Before the Storm. Diane Chamberlain

Pied Piper is a man from a fairy tale, Andy,” Laurel said. “Children followed him. That’s what Uncle Marcus meant. You were like the Pied Piper because the children followed you.”

      “I thought it was rats that followed him,” Maggie said.

      I groaned. “Never mind. It was a bad analogy to begin with.”

      Laurel looked at her watch, then stood up. “Can I talk with you a minute?” she asked.

      I leaned toward Andy, my hands on the sides of his head as I planted a kiss on his forehead. Breathed in that stench of fire I never wanted to smell on him again. “See you later, Andy,” I said.

      I had to run to catch up with Laurel outside the room. She was a jogger—a vitamin-chomping health nut—and she didn’t walk as much as dart. Now she turned toward me, arms folded—her customary posture when talking with me. That was the way I usually pictured her in my mind—arms across her chest like a shield.

      “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I asked.

      “Everything happened so fast,” she said. “And look. Keith Weston’s here somewhere.”

      Whoa. “Keith was at the lock-in, too?”

      She nodded. “He was airlifted. Sara left the fire about the same time I did, but I haven’t seen her.”

      “Come on.” I started walking toward the reception desk.

      “An ATF agent was here talking to Andy,” Laurel said.

      “Good.” They were moving fast. That’s how I liked it.

      “He said three people were killed. Do you know who?”

      “No clue.” I knew she was scared Keith was one of them. So was I. I touched her back with the flat of my palm. “There were plenty of injuries, I know that much.”

      We’d reached the desk, but the clerk was too overwhelmed to be bothered. I stopped a guy in blue scrubs heading toward the treatment area.

      “Can we find out the condition of one of the fire victims?” I asked after identifying myself. “Keith Weston?”

      “Sure,” he said, like he had nothing better to do. He disappeared down a hallway.

      I looked at Laurel. “Is this for real?” I nodded toward the treatment room. “He led other kids out?”

      “Unbelievable, isn’t it? But the agent said it was true. I think it was because he didn’t think like everyone else—you know, heading for the front doors.”

      “And he has no fear,” I added.

      Laurel was slow to nod. Andy had plenty of fears, but she knew what I meant. He had no sense of danger. No real understanding of it. He was impulsive. I thought of the time he dove from the fishing pier to grab a hat that had blown off his head.

      The guy in scrubs came back. “He’s not here,” he said. “They took him straight up to UNC in Chapel Hill.”

      Laurel covered her mouth with her hand. “The burn center?”

      He nodded. “I talked to one of the medics. They induced a medical coma on the beach.”

      “Is he going to make it?” Laurel’s hand shook. I wanted to hang on to my anger at her, but that trembling hand did me in.

      “That I don’t know,” the guy said. “Sorry.” His beeper sounded from his waistband, and he spun away from us, taking off at a run.

      “Is his mother with—” Laurel called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall.

      Laurel pressed those shaky hands to her eyes. “Poor Sara.”

      “Yeah,” I said. “I’m just thankful Andy’s okay.”

      “Oh, Marcus.” She looked at me. Right at me. More than a half second this time. “I was so scared,” she said.

      “Me, too.”

      I wanted to wrap my arms around her. I needed the comfort as much as I needed to comfort her. I knew better, though. She’d stiffen. Pull away. So I settled for resting my hand on her back again as we headed toward the treatment area and Andy’s bed.

      Chapter Five

       Laurel

       1984

      JAMIE LOCKWOOD CHANGED ME. For one thing, I could never again look at a man on a motorcycle without wondering what lay deep inside him. The tougher the exterior, the greater the number of tattoos, the thicker the leather, the more I’d speculate about his soul. But Jamie also taught me about love and passion and, without ever meaning to, about guilt and grief. They were lessons I’d never be able to forget.

      I was eighteen and starting my freshman year at the University of North Carolina when I met him. I was pulling out of a parking space on a Wilmington street in my three-month-old Honda Civic. The red Civic was a graduation present from my aunt and uncle—technically my adoptive parents—who made up for their emotional parsimony through their generosity in tangible goods. I checked my side mirror—all clear—turned my steering wheel to the left, and gave the car some gas. I felt a sudden thwack against my door and a meteor of black leather and blue denim streaked through the air next to my window.

      I screamed and screamed, startled by the volume of my own voice but unable to stop. I struggled to open my door without success, because the motorcycle was propped against it. By the time I escaped through the passenger door, the biker was getting to his feet. He was huge pillar of a man, and if I’d been thinking straight, I might have been afraid to approach him. What if he was a Hells Angel? But all I could think about was that I’d hurt someone. I could have killed him.

      “Oh my God!” I ran toward him, moving on sheer adrenaline. The man stood with his side to me, rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms as if checking to see that everything still worked. I stopped a few feet short of him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”

      A few people circled around us, hanging back as if waiting to see what would happen.

      “I think I’ll live.” The Hells Angel unstrapped his white helmet and took it off, and a tumble of dark hair fell to his shoulders. He studied a wide black scrape that ran along the side of the helmet. “Man,” he said. “I’ve got to send a testimonial to this manufacturer. D’you believe this? It’s not even dented.” He held the helmet in front of me, but all I saw was that the leather on his right sleeve was torn to shreds.

      “I checked my mirror, but I was looking for a car,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I somehow missed seeing you.”

      “You need to watch for cyclists!” A woman shouted from the sidewalk. “That could have been my son on his bike!”

      “I know! I know!” I hugged my arms. “It was my fault.”

      The Hells Angel looked at the woman. “You don’t need to rag on her,” he said. “She won’t make the same mistake twice.” Then, more quietly, he spoke to me. “Will you?”

      I shook my head. I thought I might throw up.

      “Let’s, uh—” he surveyed the scene “—let me check out my bike, and you back your car up to the curb and we can get each other’s insurance info, all right?” His accent was pure Wilmington, unlike mine.

      I nodded. “Okay.”

      He lifted his motorcycle from in front of my door, which was dented and scraped but opened with only a little difficulty, and I got in. I had to concentrate on turning the key in the ignition, shifting to Reverse, giving the car some gas, as if I’d suddenly forgotten how to drive. I felt about fourteen years old by the time I managed to move the car three feet back into its parking space. I fumbled in the glove compartment for my crumpled insurance card and got