The Saint

But Poplar Hill was a narrow, two-lane, tree-lined road, and the high-school rush hour had just begun. She growled under her breath and then yawned again. God, she was so tired she didn’t even have the energy to be properly annoyed.

Drumming the steering wheel, she craned her neck, but she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t have time for this. She hadn’t had a spare minute in the past three years. College and work, handling the house and raising her little brother… At only twenty-two, she was so tired she felt about fifty.

She couldn’t be late today. She was in her first year of teaching seventh grade at Heyday Middle School, and she had a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t a football player, so she was expected to be on time and fully prepared.

Darn it, she should never have printed out Steve’s paper. All the parenting books, which she’d devoured in secret as soon as she’d realized she was going to have to take over the job, said you should let your kids suffer the consequences of their own mistakes.

But Steve was such a good kid, really. And hadn’t he suffered enough already? No one should be an orphan at fourteen.

So maybe she overindulged him. Or maybe not. Oh, heck, she didn’t have a clue what was right. Maybe even real parents struggled to find the proper balance.

She eyed the area, wondering where she might be able to wriggle her car into a U-turn. The ground was soggy on the easements from last night’s pre-winter rain, and the pines were still dripping wet.

It always rained in Heyday in November. Probably someone had skidded on the slick pavement and kissed fenders with the car in front of them.

But why such a snarl-up? A few people—parents, high-schoolers, even teachers—had exited their cars and were walking forward to see if they could get a look at the problem. Claire didn’t have time for gawking. She rolled down her window. Maybe she could persuade the guy in front to inch his car forward so she could get free.

Oh, good. It was Doug Metzler from the bank. He’d be eager to help her. He knew that if she lost her new job she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage—and his bank held the note.

“Doug,” she called. “Do you mind moving up a little? I can’t get out.”

The balding, middle-aged man whipped around as if she’d shot him. He stared at her, a strange, blank expression on his normally pleasant face.

“Claire!” He put both hands up toward his cheeks, and they froze there. “Oh my God.” He began looking around, as if he needed help. “Oh my God.”

She had time for only a couple of half thoughts. Was Doug drunk? Crazy? Had she caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing? But even in those confused fractions of seconds, her subconscious must have registered something more sinister, because instinctively she began to climb out of her car.

“What’s the matter, Doug?”

The man didn’t speak. She’d just barely set both feet on the soggy ground when Officer Bill Johnson appeared.

“Claire,” the policeman said. His face was gray, and, unless she was imagining it, his voice shook. “Claire, don’t go up there.”

She tilted her head, confused. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “Why? What’s going on?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Doug Metzler was still frozen in place. A few others had joined him. They were all staring at Claire. Something sick and liquid began to boil in her stomach, like the beginnings of an internal earthquake.

“What’s going on?” She gripped the door, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking just like Officer Johnson’s voice. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the line of cars. Was that a blue flashing light? Was that larger vehicle an ambulance?

She looked back at the young policeman. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Steve,” Officer Johnson said, and this time his voice did break. “Claire. It’s…it’s Steve.”

No. No. That was ridiculous. This had nothing to do with Steve. Steve was at football practice, tossing that little brown ball high into the blue morning air for some other teenage boy to catch. Yes, Steve was safe at football practice, boyish and muddy and sweaty.

And happy. Steve was always happy.

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” the policeman said. “You see he… Steve…”

Claire felt her mind going limp, balking like a child, refusing to be led to whatever terrible place he was trying to take her. Bill Johnson was so young, she thought. Just a kid. What did he know? He was no more than four years older than Steve himself.

He tried again. “It… Steve must have been going very… It was an accident, a terrible accident.”

She frowned. Look at him, he was close to tears. He looked so distressed, so completely undone. She wondered if she should put her arm around him. But she discovered to her horror that she couldn’t move her arm. How odd. It was like sleepwalking. She couldn’t feel any part of her body.

And when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. Hollow and slow, like something recorded at the wrong speed. “What do you mean an accident? What do you mean it’s Steve?”

“I guess it was just too dark.” Officer Johnson’s face was suddenly running with tears that gleamed in the rising sun. “I guess he was going too fast. I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry. I guess he hit a tree.”

“Hit a—”

But the legs she couldn’t feel decided right then to fold up under her like wet paper. She slid down, still holding on to the open car door. The muddy ground was cool and dark as she met it.

She lost track of time, just a little, like a clock with an unreliable battery. When her heart began to tick again, she was surprised to hear Kieran McClintock’s voice, very close to her.

“Claire,” he said. “Claire, are you all right?”

She realized she was in his arms. She looked up at him.

“He said Steve had an accident,” she whispered, as if she needed to keep the news a secret. As if making the information public would make it true. “Can you take me to him? I’m not sure I can walk, but I have to get there. Steve needs me.”

Kieran’s face worried her. Anguish was written all over his handsome features, turning his clear blue eyes to hot, shadowed volcano beds. Turning his rugged jaw to jagged steel, his full, wide mouth to a razor line of bloodless white.

“Claire, sweetheart, Steve never made it to practice. He had an accident.”

Strange, she thought, that a mouth so fierce, so twisted with pain, could speak in such gentle tones. His arms tightened around her. “It was very bad. He didn’t make it, Claire. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

He shut his eyes, and it was a relief not to have to look into their tortured depths.

“Yes, he said. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Steve’s dead.”

Dead…

Not playing football, not laughing, not running, not even breathing.

Dead.

She shut her eyes, too, as the knife blade of the word sank deep into her chest. She felt her heart’s blood gush everywhere, she tasted the metallic hot ice of the cruel steel, and then, thank God, the terrible black universe began to disappear again.

My little brother is dead.

She wasn’t sure whether she spoke that sentence or merely thought it. But she heard herself say the next one.

And you killed him.