John Hart - Down River

“What happened?”

“Dolf thought it was the worst idea he’d ever heard and he said as much to Danny. He said there was no way he’d let me marry a hitter, not even a onetime hitter. No matter what. No way. Danny was drunk at the time, trying to get his nerve up, I guess. He didn’t like it. They argued and it got ugly. Danny took a swing and Dolf laid him out. He’s tougher than he looks. A day or two later, Danny was just gone.”

I thought about what she’d said. I could see it. Grace was Dolf’s pride and joy. He’d have been furious at the thought of anyone laying a hand on her. And Danny trying to force a relationship on her… If he kept pushing…

Grace waited until I looked at her. “I don’t really think that Dolf killed him. I just don’t want anybody thinking he might have had a reason.”

She lay down, put her head on the pillow. “Did you love him at all?” I asked, meaning Danny.

“Maybe a little.” She closed her eyes, sunk lower in the covers. “Not enough to matter.”

I watched her for a moment. She was done talking. I was, too. “Good night, Grace.”

“Good night, Adam.”

I turned off the light and lay back down. We were both stiff and aware, not just of each other’s proximity, but of all the things still unsaid. It took hours to fall asleep beneath the open window.

When I woke, it was to the smell of fire.

I sat up fast. Dead-of-night darkness spilled through the window, and with it came the taint of smoke. I shook Grace. “Get up,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You smell that?”

She reached for a lamp. “Don’t,” I said. I swung my legs over the bed and pulled on pants, snatched up my shoes. Grace climbed out, too. “Get dressed.”

Grace ran for her clothes and I passed down the dark hall, out onto the porch, the screen door screeching like a night bird. A solid black sky pressed down: no stars, no moon. The wind came over the hilltop, the charred smell so faint I could almost miss it. Then the wind gusted and brought smoke thick enough to taste. When Grace came out, seconds later, she was dressed and ready. “What are we doing?” she asked. I pointed north, where sudden orange stained the bottoms of low clouds.

“Get in the car.”

I flung gravel as I slammed the pedal down, fishtailed out of the drive. We raced down a dark tunnel, Grace’s hand clenched on my shoulder. As we came over a hill, the glow expanded. It was still distant, a mile or more, and then we were almost to my father’s house.

“I’ll drop you at the house. Wake everybody up. Get the fire department out here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out where the fire is. I have my cell. I’ll call the house once I know for certain. You can direct the trucks once they get here.”

I barely stopped at the house. Grace sprang for the steps as I gunned it. I hit the tree line in seconds, engine revving as I overpowered on the loose gravel. I got the car under control, pointed it at the long winding hill that sliced through the forest. The glow intensified as I approached the crest. I exploded over the top of the hill, out of the woods, and slammed on the brakes, sending the car into a long, stuttering drift. When I came to rest, I spilled out into the hot air, smoke like a blanket. The valley below was raging. It was the vineyard, the hundred acres that Dolf had shown me. Orange tongues licked at the sky. Black shadows danced as heat and flame sucked in great drafts of air and pushed smoke skyward. A third of the vineyard flamed.

And suddenly I understood.

Jamie’s truck was skewed across the road less than twenty yards from the flames, driver’s door open. Windows reflected the hard yellow boil. The paint danced. When I looked for Jamie, I saw him halfway across the bowl, moving like a locomotive through unburned rows near the fire’s outer edge. The fire had cut him off from the truck and he was in full flight, arms driving. I thought I saw him look back, but couldn’t be sure.

I was already in a full sprint.

I cut downslope, aiming to catch him on the other side of the vineyard, near the slide of dark water. Loose earth turned under my feet. I stumbled, then ran harder. I wanted to catch him. That’s what I told myself, but some deeper part of me knew that if I just ran hard enough, fast enough, then I could escape the truth of my brother’s betrayal. For an instant it worked; my mind went blank, then black with pure, sweet anger. Then something caught my foot and I went down in a hard sprawl of limbs and cascading earth. I struck my head on a root, tore skin from my hands. When I found my knees, I needed to vomit and it was not because of the pain. The truth filled me up, the ugly, bitter swell of it in the center of my soul. I’d been wrong all along. It wasn’t Zebulon Faith. It was Jamie. My brother. My own damn family.

And I was going to make that right.

No matter what.

I choked down the nausea and pushed myself up. It took a second to find my legs, but gravity was on my side and I hit the bottom of the hill in a dead run. I leapt an irrigation ditch and crashed into the vineyard, heat on my back. I ducked vines and turned onto a long row where light jigged and twisted with nightmare precision. Smoke cooked my throat, but I was sucking hard and couldn’t stop. Jamie flashed through a gap twenty feet in front of me. His arms beat at vines in his path. He stumbled once and almost fell. Then he was gone behind the green, and I ran harder, the great roar of consumption behind me.

I flicked a glance left, saw a gap in the rows, and ducked through it. When I came out, Jamie was ten feet in front of me, feet thudding into the earth, giant arms churning. I must have screamed, because his head whipped around, even as I closed the gap and took him down. He was huge and hard as oak. I drove my right shoulder into the small of his back and felt his body whiplash as his knees dug into the ground. Momentum propelled us, and as I came down on his back I drove a forearm into the back of his head and slammed his face into the dirt.

Most men would be stunned, but it didn’t faze him. He rolled sideways, over me, came to his feet with a rock in his hand. He raised it, emotion bending his features, then he recognized me, and we faced off beneath the wall of flame. He dropped the rock.

“What the fuck are you doing, Adam?”

But I was in no mood to talk. “Son of a bitch,” I said, and stung him on the hard bone over his eye. His head snapped back.

“Goddamn it, Adam.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Jamie?”

Something moved in his eyes. He started to straighten, and I saw red. He recognized it. “Wait-” he said, but I was already on him, hands lashing out. Quick jabs and crushing blows he couldn’t avoid. He was huge, but I was a fighter.

And he knew it.

He backed off, but the third jab opened a cut over his eye, blinded him, and I hammered the ribs. It was like hitting the heavy bag.

I just hit harder.

He was backpedaling, saying something, but I’d moved beyond that. I saw Grace, shattered, felt the heat of this fire that was gutting four years of my father’s life. And for what? Because Jamie was a gambler and a coward. A weak-ass son of a bitch that put himself first. Well, fuck that.

The blows ran together. Any other man and he’d be done. But he wasn’t. He tucked his head, charged, and this time, I wasn’t fast enough. He got those arms around me, bore me down. Our faces were inches apart. Pressure came on my ribs. His voice rose to a scream. My name. He kept yelling my name. Then something else.

“Zebulon Faith!” he yelled. “Damn it, Adam. It was Zebulon Faith! I almost had him!”

I felt like I was coming out of tunnel. “What did you say?”