Play with Fire

chapter Forty-Nine

QUINCEY MORRIS AND Libby Chastain stood on Morris’s front porch, drinking coffee and watching the traffic pass by in the street, just as it always did. First, though, they’d turned on the television, to find that the most interesting thing to happen in the world overnight had apparently involved a young British prince cavorting naked in a Las Vegas fountain.

Libby sipped from the mug Morris had given her and said, “I have the worst hangover of my entire life – but, right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“I know just what you mean,” Morris said, “as well as exactly how your head feels.”

They watched the world go by for a few more minutes before Libby said, “Do you suppose they could be just... playing with us? The demons, I mean.”

Morris shook his head, instantly regretting the movement. “I doubt it,” he said. “You take a bunch of kids who’ve been looking through the front window of a candy store and drooling for – well, forever. Then, one night, the door to that place swings wide open. I don’t see them hanging around on the sidewalk for a while longer, just to tease the people inside.”

“You make a nice analogy,” Libby said. “Okay, then – what happened? Why didn’t the world end last night? Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“I was about to say, ‘Beats the hell out of me,’ but that might be an unfortunate turn of phrase. I haven’t got the faintest idea, Libby. But once my head stops pounding, I thought I’d make a few calls to folks who were with us last night, see what they think. You might want to do the same.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Libby studied her coffee mug with great interest, or appeared to. “You know, last night, while we were sitting inside, waiting to die – or worse – we probably said some stuff...” She let her voice trail off.

“Did we? My memory of it all is pretty vague,” Morris said. “I know we talked, from time to time. Probably got pretty maudlin, what with the booze, and all. But I can’t recall anything specific. Can you?”

“I had some weird dreams, once I drifted off,” Libby said, “and it’s hard to separate what really happened from what didn’t. But, no – I don’t remember anything in particular.”

“Just as well, I’m guessing. We were pretty drunk.”

“Yes,” Libby said. “It’s probably just as well.”