April ran with a swaying bucket toward the MPP until the heat stopped her. She stepped back, braced, and heaved. By then, neighbors were spilling toward the MPP, some with buckets, some with extinguishers, one man dragging a garden hose in one hand and clutching a goblet of wine in the other. The hose stretched only partway, so the man stopped, arched the stream high, turned his head away from the fire, and drank some wine. Wylie saw the breeze-blown water droplets angling down ineffectually into the inferno.
An older woman shoved a small red fire extinguisher at him and he took it, wading in as close as he could get, then pulling the pin and blasting a load of retardant against the glass of a porthole. But he saw that the porthole glass was broken and the fire was raging inside the MPP. In the brief moment of chaos before the flames jumped back at him, Wylie saw the beautiful interior birch walls curling in the heat, the maple cabinets and table engulfed. Lying on a bench and still folded was the blanket that Jolene had given him, now ash black at its center, with its edges limned in orange-red, like a huge marshmallow left too long in the campfire. Wylie dropped the canister and backed away into the stink of his own burned hair, pawing at the pain on his neck. A wave of cold water crashed against the back of his head, and Wylie turned, to find April holding an empty white bucket.
“Outta the fire, Wylie!”
“Sky did this.”
“Out!”
“It was Sky.”
“I believe it. I believe it.”
April pulled him away from the trailer, the fire now burning with a proud, percussive roar. Wylie wrenched free of her and stripped off his sweatshirt, running back into the conflagration, flapping at it uselessly as the fire unfurled at him and the flames licked his skin. Hands pulled at him and forced him back. He lost his footing and was borne away from the heat and into the wails of sirens and the rhythmic flashing of lights.
Soon the paramedics were there, but Wylie stood them down, wouldn’t get into the van, batted away their well-intentioned blue-gloved hands. Shivering, he struggled back into the hoodie and zipped it clear to his chin. “Christ, guys, I’m okay. Let me be.”
He watched the firemen swarm in with backpack extinguishers, waving clouds of retardant at the fire. As the flames shrank and sputtered, the MPP seemed to deflate, so that when the fire was out, it just sat there, nothing more than a small black shell from which rose random heat waves and thin coils of smoke.
“Excuse me just a moment,” Wylie said to no one in particular. He squeezed April’s hand. “Should move my truck out of the way, don’t you think?”
He trot-skated across the lot, shivering and lifting the hood over his head. He could feel the burn on the back of his neck and hands, but the rest of him was soaked in icy sweat and water. His knuckles jumped with pain as he dug out his truck keys. He started it up and guided it cautiously over the slick asphalt, saluting April through the window. When he came to the road, he turned left and goosed the gas a little, bound for Sky Carson’s condo.
Nobody answered Wylie’s knocks, so he stepped back, gathered his will, and crashed through the door. Inside, he hit the lights, barreled into an empty bedroom, threw the covers back to make sure Sky wasn’t buried down in them. The idea came that he could burn the place down, tit for tat, but there were neighbors and it would be much worse than foolish.
He barged into Slocum’s and checked the bar and the back dining room, where Sky liked to hunker, but there was no Sky. Sliding on the snow and ice, Wylie sped over to Cynthia’s place, but Sky’s Outback was nowhere in sight. Cynthia’s pale face appeared in a window, backlit and ghostlike. Wylie stood on her porch, teeth chattering but dripping sweat, patches of his skin brightly hot, hair stinking, feeling as if his brains might scramble permanently.
“Sky burned my trailer to the ground.”
“A simple apology is all he asked for.”
“You Carsons can all go to hell.”
“In due time.”
“It’s not going to work like this anymore.”
“He’s trying to be true to his word.”
“You’re all fucking crazy.”
“So don’t push our buttons.”
Wylie slid his truck out of the lot, just about lost it when he hit Minaret, but mustered the self-control to downshift and plow his way safely up to Mountain High. A first-big-snow party was in progress, the street crowded with cars, the circular drive full. Wylie parked behind another truck and Croft met him at the door.
“Wylie. You look, like, burnt up.”
“Sky here?”
“No. And neither are your sisters.”
“I’m going to come in and look.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Don’t press me on this one, Croft.”
“Don’t you make me look bad.”
The great room was packed with people and smoke. Music and voices wrestled. Wylie shouldered his way through the crowd to the kitchen, then to the downstairs theater, where Chasing Mavericks was playing. He was given a wide berth. On floor two, he went from room to room where the stoners were clustered, saw the bongs and little canisters of coke going around, the glazed eyes and idiot smiles, two people giggling under a bedspread with a flashlight, and a couple making out in a bathroom whose door was only half-closed.
Wylie hustled up the stairs, to find Helixon himself waiting atop the third-floor landing. The window on his glasses reflected the light in a compound, insectile way as he looked at Wylie. “Sorry. This is the forbidden floor.”
“Give me Sky or I’ll throw you down the stairs.”
“He’s not here. Don’t know why not. But I swear to God he’s not here.”
Looking past Helixon, Wylie saw a long hallway and closed doors. “What do you do up here?”
“Pursue happiness. If Sky was here, I’d give him up. Go.”
At April’s, Wylie showered and washed his burns lightly with soap and water. The backs of his hands and fingers were the most painful — the skin pink and the hair burned mostly off — but no blisters. He finished with a cold-water rinse that sent shivers to his bones. After the shower, he and April sat in front of the fire, Wylie facing the flames, stripped down to his jeans so April could swab his burns with aloe vera. She brought him a large iced bourbon. She cut back his scorched hair so it was off his neck, then brushed more aloe gel onto his nape, blowing gently to help it dry. The gel went on cool and cut the pain. Wylie felt ambushed and fooled and primed for violence. He felt her cheek on his bare back and her hands on each shoulder. Her voice was soft and light. “Sergeant Bulla said you can come in tomorrow and answer some questions.”
“Okay.”
“He asked if I had any idea who did it. I said no.”
“Good. Right.”
“Are you going to tell them Sky called and what he said?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She rubbed his unburned shoulders for a good long while, hands small and strong. The fire lilted and popped. Her fingers brushed his chest and flanks, and the edges of his abs and the waistband of his jeans. He closed his eyes. “Should I just forgive him, you think, April?”
“It’s all you can do. He’s troubled. There but for the grace of God, and all that.”
“I’ve forgiven him before. A thousand times. But finally, you are what you do. You are what you do. And you are responsible for it.”