He closed his eyes and opened them, forced himself to swallow. “Not for you,” he whispered hoarsely to himself.
But he wondered.
He turned out the bathroom light and the bedroom fell again into darkness. A red flicker danced around the edges of the windows, slipped through his curtains. Wendell went to look out.
His family house was set on a green rise overlooking the corner where two roads met: to the side of the house ran a state road, and to the front, a quiet town lane. A series of trucks, lights flashing, were heading his way up the state road. Wendell held his breath as they slowed. One by one they turned sharply onto his lane. Where could they be going?
When the last of the trucks passed, Wendell stood a moment longer, following its light up the hill to where it rounded the corner and fell out of sight. Eventually, the sirens faded and the after-dark sounds of June again filled the night. Wendell closed the curtain and turned back to his bed. He would not sleep. He never could after an episode. But he lay down against the still-damp sheets and closed his eyes.
At daylight, the birdsong woke him. Wendell sat up, chilled but amazed; he’d fallen back to sleep. He showered quickly, let Trudy outside, and made quick work of breakfast. It was no more than a half hour later that he was pulling in to White Pines.
No doubt Alan would give him a hard time about coming in to work on a weekend, but Wendell couldn’t help it. With the gala behind them, it was time to assess the damage. Having the catering and event-planning trucks on the property bothered him; they often did not leave the estate as they found it, and no doubt there would be garden beds trampled, tire marks in the lawns, and areas of grass to replant.
Now, as he turned up the main drive, a young girl outside the main house caught his eye. She staggered across the lawn, then fell to her knees. It was Julia. She heaved on all fours as if becoming sick. Wendell stopped the truck and got out. It was then he heard it: a keening wail, like that of coyotes at night.
The front door of the house flew open, and a dark-haired woman he did not recognize filled its frame. She hurried across the grass toward the child. Something was terribly wrong.
Wendell abandoned his truck in the driveway and began moving toward them. The woman stopped where Julia lay sprawled in the lawn and, after a moment’s hesitation, bent beside her, placing her hand on the girl’s back. If she’d been jolted by a shock of electricity, Julia could not have lurched more violently. She sprang up like a wounded animal, at the ready, and then ran. A sense of dread had coiled itself in his stomach, and without realizing it, Wendell found himself running, too.
“Julia?” he called. He quickened his pace.
Upon hearing his voice, the girl halted in the middle of the yard. Wendell did, too. Her mouth hung loose as if stuttered between expressions, her long hair wild about her face. For a ghostly moment she stared through him. Then, like a rabbit, she bolted. Across the yard, away from the woman and Wendell, too. Wendell remained frozen as he watched her tug the barn door ajar and disappear inside. By then the woman had come up beside him, and he turned to see it was the Lancasters’ neighbor, Alison Walters. She’d been all dressed up with her husband at the party last night. Now her expression was drawn.
“Alison. What’s going on?”
She wrung her hands. “They’re gone,” she said. “Both of them. Gone.”
Alison was talking too fast. “Who is gone?”
“Alan and Anne.”
“Gone?” Wendell shook his head. She wasn’t making sense.
“They took the T-Bird out for a drive. After the party. The car was found this morning—crushed against a tree off High View.” She gulped back a sob. “The poor girls…”
Wendell turned and stared at the vacuum of light streaming through the barn doorway, at the golden spill of dust motes roused from the hay-strewn floor. Beside him, Alison went on. “The girls just found out. We wanted family to be here with them, but I only know of one. There’s an aunt. She’s flying in from London tomorrow.”
