Laws of Nature -2

by Christopher Golden

  "Is there ever good timing?" she asked, half to herself and half to reassure him. She searched his eyes. They were the part of him that never changed, no matter how he appeared outwardly. "Anyway, I'm glad you told me that. It makes me feel good, especially when I've got that early-morning glamour thing going.

  Let's just not get ahead of ourselves, okay?"

  With a deeply sincere expression, Bill nodded. "Agreed. Do me one favor, though?"

  Squeezing his hand once, pleased by his response, she leaned closer to him. "Name it."

  Bill grinned. "Sit up straight. I can see right down your shirt, and it's really distracting trying not to look."

  "You're awful!" With an expression of mock horror on her face, Courtney clenched a fist around the top of her robe and nightshirt and clasped it tight to her chest as she sat back and fixed him with a stern gaze.

  "Why awful?" Bill protested. "I told you, didn't I? I could have just snuck a few peeks and never mentioned it. But that wouldn't have been very respectful, now, would it?"

  Courtney narrowed her eyes and studied him, trying to hold back the smile that played at the edges of her mouth. The hot summer wind blew through the kitchen and the moon-and-stars clock on the wall ticked off a few seconds, until finally she just shook her head and laughed.

  "What am I gonna do with you, Bill Cantwell?" she asked, a trace of her mother's brogue slipping into her voice.

  "I wish I knew," Bill replied, no trace of flirtation in his voice, gaze locked upon hers. "The suspense is killing me."

  "Why don't we start with breakfast? You can cook, can't you?"

  "Are bacon and eggs all right?" Bill asked.

  "It'll do," Courtney told him.

  Bill stood up, went to the refrigerator, and began to putter around as he prepared to cook them breakfast. It was nice. Very nice. Courtney tapped the length of her cane against her knee, watched him, and was filled with wonder at the peculiar turns her life had taken.

  Abruptly, as he put a pan on the stove, Bill stiffened. His eyebrows knitted together as he turned toward the window and sniffed the air. Then his expression went completely blank and he turned his attention back to the carton of eggs on the counter.

  "What?" Courtney prodded. "What was that? What did you smell?"

  The question broke down a wall between them. In the time since she had discovered he was a Prowler, they had never discussed it, either directly or indirectly.

  Now this seemingly innocent question put all the cards on the table. She was recognizing what he was, that he had senses far more acute than her own. Bill blinked in surprise, then shrugged.

  "Nothing," he said. "Just smelled something nasty, that's all. Garbage truck going by, maybe."

  He went back to cooking, and for a while, Courtney just stared at his back. Garbage pickup was on Wednesday. Bill knew that. Whatever it was he had scented on the wind, he didn't want to tell her about it.

  As far as Courtney was concerned, that could mean only one thing.

  Jack and Molly weren't the only ones in dangerous territory.

  It was after eight o'clock when Jack came slowly awake. There was no air-conditioning in the room, and the morning was warm, the air close and moist. After a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

  On the bed opposite his, Molly lay curled into a ball, wild red hair splayed around her head, falling over her face. Her green eyes were wide and watching him.

  Jack felt a rush of heat to his face as he wondered how long she had been doing so.

  "Morning," he said.

  "Hi," Molly replied, her voice a cracked, early-morning whisper.

  "Been up long?"

  "Not really."

  "Was I drooling?" he asked. Molly smiled. "Not much. I was just sort of lying here, thinking. You snore, by the way."

  "No, I do not," he said, head still on the pillow, no desire to move. "What are you thinking about?"

  "Pretending."

  Jack frowned. "How do you mean?"

  Molly's body unfurled beneath her covers as she stretched, catlike, eyes still on him.

  "People pretend all the time, don't they?" she asked. "I mean, we pretend we're not afraid to die, or that we're not hurt when we are. We pretend we know so much; that we know everything, really. But we don't. We live in a world where things like Prowlers exist, and who knows what else, and we pretend not to be afraid of the dark."

  After a moment's pause, Molly sat up in bed, hair tumbling over her shoulders, the covers falling away to reveal the soft sheath she had slept in. There was a sadness about her that belied the intensity with which she spoke. Apparently, she had been doing a lot of thinking this morning while she waited for him to wake up.

  "God, Jack, we live in a world where what people pretend to know - so they can hide their fear - is so huge that we can't even tell anybody what's real. Nobody will believe us because they're terrified what it would mean not to pretend anymore."

  He was not at all sure what she was getting at, but Jack could see how grave Molly felt these thoughts were. Concerned, he slipped out of bed in the T-shirt and gym shorts he'd slept in to avoid any embarrassment, and went to sit by her.

  "I can't argue with any of that," he confessed. "But we can't change the world, Molly. At least you and me aren't pretendin' not to know all that stuff."

  Her smile was bittersweet. "Yeah. I guess."

  What are you pretending not to know? he wanted to ask her. But he did not dare, for fear of what she might answer.

  "You know what frightens me?" she went on. "When I think about it all, the ghosts and the Prowlers, and then I wonder - if those things exist, what else is out there? What if we've just scratched the surface of what's really there?"

  Jack laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. The contact was electric, and he could see that she felt it, too. He thought she might have shuddered.

  "Maybe you're right," he said. "But let's take one monster at a time, okay? Besides, I'm not afraid. I've got you watching out for me."

  Her smile was uncharacteristically shy. "You're something else, Dwyer."

  Molly stood up quickly, as if trying to escape the intimacy of waking up together. The sheath she wore was straight and featureless, but he still caught himself looking at her a little too long.

  "I'm gonna jump in the shower," she said quickly. "Then we can grab some breakfast."

  "Sounds good," Jack replied.

  Molly gathered up her things for the shower and went into the bathroom without meeting his eyes again. Whatever was between them would remain unspoken.

  Artie's memory and spirit haunted the space that separated Jack from Molly, and so they would pretend, just as Molly had described, that those feelings did not exist.

  But he wondered what else she pretended, if she was aware that her dead boyfriend's ghost watched over them.

  He heard the shower turn on. A fog fell over his thoughts, a stillness with only a buzzing beneath the surface where all his questions and worries lay buried.

  Though it happened almost unconsciously, that expulsion of the concerns weighing upon him was the only way he could deal with them at the moment. His questions would be answered and his worries played out, but only over time.

  A voice from behind him broke the silence.

  "She's pretty amazing, isn't she?"

  "Ah!" Jack lunged across the bed, rolled, and came up on the other side, heart thudding in his chest, lungs heaving with panic.

  Artie Carroll's ghost was across the room, hovering several inches off the ground. He looked as he had the night he died, his straggly blond hair down to his shoulders, his hooded sweatshirt ripped at the neck, hightop sneakers untied, the laces dangling beneath him, trailing on the floor. He had that innocent who-me? expression on his face, the one that had allowed him to get away with so much over the years.

  "Damn it, Artie," Jack rasped, his voice sounding like the patter of water in the shower. "Don't do that! You scared the crap out of me."

  The ghost held
up both hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry, Jack, but think about it. What, am I supposed to knock?" He mimed knocking on the air. "Hel-lo?"

  Jack's breathing had returned to normal, though his heart still tapped a rapid rhythm. He rolled his eyes at Artie's familiar tone and shook his head. The guy was impossible to stay mad at.

  "Just . . . try to . . . manifest or whatever it is in front of me instead of behind my back, okay?" he asked.

  "Right," Artie said, lips pursed doubtfully. "Like that's going to be less freaky for you. You're just gonna have to get a thicker skin, y'know? Why is it you strong guys are always the jittery ones?"

  "I'm not jittery."

  "Yeah, and politicians aren't corrupt. Actually, I wouldn't mind so much that they're corrupt if they'd just be more up front about it. Wear a 'for sale' button or something, y'know? If you're going to be greedy and sell your soul, stop being so afraid to get caught. They're all such babies about it. Talk about cowards.

  Between the votes they've been paid off to cast, and the ones they cast 'cause they're too afraid of backlash from the religious right or whatever to actually vote how they think, I bet most of them don't ever cast a vote that really represents their own thought process. It's such a dirty business. No wonder there's - "

  "Artie!" Jack snapped, his voice hushed, even though he was fairly certain Molly couldn't hear him over the shower.

  The spirit's eyes widened, and Jack shuddered to see the eternal blackness within them. The rest of him was insubstantial. The morning sun passed through him, his body as gossamer as the curtains that hung over the windows. But those eyes . . .

  "Sorry, bro," Artie said. "Just got carried away. Most of the folks over here in the Ghostlands don't have much patience with talk about their old lives, the world, y'know? Hurts too much to talk about what they've left behind."

  Jack felt a stab of guilt, feeling as though he'd robbed Artie of the small pleasure of arguing. "Another time, okay? When Molly's not around, we can debate all you want."

  Artie perked up. "Really?"

  "Truly."

  "Thanks, Jack. I mean it." The ghost's eyes darted toward the bathroom door. "So you and Molly . . .?"

  Jack stiffened. "Nothing, Artie. There's nothing going on."

  Artie gazed at him with obvious disappointment. "Come on. What am I, twelve? I've seen you guys dancing around each other like bugs trying to keep away from the backyard zapper. Just kiss her, already."

  Horrified, Jack clapped a hand over his eyes and lowered his head. "Man, stop with that. She's your girlfriend."

  When he took his hand away from his face, Jack saw that Artie was hovering only two inches away, close enough so that his fingers dragged through the ethereally cold nothingness that made up Artie's body.

  Jack jerked back hard and his head hit the wall with a thud. He winced, but Artie moved closer. The specter's eyes had narrowed with anger and an abiding, aching sadness that hurt Jack to the core.

  "Don't do that to me, Jack," Artie said through clenched teeth, angrier than Jack had ever seen him.

  "What? Don't do what?"

  "Don't talk to me like I'm alive." Artie turned and floated back across the room, his legs passing right through the bed. Once he had pretended to walk, but that had been right after he'd died. Now he simply drifted.

  "Artie, listen - "

  "No," Artie snapped, turning on him. "You do what you want, Jack. Do what your heart tells you to do. But you're my best friend. I expect you to watch out for Molly as best you can. Do I wish I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be all right?"

  His voice seemed to drop an octave, to become hollow and distant and cold. The dark eyes swirled, with the eternity of the Ghostlands visible through them, and for the first time Jack was afraid of the ghost. He knew Artie could not hurt him, but there was a darkness in him in that moment, the sinister weight of death itself, that made Jack shiver.

  "Of course I do," Artie whispered. After a moment, he looked up again. "But I can't do that, Jack. If Molly ends up with anybody else, it'll break my heart. But with you . . . I can live with that. I can even be happy for you. It's obvious you care about her, and I've seen the way she looks at you."

  Jack sighed. He fixed his friend with a sincere gaze and shook his head. "We can't, Artie. You're still here to me. And Molly . . . I think she can sense that you're not really gone."

  "But I am gone, Jack. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Molly knows it, too. It's pretty freaky that I have to be the one to tell you what any fool could see is happening with you two. Give it time, all right? See what develops. Don't let her end up with some jerk."

  Jack took a deep breath and blew it out. "You're right about one thing. It's all pretty freaky. How the hell am I supposed to kiss her if I know you might be watching?"

  The ghost shimmered, then flickered like the picture on a television set just before the power goes out. A sad look had come over Artie's features again.

  "When you're right, you're right," he said. He floated toward Jack. "You've got my word that unless you see me, I'm not around. If I pop in and you guys are together, I'll bug out for a while."

  "I really don't think you have anything to worry about," Jack told him. "Nothing's gonna happen with us. I'm telling you. We've got too much between us."

  Artie grinned at that. "We'll see."

  Jack sighed. "Look, you didn't come here to talk to me about this. What's going on?"

  "The locals - the dead ones, anyway - they're talking about the Prowlers. We already know from those ghosts you passed on your way into town that there's a pack in the area. But I did some more digging. It looks like they use the town as a home base and hunt around here. The strange thing is, they only started killing people in town recently. It's over some book apparently. I talked to the ghost of that mailman, Garraty? Tried to get him to manifest so you could talk to him, but he's still pretty angry about being murdered and all, keeping mostly to himself. I'll see if I can find out anything else."

  Jack scratched at his chin. "Yeah. Thanks for that. What about the other local victim? Martin or Marlin or whatever."

  The ghost drifted backward, toward the window. The closer Artie came to the sunlight, the more gossamer-like he became, until it was almost as though his whole body had been woven out of spiderweb.

  "I've asked about him, but no one seems to know. Some think it's possible he's gone on already."

  "Gone where?" Jack asked.

  "To wherever he's destined to go. Those of us still here, we're the lost ones, Jack, or the ones who refuse to leave. The ones who have something keeping them from resting. People who die violently usually hang around for a while, clinging to the old world. Looks like Foster Marlin was the exception."

  Jack thought about that. No Marlin. But at least the ghost of that mailman was still around. And if he and Molly didn't work fast, there would be more.

  "All right. Thanks. Let me know if you come up with anything else."

  He looked up at Artie but the ghost was staring past him, a wistful smile on his spectral features. Jack blinked and turned to find Molly standing in the open bathroom door, wrapped only in a towel. Her hair was damp and hanging across her bare shoulders in tangled skeins. She looked nothing short of extraordinary.

  "Hey," Molly said quietly.

  "Hey," Jack replied.

  "You talking to one of them?"

  Jack nodded.

  "Let me just grab my clothes," she said. Quickly, Molly went to the dresser and made a small pile of the items she wanted to wear before hurrying back into the bathroom and shutting the door.

  Alone again, Jack glanced up at Artie, who had a broad grin on his face.

  "Told you," the ghost said.

  "Told me what?" Jack replied quickly.

  Artie rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. She could have brought the clothes in with her in the first place, Jack. Were you always this slow on the uptake, or is this a special case?"

  Then the ghost
dissipated into nothing, like the momentary sheen of a rainbow in the spray of a backyard sprinkler. Artie was gone.

  "A special case," Jack whispered to the empty room. "Definitely a special case."

  A few minutes later Molly emerged from the bathroom to rummage for her hair dryer. She wore a bright orange shirt that was cut above her belly button and white shorts. Jack offered her a smile that felt plastered on.

  Dryer in hand, Molly stopped before going back into the bathroom. She studied him a moment.

  "What is it? Did it tell you anything that'll help us?"

  "Not really," Jack replied. "But it told me we were right about the Prowlers. They're here."

  CHAPTER 6

  The trees that lined Route 31 blocked out some of the harsh sunlight, allowing the breeze that rustled through the leaves to cool the air just a bit. It was a day that made Jack appreciate shade, not to mention the ocean breeze he usually took for granted, living so close to Boston Harbor.

  That morning they hit the lobby of the Buckton Inn to find coffee, juice, and muffins on a sideboard against a far wall. There was no sign of Tina, just a gray-haired, stern-looking woman whose eternally pursed lips made Jack think of a prissy, tyrannical librarian he'd run into more than once at the Boston Public Library. Without a word, they collected what little the inn offered by way of breakfast and fled the lobby to escape the woman's intense scrutiny.

  Jack drove them south along the Post Road, the way they had come the night before. In the passenger seat, Molly spread a map out in her lap. They had pored over news reports of the mailman's death, and it looked as though Phil Garraty had been murdered on his route, just beyond the intersection of the Post Road - Route 31 on the map - and Route 219, which ran east-west just south of town.

  They parked on the side of 219, fifty yards from the intersection with the Post Road. Jack spread the map on the hood of the Jeep and Molly stood still, apparently trying to get some sense of the place. From time to time, a car or an SUV whizzed by on 219, mostly headed east. East made sense to Jack. There wasn't much to the west except more towns like Buckton, more green hills and mountains.