Beautiful Dead 3: Summer Page 3

  Cars parked on the drive told me to expect to find both Heather and Jon at home, but when I knocked on the door there was no answer. I knocked again then listened. When I still got no answer I turned the door handle, pushed gently and stepped inside.

  How weird was this. The hall still had the lived-in look – jackets hanging on hooks, Jon Madison’s briefcase perched on the back of the brown leather couch – but something was totally different. No, not something; some feeling. Yes, the atmosphere of the house had changed from the warm and welcoming I told you about to cold and empty, as if the spirit had gone out of the place. Summer’s spirit to be exact. And you know what? There was no music playing – and that was totally not right.

  ‘Hi!’ I called. ‘Is anyone home?’

  The door to Heather’s studio stood open so I went to investigate. I saw canvases stacked against the walls, a half-finished painting on an easel, but again no sign of life. On the worktop there should have been half-squeezed tubes of paint and rows of brushes waiting to be used, the smell of paint thinner in the air.

  Backing out of the room, I went to peer into Jon’s study at the big drawing board, the computer screens and the scale model of an art gallery he’d designed for a city in New Mexico.

  Finally, I crossed the hall into Summer’s room. Call it habit, because I sure wasn’t expecting to find anyone in there.

  Summer’s room without Summer in it. Her shoes were there beside the bed as if she’d just kicked them off. A pair of jeans lay crumpled on the floor. On the wall above her desk was her one-year-old schedule for her school assignments. One of her guitars was propped against a chair.

  I drew a deep breath and turned to leave, then I heard footsteps and my judgement stampeded off. Freaking out, I decided to hide behind the bedroom door.

  Heather Madison came into the room. I caught her in profile, head raised, eyes open wide in surprised expectation. She breathed her daughter’s name, her voice rising on the second syllable, as in, ‘Summer, are you there?’

  Then I stepped into view and the hopeful light in her eyes went out. ‘Sorry, Mrs Madison …’

  She gripped the chair, knocking Summer’s guitar to the floor. A hand went up to cover her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to find me here.’

  ‘Heather?’ It was Jon Madison’s turn to enter the room with a question. He saw the two of us, quickly got over his surprise and went straight to his wife. She crumpled in his arms so that he had to hold her upright as he led her out into the hall.

  ‘Mr Madison, I’m sorry.’ No-brainer Darina, charging in like that, bull in a china shop. At least the comparison hit the mark – Heather reminded me of a china doll, skin like porcelain, with Summer’s golden hair. And I was the bull stampeding across her dreams.

  He smoothed things over, supported his wife and sat her on the leather couch. ‘No problem, Darina. I guess you gave Heather a shock. She’s OK now.’

  Mrs Madison glanced up at me to double-check the reality of what had happened. ‘Darina?’ she said without the rising intonation, minus the longing that she’d injected into her daughter’s name.

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Madison. I came to check if you were OK.’

  ‘It’s April ninth.’ Jon dropped in an unnecessary reminder, lowered his head for a second then rallied. ‘Darina, it’s good to see you. We invited a few people for drinks to celebrate what would have been Summer’s birthday. We’re out on the terrace, catching the spring sun.’

  He took his wife’s hand, expecting me to follow them across the hall, through the big kitchen out on to a sun terrace, where I joined a group of maybe ten guests including Allyson and Frank Taylor, and Russell Bishop – Zoey’s dad.

  Allyson came straight over, glass in hand. ‘Good job, Darina,’ she said with a sympathetic smile. ‘It can’t have been easy for you to come.’

  ‘Especially since I didn’t get an invite,’ I said, smiling weakly back.

  ‘Jon did this for the parents,’ she explained. ‘The ones who share their loss.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said hastily.

  ‘No.’ She caught my hand. ‘Sharon Rohr is here. Come and say hi.’

  Greeting Phoenix’s mom wasn’t what I had in mind for this visit, which was already tough enough. I’d hardly seen Sharon in the nine months since he’d died – I’d go so far as to say I’d made a point of keeping out of her way. But here she was now, a small, slight grey-haired figure glancing up from the carved wooden bench where she sat, registering my presence with a shocked, hostile look, then glazing over this expression with a forced smile.

  She stood up, smoothed her skirt and made herself step towards me.

  ‘Hi, Darina, how are you?’

  ‘Good,’ I lied. ‘How’s Zak?’ Zak is Phoenix and Brandon’s kid brother, thirteen years old and at war with the world.

  ‘Good, thanks.’ She didn’t expect me to believe her either. Plus, it was clear she’d already run out of things to say. After all, I was only her dead son’s girlfriend, the person who’d stolen his company and enslaved his affections in the last two months before he got stabbed. It wasn’t only that – even before it happened, Sharon Rohr had always made it plain that she didn’t want to be my friend.

  ‘Come and speak with Frank,’ Allyson suggested, steering me away.

  At least Frank Taylor was pleased to see me. We chatted about the progress their son Raven was making with a one-on-one teacher who came to the house, and new therapy based on creative activity to help with his autism.

  ‘Come visit any time,’ he suggested. ‘The door’s always open.’

  I tried my hardest with the chit-chat, but the visit wasn’t going well. I felt Sharon’s eyes drilling through the back of my head and Jon keeping a wary watch over his fragile wife. ‘I have to go,’ I told the Taylors. ‘Bye.’

  At the bottom of the Madisons’ drive, I found Brandon Rohr leaning against my/his red convertible. ‘What are you doing here?’ I challenged. Here was another person to mess with my already messed-up head.

  ‘You mean, “Hey, Brandon, how’s it going?”’ The grin he gave me was loaded with irony. ‘I say, “Cool. How’s the car I gave you?” You say, “She’s a beauty. I totally owe you, Brandon.”’

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’ I stepped to one side as he launched himself free of the car and stood upright just centimetres away from me.

  ‘Is my mom in there?’ he asked, tilting his head towards the house. He didn’t care that I was frowning and shaking my head, trying to get into the car.

  ‘Yeah. Brandon, I need to go.’ Because you’re too in my face, because you found me this car, because with his dying breath Phoenix asked you to take care of me. And because you’re not him.

  ‘She told me to pick her up from the party.’

  ‘She’s in there, I already told you.’ Now I caught sight of Brandon’s black truck parked down the street with Zak sitting waiting. ‘What time did she tell you?’

  He glanced at his watch then up at the Madisons’ front door. ‘Ten minutes ago. I’m in trouble. Here she comes.’

  Finally I got past him and jumped in my car. I was out of there before Sharon Rohr made it down the drive.

  And now I was out of patience, through with the waiting and I was driving across town, through the Centennial district to where the highway stretched out clear into the mountains, climbing steadily with the tyres thrumming over tarmac, eating up the distance between me and Foxton.

  I know – Summer said Hunter would give me the call. He’d specifically told me to wait. But she’d also used the word ‘soon’ and I took that to mean a couple of hours, right after daylight broke, no time even for breakfast. Not all this endless, crappy waiting, trying not to picture Phoenix coming back from wherever the Beautiful Dead stayed when they weren’t on the far side, settling in with Summer and the others, maybe doing chores like lighting a fire in the house or clearing snow from the yard.

  I don’t do waiting patiently, never have.


  So I made Foxton in record time, not bothering to stop for gas in Centennial. A weather forecast on Rocky Radio told me to expect snow before nightfall. Just give me time to reach the ridge before the heavens open, I prayed. The station played more Country tracks about guys in jail missing their gals, and gals getting even with their mean, cheatin’ guys. I switched off the music to concentrate on frozen puddles on the dirt road by the creek.

  They were only half right about the snow – clouds rolled down from the peaks but it came earlier than forecast, falling softly at first and coating the rough road with white powder. Then the wind rose and I had blizzard conditions. Snow hit the windshield too fast for the wipers to handle and pretty soon I had to stop the car to clear the screen.

  Turn around, go back, a voice in my head told me. This car isn’t built to drive through deep snow. What happens if you skid off the road?

  Since when did I turn into my mom? I ignored the common-sense voice, got back into the car and drove on. But then I had to stop before I reached the ridge, after I heard the wiper motor whine and cut out. After that, it was either sit in the car with the heater running until the gas gave out, or walk the rest of the way to find Phoenix.

  It was a no-brainer – I pulled out a pair of boots from the trunk, zipped up my jacket and headed across country.

  Anyhow, by the time I reached the shelter of the aspens, the wind had dropped and the snow was easing. Patches of blue appeared in the sky. I told myself this was a sign that I’d done the right thing, never mind Hunter’s orders, and hurried down the hill.

  I was so expecting to see Phoenix, to fall into his arms and act out all the clichés. I was so convinced in my mind that I made it real.

  It’s clear in my head … He’s strong as he wraps his arms around me. I’m melting at the sound of his voice, the grey world is turning bright. I feel his breath on my face.

  The new fall of snow hid the hollows on the hillside, making me stumble. I didn’t care that I didn’t have gloves or a scarf, or that packed snow wedged itself inside my boots. I was happily dreaming out the reunion.

  So I was surprised there was no light on in the house, but then told myself it was still daylight. No footprints in the yard either, but the recent snow accounted for that, and like I said before – maybe the Beautiful Dead don’t make marks in the snow. No smoke from the chimney. I slowed to a walk.

  He’s not here! It hit me like a punch to the belly so that I almost had to lean forward and hug myself to recover. Idiot – he’s not even here!

  When I thought it through it was obvious. There’d been no call from Hunter, no barrier of beating wings up on the ridge. The Beautiful Dead always set up the warning to keep out far-siders, even when they knew it was me. I guess that was just in case I had someone hidden in the trunk of my car – Hunter’s paranoia. Anyway, there were always wings. I stood in the yard and wondered what to do next.

  Then I remembered Summer – at least she was around, probably sitting inside the house doing that patient waiting thing that I’m so lousy at. The second it occurred to me I sprinted for the porch, but when I tried the door I found that it was locked.

  Which left only the barn. That was it – Summer was busy with chores, stacking firewood, loading it into a sack to drag fuel into the house or fixing something that had broken.

  I walked to the barn door, listening out for clues. I was straining so hard that maybe I imagined it – not a sound but a presence beyond the door, a sense that the barn wasn’t deserted.

  I reached out my hand for the latch, then hesitated. At that moment a breath of cold wind raked through the recently fallen snow, raised a flurry of icy flakes and blew them against the door.

  How cold was that wind! Sub-zero, and getting up stronger, rattling at the wide door, covering me in frosted white flakes. I had to get inside the barn or freeze to death. So I lifted the latch … and that was the exact moment when the perfect reunion fell apart.

  They were all there – the Beautiful Dead – standing in a circle in the murky light, all facing inwards towards Hunter and a second, grey-haired guy of about the same age, who I’d never seen before. I made out Summer in the rich red woollen jacket she wore the day before, Donna in a long, grey woollen coat, Iceman in a black ski jacket, and Phoenix.

  He had his back to me but he knew I was there.

  ‘Phoenix.’ I had to say his name. Surely when I spoke he would break out of the circle and come to me.

  Hunter raised his head and stared right at me. I felt the cold wind grow stronger, banging the door shut behind me.

  Actually, Phoenix didn’t turn. It was as though he hadn’t heard, though I knew this was wrong – super-hearing is part of their thing, plus the mind-reading ability that would have told him how much I wanted to be in his arms.

  Hunter was doing this to us out of spite, zombie-zapping Phoenix’s willpower, keeping us apart.

  ‘Phoenix!’ I pleaded.

  Hunter stepped out of the circle. He was taller, stronger than I remembered, his eyes were deeper set, his mouth a hard, thin line, and there was still the death mark on his forehead – the angel-wing tattoo where the bullet had entered his brain. He came towards me, shaking his head.

  Then I don’t know what happened. I saw anger in the overlord’s eyes. It overpowered me and made me fall to my knees, though he didn’t lay a finger on me. I was down and hurting, feeling sharp pains run through my body as my head spun and my vision went weird – like Summer’s mind-zap but a hundred times stronger. Instead of Hunter’s figure I saw fiery red patterns floating in the dark air, flickering to orange then fading and leaving me in a pitch-black space, unable to see. I remember reaching out for anything solid to grab hold of before the stabbing pain in my head took over and I heard the sound of beating wings fill my ears.

  Waves of airy sound swept through my head, a million invisible wings, a coldness against my face. I was blind and falling. I was crying out for help but I was alone.

  And then everything stopped except the echoing sound of Hunter’s footsteps walking away. And then that stopped too and there was blackness.

  I don’t know how long I was out. When I came around, it was dark and I was alone.

  I had no idea where I was or how I got there.

  I closed my eyes and opened them again. I was in a place that smelled of dust and damp. It was very cold.

  After a while of lying on the floor, testing out which bits of me hurt, I raised my head and rolled on to my side, then on to my knees, where I stayed and groaned a while, arms still supporting me, my head hanging. I felt like it was filled with heavy mush.

  A door blew open, then banged shut, awakening a spark of memory about where I might be. It made me haul myself upright and try to walk.

  When I made it to the big wooden door, I pulled hard, met resistance, and so began to push. The door gave way and I stepped outside into the moonlight.

  Did you ever have a dream where you recognize a scene – maybe somewhere where you once went on vacation but you can’t quite place it, and anyway it’s the wrong situation but you can’t get to where you really need to be? That’s the closest I can get to explaining what it was like – yes, I’d seen the old truck in the yard before, but I didn’t recall where or when. Sure, I recognized the old ranch house, the porch and the log pile stacked neatly at one end, but how had I got here and why? Then I saw two guys – strangers – on the porch drinking beer. Maybe they could explain.

  Ouch – my head hurt and felt weirdly hollow as I walked unsteadily towards them. The older one was facing me, the younger one wore a black ski jacket. Grey-haired, ponytail guy looked like he was angry at me. Black jacket guy must have heard me coming because he glanced over his shoulder then looked back at his companion as if waiting to be told what to do.

  ‘Stay right where you are, Darina.’ The boss man stopped me in my tracks.

  I stood there shivering and hurting.

  ‘Hunter, what did you do to her?’ the younger g
uy asked. He was definitely worried. ‘Did you wipe her memory clean?’

  ‘And if I did?’ The one called Hunter didn’t blink, he just looked at me with a stone-cold stare.

  ‘What about Summer?’ young guy asked.

  He shrugged. ‘If Darina doesn’t follow orders, what good is she to us?’

  ‘Does Phoenix know what you’ve done?’

  This time Hunter’s eyelids flickered shut. Released from his staring eyes, I risked another look around the snow-covered yard with a racing heart. Why were they talking about Phoenix as if he was still alive? Phoenix was dead – how loud did people have to announce it? How many times? What planet were these two guys living on?

  ‘Phoenix is in the house with Summer,’ Hunter said. ‘I told Donna to take Dean up to Angel Rock and show him the territory. Dean is top of my list of priorities right now.’

  ‘So Phoenix doesn’t know you zapped Darina’s mind?’ The younger guy wouldn’t let it drop. He even took a step down from the porch as if he planned to come and help me. Then Hunter turned one of his icy looks on him and he stopped, mid-stride.

  Meanwhile I stood in the middle of this nightmare with a hole in my head where my memory used to be.

  Hunter stepped down into the yard instead. My stomach lurched. I wanted to back away but my feet wouldn’t move. ‘What do you think, Darina – should I let you stay zapped and send you home?’ he taunted. ‘Maybe that would be a good idea. You wouldn’t remember anything, I promise.’

  I was staring right into his face, at the grey eyes shaded by the prominent forehead, the long hair swept back, the sculpted chin and harsh line of the mouth. At that moment I knew there was no arguing with him – I was totally in his power. And somehow he was the cause of what had just happened – my blackout, my hurting head, my total confusion.

  ‘Your mind would be a blank,’ he promised. ‘You would be back with your family, going to school, grieving for Phoenix and learning to let go. You would put one foot in front of another like the other bereaved residents of Ellerton.’