The Storm King(31)

He’d wake up gasping, his shirt drenched with sweat, Grams shaking his shoulder. From the way she pursed her lips, he’d know he’d been screaming.

“You’re okay,” she’d whisper. He never knew if she was asking or telling.

Nate hadn’t had that dream in years, but sweat pricked across his forehead thinking about it.

The backyard was littered with leaves and broken twigs. The rain had picked up, and the wind had gotten stronger. The tops of trees rocked against the opaque sky.

Lucy’s funeral is tomorrow, Nate thought as thunder throbbed somewhere behind the mountains.

Tomorrow, Lucy will be laid to rest.

We are burying Lucy tomorrow.

No matter how he framed it, this was a fact he couldn’t grab hold of.



Everything in the backyard looked as it should, so he moved on to the front. Wrought iron lamps lit the street. The halos they cast hung in the rain like orbs of static.

The neighborhood was empty, the town was asleep. Even after so many years, this lit a fuse in Nate’s chest. It was the perfect kind of night. If these vandals were like Nate and his friends had been, he wouldn’t have long to wait.

He sat on a rim of masonry behind a stringy hydrangea, where he could watch the street without being easily seen.

The minutes ticked away, then hours. In the dark Nate thought about Meg and Livvy and how they’d both be warm in their beds as the night wailed outside. He thought about little Nia Kapur. Most of all, he thought of Lucy, and how what remained of her was on a tray, waiting to be put out of sight forever.

Finally, movements out of time with the storm tugged Nate’s gaze down the street. Two figures walked toward him, avoiding the puddles of illumination from the streetlights. One was tall and the other was short. Both wore dark, hooded coats similar to the one Nate had wrapped himself in. They carried something awkwardly between them.

Nate shielded the light of his phone with his raincoat. He pulled up Tom’s number so it’d be right there when he needed it. He eased himself off the masonry and onto his haunches.

The duo stopped at the base of the driveway. Nate could now see that the object between them was a bucket. The larger of the two also carried a stepladder.

There was a time when Nate might have torn through the bushes to seize the vandals. A black specter like a shard from the storming night itself. He would frighten, then capture. Because terror lays bare a person’s secrets as surely as a scalpel reveals bone. He’d envelop them like a nightmare thing and tear loose what they knew and thought and dreamt.

What did they want? What did they know?



He’d turn the full eye of his rage onto them and—

No.

Nate pictured Meg’s smile and imagined Livvy’s laugh. Finger by finger, he forced his hands from the fists they’d locked themselves into. He raised his face to the rain and remembered who he was supposed to be.

He had to be patient. To do the damage Johnny had credited them with, these vandals would need to exceed this mismatched pair. He had to be sure none of their friends lagged in the shadows.

They stood at the edge of the driveway for several long moments before trudging onto the lawn. It seemed to Nate that they’d been evaluating the house rather than waiting for accomplices. As they crossed the soggy grass, Bonaparte Street remained desolate of anything but scattered branches and storm-blown leaves.

Soon the vandals were close enough that Nate could see the material of their sturdy coats billow around their skinny teenaged bodies. He wouldn’t have trouble handling either of them.

His plan was to tackle the smaller of the two and be rough enough to frighten the tall one away. The violence was regrettable, but necessary. Then Nate would call Tom. Tom would be the policeman he was, and the kid would tell them who else was involved. They’d pick up the ringleader. Whoever they were, Nate had a constellation of questions for them.

The taller of the two turned his attention to the ladder as the short one stooped toward the bucket.

Four strides was all it took to get right behind the gangly one. Nate extended his leg and grabbed a fistful of the boy’s jacket. The kid was all limbs. Nate yanked him backward and the teen tripped against Nate’s foot. He gasped when he hit the wet grass, the wind knocked from him.

Neither had said a word, but the boy’s wheeze got the smaller one’s notice. The little figure was half turned toward them when Nate pushed him with all his strength.



The kid hardly weighed anything. Nate could have picked him up and thrown him across the street. The little guy squealed when Nate knelt on his chest.

Nate should have called Tom then. He meant to. But his adrenaline was thrumming and he was seized with the need to see this kid’s face. He had to see the face of this child who thought he could get away with vandalizing Grams’s home and pub. If these vandals knew about the Storm King and his Thunder Runs, then they had to know that Nate McHale’s enemies didn’t go unpunished.

He pulled aside the kid’s hood, and a shocked young face stared back at him. Nate couldn’t see much in the glow of the streetlight—soft blond hair quickly becoming soaked, babyish cheeks without a blemish—but it was enough to be sure he had no idea who this child was, and that the figure he’d taken for a small boy was actually a girl.

But that didn’t change anything.

“Who are you?” he demanded.