The lady returned the red folder to the table. She turned the back of her neck to him as she leaned down, and that reminded Charlie of the position a deer might be in before you slit its throat.
“How about your mom? She used to have a big job in the city, right?”
“She was a banker.” Charlie imagined the deer thrashing its broken legs and tossing its head. Blood had sprayed from its neck to cover the ground, but it had never made a sound.
“And what does she do now?”
“She used to like going to parties, but she doesn’t do that anymore. She used to like food, but now she cooks for us and doesn’t eat a lot.” The lady’s pencil tapped against her notepad.
“And your dad’s a writer? That must be neat. Have you ever read anything he’s written?”
“When I was little, he wrote me stories and drew pictures on the pages, like a real book.”
“That sounds fun. Do you play with your dad in the forest?” the lady asked.
Charlie shook his head.
“You play in the forest by yourself? Alone?”
“Not alone, not always.”
“With friends, then?”
“No, but…” He had promised himself to never tell.
“But what?”
“In the forest…” He’d learned from Dad that there were all kinds of stories. Some were filled with monsters and villains, and some had happy endings while others had sad ones. The trouble was that it was hard to tell what kind of a story it was when you were in the middle of it.
“Yes?”
The Watcher would know if he said something. Charlie knew it would know. His head began to feel warm.
“It’s hard,” Charlie said. He did not know how to answer the question and keep the promise to himself. “The winter. It’s hard. It’s cold and dark. But I wouldn’t want to be alone. Not ever. I know that now.”
The lady wrote something in her notebook. “You just have to find some friends. There are good people up here, and soon you’ll find some nice friends.”
Charlie shook his head. His shirt felt too tight around his neck. He wondered if it had started to snow yet. He wondered if it was beginning.
“It’s okay, honey. Do you want some water or—oh, let me get you a tissue.”
Charlie reached to touch his nose, and his hand came away streaked with blood.
His head felt warm again, and he looked for the lady but couldn’t find her. He saw nothing but darkness; then he felt the rough carpet on his cheek.
“It’s okay,” he heard the lady over him. “Just stay down there a little bit. Got to get the blood back to your head.”
Charlie could see again, and he looked up at the lady. He could feel the blood from his nose slide past his eyes.
“It’s okay,” she said again.
But Charlie thought of the forest between the mountains. He thought of the winter and the snow and the cold and the dark, and he knew that she was wrong.
36
The Dispatch had devoted an entire issue to the fire at the Crofts, and its aftermath was abundantly covered in the issues that followed. The incident had taken place on the evening of December 21, 1982, during a Christmas party being thrown by the Swann sisters. Back then, the village had its own fire truck, so they were able to mobilize in time to save the bulk of the house. The paper included a list of fatalities from that night: Claire Armfield, age 51; Jason Armfield, age 18; and Arthur White, age 27. Mark Swann had been 15 and his brother, Liam, had been 11.
There was a murky black-and-white photo of the fire; all you could see were the snowy outlines of the mountains and a flare of white in the center, but it appeared in every issue. There were no quotes from Miranda or Eleanor Swann, but considering the circumstances and the sisters’ status in the community, this didn’t surprise Ben.
The most concise account of what had happened was a synopsis written by Lisbeth’s father, August Goode:
While the official cause of the fire at the Crofts has yet to be determined by the county investigators, there is little doubt as to the conclusion they will reach. Survivor accounts uniformly agree on a great many facts, and the police investigation also supports the view of the tragedy that has emerged.
Dinner was served in the dining room at approximately 7:00 p.m. There were 25 adults and 12 persons under the age of 18 present. With respect to the privacy of those in attendance, this publication has decided to withhold the party’s guest list at this time. At 7:20, most of the children excused themselves from the room, while the adults remained at their tables.
According to witnesses, it was at this time that John Tanner, age 16, separated himself from the rest of the children and entered the home’s exterior supply shed. Mr. Tanner had lived in the Crofts as a ward of Miranda and Eleanor Swann since 1976 and was familiar with the house. It’s believed that, once in the shed, he wrapped a large rag around the head of a rake and drenched it in kerosene. It appears that he then returned to the house and entered a back parlor, where a fireplace had been lit in preparation for the coffee and desserts that would be served there after dinner.
Mr. Tanner lit the kerosene-soaked rag in the fireplace and set the draperies in the parlor ablaze. He then ran to the room next door to set its curtains on fire.
It is unknown how long the fire burned before the adults in the dining room became aware of it, but most agree it could have been only a few minutes. However, the Crofts being an old structure, these few minutes were enough for the fire to burn deep into the floors and climb the wood panels of the walls. When the adults discovered the blaze, the hallways were already thick with smoke.