Molly walked over and stood behind him, staring over his shoulder at the map. "I'm curious. What are we doing here exactly?"
"What do you mean?"
"What are we doing here?" she said again. "Exactly?"
"Just getting our bearings."
Molly stared at him. "The information the ghosts have given you is pretty clear. There are Prowlers here. A pack, though we don't know what size, exactly. But don't you think we should call Bill now? I really don't think we should try to take them on by ourselves."
His eyes widened. "Neither do I. Are you kidding? But Courtney and Bill have a lot on their plates already. We're keeping them posted, but I figure before we drag Bill all the way up here, we can at least try to figure out what's going on, see if we can't narrow down where the pack might have their lair. We might even be able to figure out who some of them are."
"And we're supposed to do this without drawing attention to ourselves?" Molly prodded.
Jack shrugged. "Basically. Look, the second we have any solid information or feel like we're in danger, we'll call him, all right?"
Molly seemed to roll that over in her head for a minute. Then she nodded. "Let's just be careful."
"Absolutely," Jack agreed. Then his attention turned back to the map. "Foster Marlin was killed in his home. Garraty was murdered out here, in the middle of the morning, while on his route. But the locals . . . the ghosts . . . they say those guys are the exceptions. Up until now, the pack hasn't hunted in Buckton. All the killings were in the mountains and other towns. If the information I got was right, they changed the rules because of some book that was stolen that they want back."
He had explained to her what Artie had told him, though without revealing it was Artie who had supplied the information.
"Doesn't seem like the smartest thing to do," Molly noted. "There have to have been ways for them to get the thing back without attracting attention."
"Maybe they panicked," Jack offered. He looked around at the trees and shivered, despite the heat. Though cars passed intermittently, they were pretty much alone out there. "Look, I don't know. I'm just trying to figure out what to do next."
Molly took a breath and reached out to stroke his arm once. "I know. You talked to Courtney this morning. Did she and Bill have any suggestions?"
"Other than 'don't get killed'?" Jack asked. He shrugged and walked along the Post Road a bit. "Not a whole lot, no. They both want to come to be with us, but there's the pub to be dealt with. I told them we'd be careful, to hold off until we really need them."
Molly rubbed the back of her neck, then leaned against the Jeep with her arms crossed, regarding him carefully. "So how are we supposed to figure out where the lair is?"
For a moment Jack felt at a total loss. The wind kicked up and blew the map off the hood of the Jeep and he ran to get it. Twice he bent to retrieve it, only to have it blow out of reach. The third time he stamped a foot down on it, then bent to carefully pick it up. The grimy print of his sneaker was smeared across the entire Buckton area.
Jack stared at the map.
"What?" Molly asked.
"We chart them. The corpses, I mean. We chart them out, and see if there's a pattern."
He went to the Jeep and rummaged in the glove compartment for a pen, then circled the spots where he thought the postman had been murdered, and where he thought Foster Marlin's house ought to be, based on the address he had gotten out of the phone book.
"Are you expecting help from Deputy Vance and the sheriff ?" Molly asked. "'Cause, no offense, but if you don't want to draw attention, asking about mysterious deaths and murders going back forty years or so is not the way to go unnoticed."
"They won't have any idea what we're doing until we have something solid to give them," Jack assured her.
"Then I don't get it," she said. "How do we find out the exact locations where all these people were murdered, where their bodies were discovered?"
Jack turned to her, aware that his smile had dissipated, his features now grim, but he felt unable to pretend with his emotions in front of her.
"We ask them," he said simply.
Eyes wide, Molly stared at him, then glanced around anxiously, as though aware for the first time that the lost souls of the dead were not there only when Jack saw them, but all the time. She took a step closer to him, one hand on the sun-warmed hood of the Jeep.
"You can do that? I mean, I thought you only saw them if they appeared to you."
"Not necessarily. Let's experiment."
Molly bit her lip and turned to lean against the Jeep, beside him. Jack closed his eyes and thought about Artie, and Father Pinsky, the priest the Prowlers had killed in Boston, and the other ghosts he had seen. He tried to force himself to feel that frisson of fear that always ran through him when his vision changed and he was able to see the Ghostlands.
"Hold my hand," Jack whispered, fingers reaching for Molly's. Something seemed to be tugging on him, and he wanted to hang on to her, as though she were his anchor.
"Hey," he whispered. "Anybody there?"
After a long moment he opened his eyes. Everything looked exactly as it had before. His mouth twisted with disappointment, and he glanced at Molly.
"Nothing."
"You can try again later. Let's have some lunch and maybe talk to some of the living instead," she said, trying to cheer him. "If we're casual enough, maybe it won't seem out of place."
Jack nodded. He pulled out his keys and jangled them in his hand for a second before he dropped them. They struck the pavement, and he bent to pick them up.
When he straightened up, he saw a battered old postal van rumbling along Route 31 to the intersection with 219. The van only paused a moment at the stop sign before starting across. A car came flying along 219 well above the speed limit, and passed right through the mail truck.
Through the postal vehicle, Jack could see the trees beyond. The thing was as insubstantial as smoke, even more so than most of the ghosts Jack had met.
Behind the wheel was a man in his mid-forties who seemed nervous about driving that particular stretch of road.
"Garraty," Jack whispered to himself.
"What?" Molly asked.
He glanced at her for a moment, and when he turned back, the world seemed to invert. Jack's stomach lurched and he felt bile rising in his throat. His skin tingled, as though insects were crawling on him. Suddenly the world around him had become completely insubstantial, the Jeep, the trees, the road, even Molly herself were only specters of themselves, a phantom world.
The postal van that rolled toward him was completely solid. And Jack now saw that there were two passengers inside it. A U2 song, "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," pumped from the stereo inside the van. Jack took a step forward and raised his hand, flagging down the van. Somewhere nearby he could hear Molly talking to him, but barely understood the words.
The van's brakes squealed as it came to a stop. A forty-something guy with a grim expression on his face stared at Jack as though he were a monster.
"You can see me?" he asked.
Jack nodded. "You're Phil Garraty?"
The postman blew out a breath. "Yeah. I just . . . I can't . . . how come you can see me?"
Jack didn't really have an answer to that. "A friend opened my eyes," he said. "But the way I've heard it, anyone can see the Ghostlands if they really want to."
Garraty shuddered. "That what it's called? The Ghostlands?"
Jack was barely listening. His gaze was on the figure in the passenger seat, an elderly man who sat with his limbs pulled in toward him, like a child who feared getting hit. The old man's expression was sad, yet somehow vacant.
"Wait. You're him, aren't you? The kid told me about you, the kid who talks all the time," Garraty said.
"Artie," Jack reminded him, happy that Garraty seemed to have at least begun to come to terms with his death. "I'm Jack. I want to find the Prowlers, Mr.
Garraty. They're the things that
did this to you. My friends and I want to stop them from ever doing it again. To do that, we have to find their lair."
Garraty's forehead creased and the edges of his mouth twitched with anger as he thought of his own savage murder. "Love to help you, son. Don't know what I can do for you though."
"This book that was stolen - "
"I'm no thief. Foster told me about the monsters, the Prowlers, but I didn't believe him. I carried the mail, that's all."
Jack perked up. "But who did you carry it to? Who did Foster send letters to?"
Garraty scowled. "Who didn't he? The man was a notorious crank. Always badgering people about painting their houses, keeping their dogs from crapping on the sidewalk. He acted like the whole town was his. Not many people were fond of Foster."
In the passenger seat, the old man began to whimper in a high voice, almost like an injured dog.
"Sorry I can't be more helpful," Garraty said.
"Maybe you can," Jack said quickly. "There are a lot of . . . souls around here, a lot of lost spirits whose lives were taken by the Prowlers. Hikers and people from out of town. I need to talk to them, or ask you to talk to them, tell me exactly where they were when they were killed. Show me on a map. It might help us find the lair."
A sparkle appeared in the black orbs that were Garraty's eyes. He sat up straighter now that he had a purpose. "I can do that, son. Nobody knows this area the way I do. I was the postman, you know."
"Any help would be appreciated." Jack stared past him again, at the old man, whose whimpering had risen in volume.
Suddenly the old man began to sing in that high, frightened voice. At first Jack didn't recognize the song, but after a moment he realized it was the theme from the old Road Runner show.
". . . if he catches you, you're through . . ." the insane ghost sang madly to himself.
"Who is he?" Jack asked, a pang of sorrow for the crazy old man spiking into his heart.
Garraty glanced at him as though he had not been aware the other ghost was there. Then his eyebrows went up. "Oh. That's just Kenny. He's the latest one they killed, but you won't get any help from him. Just keeps singing those old cartoon songs, then drifting off somewhere."
Jack shuddered as the song changed.
Then he frowned.
Jack, move!
It took a moment before he realized it was Molly, calling out to him. Jack turned toward her and saw the Ford pickup truck squealing around the corner, rocketing toward him.
He frowned. It was another ghost vehicle, a phantom Ford. Why was Molly so freaked, he wondered. Then he looked over at Molly. A phantom Molly. She screamed again and ran at him, and just as she collided with him, the world reversed again, everything taking on its true substance, its true flesh.
He went down hard on the pavement, with Molly on top of him and the Ford swerving to avoid hitting them. Even with the swerve, though, without Molly grabbing him, Jack knew he would have been hit. The pickup stopped a few yards along and a guy with scraggly hair and a beard leaned out the window.
"What the hell's the matter with you two?" he snapped in the deep Vermont twang so many of the locals had. Then he scowled and the truck roared out of there.
Jack was so engrossed in speaking to the dead mailman that he forgot he had been looking into the Ghostlands, and that, in that moment, the so-called real world would appear to be a phantom landscape to him. He had thought the actual truck to be a spectral one. Now he looked up at Molly, who was sprawled on top of him, eyes wide with fear.
"You scared the hell out of me," she said breathlessly.
He reached up and stroked the back of his fingers across her left cheek. "You saved my life. Thanks."
Molly smiled sweetly. "What else was I supposed to do? You have the keys to the Jeep."
Jack shoved her off him, both of them laughing softly, and they brushed themselves off. He glanced around, but there was no more sign of the ghostly postal van.
"What was that all about?" she asked.
"Help," he told her. "I think I've got us some help." As best he could, he explained his conversation with Garraty, and he described the disturbing sight of the old man's ghost.
"Another one," Molly said softly, a profound sadness filling her eyes.
Jack knew right away what she was thinking. "We can't start taking the blame, Molly. We're here to help, but that doesn't mean we'll be able to. Others may die.
But if we can destroy this pack, other lives will be saved. We can only do what we can do."
"That sucks," she told him.
"Yeah. It does."
Molly held her hand out to him, green eyes flashing angrily now. "Give me the keys."
He did as she asked, and Molly went to the back of the Jeep, popped it open, and hauled the trunk with the weapons in it to the edge of the bumper. Jack was always surprised to see how strong she was.
"Hey," he said, going to her side but not doing anything to stop her. "Do you think that's a good idea? If we're caught carrying guns, we'll probably end up in jail."
Molly glanced at the pavement for a second, then turned to stare up at him, eyes intense. She shook her hair back and held his gaze.
"And if we're caught without one, what then?" she asked, voice steady, almost cold.
Jack couldn't argue with that. They each took a pistol from the trunk and then locked it back up, leaving the more serious armament for later. The other weapons would have been impossible to carry concealed anyway.
They got into the Jeep and Jack pulled a U-turn and headed back up the Post Road toward Buckton. A few minutes passed in silence, but just as the downtown area came into view, Molly slid her pistol into the glove compartment.
"Gonna have to figure out what clothes I can wear to cover that," she said. "Y'know, something that wouldn't look stupid in this weather."
"Me, too," Jack agreed.
But she was still staring at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at her. "What is it, Mol?"
Her eyes darted away a moment, then came back to rest on him again. "When you were talking to that ghost, I heard you say Artie's name."
It wasn't a question. Her words hung in the air between them, almost tangible. Jack did not look at her again, but kept his eyes on the road.
"Word gets around in the Ghostlands," he said, mouth dry. "They knew that I'd lost a friend to the Prowlers. That's all."
Molly said nothing.
Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub was just down the street from Quincy Market in Boston, a mecca for tourists. Jugglers and musicians performed for the crowds and street vendors peddled ice cream and cotton candy. Parents bought their children brightly colored balloons, and young men bought their dates single red roses; both balloon strings and rose stems were clutched tightly in the hands of their recipients.
At nine o'clock that night, it was still eighty-four degrees and the cobblestoned streets around Quincy Market teemed with people. A perfect summer night for tourists and locals alike. Even the side streets were busy with pedestrians traveling to and from the garages and lots where they'd stashed their cars, or to the underground railway stations scattered around the area.
A lot of that foot traffic went along Nelson Street, the side road that passed right in front of Bridget's. It was barely wide enough for cars to pass in both directions. Once upon a time it had been run-down, but as Quincy Market became ever more popular, the store-fronts had spawned successful businesses, including an Italian restaurant, a coffee bar, a florist, and a drugstore. Bridget's had been there before any of them, and it thrived by attracting a newer, younger clientele without alienating longtime regulars. An Irish pub and restaurant could not survive without its regulars.
Though, on nights like this - the pub packed shoulder to shoulder with tourists and young couples - the regulars either became disgusted and cut out early or never bothered to show up at all.
Bill Cantwell didn't mind. Not only did he like the chaos, the energy brought to the place by the young people, but
he looked forward to such nights as a break from the most familiar faces at his bar. Not that he disliked them. In fact, most of the time he enjoyed their company. It was only that they were like most aging men who frequented pubs and bars - they shared their blues lavishly with others, but never took any of the advice they had asked for. It could be tiring.
The chatter in the restaurant was a dull roar, blotting out all but the conversation from the closest person. The waitstaff was harried, sliding sideways past one another to get to and from the kitchen and bar. The bar area itself was jammed with people waiting for tables, some of whom were unlikely to eat before ten-thirty or eleven, and who didn't seem to care at all.
Bill loved it.
A lithe girl with dark hair and vaguely exotic features had waited patiently for the crush at the bar to give enough for her to move forward. A couple of tanned, muscular guys hovered behind her, likely her dinner companions, Bill thought.
"Could I just get a hard lemonade, please?" she asked, all sweetness and light.
Bill smiled amiably and leaned on the bar, crowding some of the customers a bit. "I'm going to need some I.D."
"No problem," the petite brunette replied.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small billfold and a Rhode Island driver's license. Bill glanced at it, turned it over a few times, then handed it back to her.
"Nice job," he observed.
The girl frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there are places people wouldn't spot that as a fake I.D., but this isn't one of them," Bill explained reasonably. He shot a hard look at the two guys behind her, and they wouldn't meet his eyes.
"It's no fake," the girl snorted. "I'm really twenty-one."
"License says you're twenty-two. Also, it doesn't say anything about you wearing corrective lenses. You've got contacts on. Try another place."
"I didn't have the contacts then," she scrambled, acting truly upset and casting quick glances over her shoulder at the guys.
Bill leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper just loud enough for her to hear. "Go, now, or I'll have to take that thing and destroy it, which is what I'm supposed to do. I didn't. But I will."
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