Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

“What did she do?”

“She wasn’t even listening to me, kept kind of moving me to the door. She grabbed my jacket and pushed it at me. ‘Just leave, Lora,’ she said. So I did.” But, Faith said to herself, she didn’t deny it. Out loud, she asked, “This was on Thursday. Have you heard from her or anyone else in the family since?”

“Not directly. I was gone over the weekend. Normally, I have Sunday dinner at my grandparents. We all do. My grandmother knew I wasn’t going to be there, but she called Friday afternoon late and asked me if I could change my plans. So maybe Bonnie told her. I never got a call before when I haven’t been able to make it. At that point, even if I could have gone, I wouldn’t have. You don’t know how they can get.

Everyone would be on Joey’s side, and I just couldn’t take it.”

“What about your brothers?”

“Well, maybe they’d be better, especially Eddie.

But as I told you, family is family and I was wrong to accuse Joey, especially to his wife. I see that now.” Faith didn’t. Lora was trying to get help and it was unfortunate that her sister had reacted the way she had.

“Lora, I really think you ought to tell Charley. I’ve found out a little more about Brad, and he does seem to be capable of violence—at least to his bedroom wall.”

“I heard about that.” Lora sounded contemptuous.

“But he’d never hit me. He knows I wouldn’t stand for it, nor would my family. And, as I told you, I am not telling the police. Especially not now.” There was pride in her voice. Lora might not be the most popular member at the moment, yet she knew their priorities.

She might have broken the Deane code, but they would come to her defense if she needed it.

Faith played to her family feeling. “Then if you still won’t go to the police, tell your grandparents. I’m sure you’ve heard about the letters people have been getting, and there may be some connection with the calls.” She’d forgotten that Lora had been away and so wouldn’t have heard about the letters. She filled her in, and the teacher was definitely alarmed, although not, it seemed, about herself.

“What is going on in this town? I can’t believe it. It sounds like some kind of nut is on the loose! Though why he would be calling me and writing to these POW! people doesn’t make any sense. I don’t care about the bog.”

She’d put her finger on the main thing that was missing in Faith’s logic. The wording of the call and the letter was the same, but the targets were completely dissimilar.

Faith had one last question. Ben would soon cross the line between anticipation and frustration. The last thing his mother wanted Miss Lora to witness was a full-blown Fairchild fit.

“And the other calls? They’ve stopped? I know you weren’t there, but was there anything on your machine?”

“Nothing, except a lot of hang-ups. But people don’t like to leave messages. My mother is the worst.

You know, clears her throat several times, then whispers, ‘I’ll call you back. It’s Mother’—like it’s a deep secret—and hangs up fast. That’s if she leaves anything. I’ll call her tonight. Maybe she’s been trying to reach me.”

Faith nodded. The parsonage machine offered a sample of virtually every message-leaving style.

“Mom?” a little voice called out tentatively. “I’m getting overwaited.”

“It’s time, Ben,” she called back, and sat well out of the way. If she’d had a stopwatch handy, he might have made the record books.

Play-group days always left Faith fatigued, and she’d gone straight to sleep, despite all the thinking she’d planned to do. Those minutes between head touching the pillow and oblivion tended to be her most productive time of day and she kept a pad and pencil next to the bed to scribble notes for recipes or other projects that every once in a while seemed just as brilliant in the morning. So when she was awakened by the scream of the sirens, she was more than usually cranky. From the sound of them, they were converg-ing in the Fairchilds’ driveway.

Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to summon sleep again. Tom, who only woke if one of the children sneezed or whimpered, had not moved a muscle. She hitched the comforter over her ear and then sat up.

She wasn’t in Manhattan. She was in Aleford. Sirens in the night, especially this many—the noise was continuing unabated—were not a common occurrence.

Now, in her old apartment, a night without sirens would have been the exception.

She went over to the window and looked across at the green. No activity there and nothing seemed amiss.

She walked down the hall and crept into Ben’s room, which was at the rear of the house. She could hear shouts from a bullhorn, but not the words. And she could see bright orange light at the end of the block.

The whole sky appeared to be in flames. Two figures were in the Millers’ backyard, and as she watched, they ran toward the street. Obviously Pix and Sam. She ran, too, back to her room, where she threw on some clothes.

“Darling,” she whispered in her husband’s ear. Getting no response, she shook him slightly, then harder.

“Darling!” she repeated, and Tom woke up all at once.

“What is it? What’s happened?” He reached to turn on the light and the glare flooded the room. He rubbed his eyes. “Faith, what’s all that noise?”

“There seems to be a huge fire at the end of the block. You can see it from Ben’s room. I’m going to find out where it is.”

“Wait, I’ll come with you. No, the kids. But be careful.”

Tom was in a slight state of confusion and had pulled out one of his black clerical jackets instead of his bathrobe from the closet. Faith took it from his hands and effected the change. She left him sitting on the bed, looking at his slippers.

“Go to sleep. I’ll come back and tell you what’s going on as soon as I can.”

It was cold, yet the color of the sky gave an illusion of warmth as she walked rapidly down the block, joining others similarly awakened from their beds. There was an air of excitement. She had started smelling the smoke as soon as she stepped out the door. Cold was no longer a problem as she got closer. The heat was intense and companies from all the surrounding towns were fighting the blaze. The new wood crackled and went up like the proverbial matchsticks. But no need to be concerned about life or property. This house had never been lived in, and never would be. It was the new spec house the Deanes had almost finished—the house on Whipple Hill Road that the neighbors had often wished would disappear. And now it was—right before their startled eyes.

Faith looked around at the faces in the flickering light. A fire, especially a large fire, has a peculiar effect on people—mesmerizing, fascinating, beguiling. It brings out the pyromaniac in everyone. The flames were magnificent, beautiful. They shot high up into the night sky; torrents of sparks cascaded to the ground.

Faith found herself almost enjoying the spectacle—that is, until Fire Chief O’Halloran’s voice shouting instructions to Aleford’s Ancient Order of Hook and Ladder Volunteers reminded her that this was real and not Backdraft at Universal Studios. The firefighters were struggling desperately to keep the blaze from spreading to the surrounding houses; the street was a river of water as the hoses drenched trees, walls, and chimneys.

How had it started?

Faith knew there would be no answers tonight.

The smoke was filling her lungs. She had to leave.

The house would be a total loss. But the Deanes would be insured. Insured. Insurance. How much and to whom?

She turned to go home. She could see some of her neighbors gathered in small groups, but she didn’t feel like talking to anyone, even the Millers. Fortunate or unfortunate—which was it? The neighborhood would be happy, although the Deanes still owned the land. The Deanes couldn’t be, even with insurance. All that work. She looked around to see if any members of the family were here. They would have to be. And they were. Gus and his grandsons were standing with Charley MacIsaac by one of the trucks.