Son of Destruction by Kit Reed

of sparks. By the time her body splits and flames shoot up there is nothing left of Lorna Archambault but the chair she sits in and the shell of her body in its melted shreds of lavender that she put on especially for him; everything else is consumed from within, everything but the husk. For a few seconds she flames brilliantly – gorgeous, Too bad Hal can’t see , and then collapses inward. What little is left of her curls back on itself and fuses with the melting fabric of the ruined chair. Only rage remains, a nugget of distilled evil so powerful that Dan yelps in pain.
    The guilt.
    Whose? ‘God.’ He lunges for the door.
    ‘God!’
    The guilt is terrible.
    How did this door close? Did I shut myself in? Did she? Drenched and shaking, he grapples with the knob and finally breaks out. He’s free, but the knowledge follows him out of the room. Changed by forces he doesn’t recognize and can’t name, he hurtles downstairs and out into beginning night.

12
The guys
    It’s a nice enough day out here on the water, but it’s getting late. Not that Stitch Von Harten and Buck Coleman want their afternoon on the water to end. Every Friday they find ways to back out of the office – Stitch from Von Harten Printing, which his dad founded, and Buck from Coleman Chrysler, where he shows up only reluctantly because his father hung the business around his neck like a stone.
    Every Friday they come out here with a couple of six-packs, whether the grouper are running or not. Stitch knows it sounds cheesy, but it’s their special time. They’re dragging their feet because of the party. They did their part – they’re paying for it, stood back and admired the dresses their wives bought for the event – should be enough. The hell of it is, they’re under orders to show up early, to help Cathy and Buck’s pretty wife Kara cope. They’re supposed to be home in time to shower and shave, break out the clippers for nose-hairs and put on the clothes the wife laid out for them and stand there until she approves.
    They will do their job and walk in smiling, but, shit. All that social agro and nicey-niceness when there are egrets and blue heron in these waters, astonishing birds that take Stitch’s heart with them when they take flight. If he had his druthers, he and Buck would be out in the boat watching the sun go down, but time is thumbing its nose at them and they have to go.
    ‘Fuck,’ Stitch says. ‘How did we get to be so old?’
    ‘We’re not old, we’re just domesticated,’ Buck says. For a guy who’s spent his adult life grieving, Buck is more or less content. ‘We were hot shit, weren’t we? Back in the day?’
    Stitch laughs. ‘Still are. But I see what you’re saying. At reunions, they’re sizing us up, looking for things to cut off.’
    ‘Because we ruled that school.’ Buck hasn’t exactly pulled up the anchor. He is staring out at the bridge. ‘We were good, weren’t we?’
    ‘We were.’
    Moodily, Buck cracks another beer. ‘We didn’t know how sweet it was.’
    Stitch has problems of his own, but he prefers not to dwell. He says sympathetically, ‘Nut cancer. What a bitch.’
    ‘Oh, that. That’s nothing.’ Buck looks up. ‘We had everything, and we fucked it up.’
    ‘Only at the end.’ Stitch knows where this is going. ‘Darcy. We all felt bad.’
    The summer before senior year Buck’s dad told the twins their future was Coleman Chrysler, no ifs, ands or buts. Darcy Coleman was drunk by noon. By four, he was crazy-ruined – they couldn’t cut him off, couldn’t bring him down. At midnight Buck’s twin drove a demo model off the lot and crashed into the biggest tree on Beach Drive. It took hours to pry him out. Buck threw himself in on top of Darcy, like he wanted to be buried too. He’s been going around like half a person ever since.
    Then Buck surprises him. ‘No. I mean the end of senior week. You know when.’
    Stitch knows exactly when and he groans out loud.