Jay’s mouth felt so dry he could barely swallow. He could hear the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears. He groped for Steve’s camera, drew it into his sweaty palms.
He pictured the kid’s sallow face pressed against the bedroom window, his mouth drawn into a sinister snarl.
Should have gotten that drink.
He whirled toward the window.
The boy was there. Closer this time. Standing less than a dozen feet away. A phosphorescent blue glow radiated from his body, his face alabaster white.
The boy focused his gaze on the bedroom window, but he seemed to be staring beyond the shadows. Jay was drawn to the boy’s eyes, held fast by a gaze that was as innocent as it was monstrous.
Maybe he’s not seeing me, maybe—
The boy lifted a finger and pointed.
Right at him.
Jay went rigid. Almost choked on the air.
The boy’s finger curled and straightened in an unmistakable gesture.
Come outside.
A screech escaped Jay’s lips. He snapped the picture and fell backward onto the bed, momentarily blinded by the camera’s flash. When he finally mustered up enough courage to peer over the windowsill, the boy was gone.
He closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath, but the image of the boy was burned into his retinas as a negative, the light and dark reversed. It lingered for a few moments—an image of a boy dead to this world for centuries. An image of a boy who wore Puritan clothing.
***
Jay rubbed sand from his eyes and squinted at the light filtering in through the blinds. No dead little Puritan boy lurked in his backyard. The pasty little ghoul clearly liked to rest during the day so that he could scare the bejesus out of people at night.
Sunlight heliographed off Jay’s watch, and he turned his wrist to catch the time. Four in the afternoon. Talk about sleeping in on a Sunday! The only problem was the dial for the date said it was Monday.
But how could that be?
He had a foggy memory of dragging himself out of bed on Sunday afternoon and staggering into the kitchen—straight to his old pal Jack—on a mission to drink that kid’s face out of his mind.
Beyond that, everything was a blur.
He sat up and felt a sudden urge to vomit.
It happened before he could react, and suddenly the inside of his stomach glistened on the outside of his sheets. A noise escaped his lips—something between a moan and a sob. He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and came away with a sticky line of drool.
“Why do I keep doing this?” he asked the empty room.
Because you’re an alcoholic.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I almost forgot.”
And you’re crazy—you know that?
“Si, señor, soy loco en la cabeza.”
Something made a noise nearby, a muffled sort of chirping like the screech of an alarm clock…only this was much faster. It took him a few moments to realize the phone was off the hook, the handset tangled in a knot of blankets. He hung it up and shook his head. Who had he called? Steve? Crystal? The police?
That last thought made him laugh.
Hi, officer, this is Jay Gallagher calling ... yeah, the town drunk. Listen, I’d like to report a dead little Puritan boy in my backyard.
He hoped he hadn’t called Crystal and said something stupid, something he would later regret. He’d done something like that with his mom and, unfortunately, they were words he could never take back.
Her cancer had spread fast after the initial diagnosis, ripping through her body like a school of tiny piranhas. He called her after a long night at Malley’s, and she started lecturing him about his drinking, told him to quit before he ended up like his dad. That sent him into a rage. He launched into a flurry of curses, told her she had no right to compare him to his dad. Told her to shut up, to hurry up and die.
And that’s exactly what she did. His stepfather called the next morning. Jay dragged himself out of bed, fighting off one of the worst hangovers of his life, and made the drive to their house. He didn’t even remember the previous night’s conversation. But his stepfather pulled him aside before the crowd of relatives grew too large. As it turned out, their outdated answering machine had picked up a moment before his mom had, and when his stepfather pressed play, Jay was horrified by the words that slurred through the speaker.
The next day he signed up for AA, and at first he went to the meetings religiously. He would sit there in the smoky basement and listen to strangers speak about their trials of addiction. Their patterns of abuse seemed familiar—hiding bottles, lying about how much you had to drink, looking up in a bar and realizing that you were the only one still there. But even so, most of those people had it worse than he did. They’d been drinking longer and harder, couldn’t hold a job, had hit rock bottom.
But for Jay, the bottom wasn’t even in sight. Sure he’d blurted out something he regretted to his mom, but who hadn’t done that at one time or another? Besides, he had a steady job, a great girlfriend. What was he doing at AA anyway? Maybe someday he’d need to go, but certainly not now.
And so he quit going to the meetings and vowed instead to limit himself to three drinks a day. From that point forward, he made sure his drinking was carefully concealed—never at work, never when Crystal was around (unless she was sleeping). Living with her was tricky business. After each drink he’d have to brush his teeth and gargle with Listerine. With her around, he went through bottles of mouthwash almost as fast as he went through bottles of beer.
That, of course, brought up another problem. The trash collectors in Glenwood were Nazis about recycling. They wouldn’t take your regular trash if they heard bottles clinking around inside. That forced him to keep a box of empties stored in the attic. Every Saturday when Crystal went to the gym, he’d load the box into his car and throw it into a dumpster across town. Then he’d kill some time before returning home, and if Crystal asked he’d say the AA meeting went well.
And lying here now in vomit-soaked sheets at four in the afternoon, fighting a pounding headache and a raging hangover, he hated himself. All his rationalizations for leaving AA had vanished—no more steady job, no more great girlfriend. And to top it all off, now he was seeing ghosts.
You’re screwed in the head, my friend.
“Maybe si, maybe no.”
Steve’s camera lay on the nightstand, and he switched it on to reveal a picture with a dark and shadowy background. The pines at the edge of his yard rose high into the sky, their slender trunks barely discernible against the night. In the foreground stood the Puritan boy, his body surrounded by an aura of pale blue light. His dark eyes blazed with fierce determination, reflecting twin pinpricks of the camera’s flash.
Jay set the camera down and folded his arms. Part of him had hoped to see nothing but trees in that photo.
He pulled his clothes on slowly, testing the strength of his stomach. It seemed okay now. He was pretty sure he was done throwing up. At least until his next bender.
When he got downstairs, he threw the sheets into the washer and set it to sanitary. Hopefully, that would do the trick. They should have been cleaned even before he did Jane Doe, but now he couldn’t put it off any longer.
As water sloshed and churned in the washer’s belly, Jay dropped a couple slices of bread into the toaster. The smell of it browning awakened him to how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten anything solid in well over twenty-four hours.
A burst of sunlight hit him when he opened the front door, the day so bright it hurt his eyes. He stooped down to grab the newspaper and peered at the street through splayed fingers.
The toaster popped as he closed the door, sending two breaded projectiles sailing over the counter.
The demon toaster strikes again, he heard Crystal say.
God, he missed the sound of her voice. Strong, sweet … always with a touch of sarcasm. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and yet he went ahead and screwed it all up. I
t’s not like she hadn’t warned him. She threatened to leave a year ago, and even then he knew it wasn’t just an idle threat. But did that stop him from taking up the bottle once again?
Why couldn’t he stop? Why couldn’t he go through an entire day without picturing the beer in the refrigerator? Other people could have one drink, two drinks, and then stop cold.
Why couldn’t he do that? Why was he so weak?
He washed the last of his toast down with a gulp of coffee, and then spread out the newspaper before him. His attention turned to a black and white image of a grinning boy wearing a Red Sox cap. The boldface headline to the left of the photo practically leapt off the page:
Glenwood Youth Reported Missing
Third disappearance in two weeks leaves many parents wondering: Could my child be next?
Jay finished the article and shook his head. The whole world was going down the toilet…and it seemed he was going down with it. After leafing through the rest of the paper, he grabbed his keys and drove to Crystal’s sister’s house. When he got there, he rang the doorbell and switched the bouquet of roses he’d bought from one hand to the other. For a moment, he thought no one would answer…or, even worse, that Crystal would answer with some guy’s arms locked around her waist. But after he tried the bell again, the door swung open and Crystal’s sister stood looking at him with her mouth hanging open.
“Jay. Hi ... um ... Crystal’s not here.”
“I know she’s here, Denise. Just let me talk to her, okay?”
“She’s not here—I swear.”
“It’s okay, Denise.” Crystal’s voice drifted to them from the kitchen.
Denise turned around, and Jay could see Crystal standing at the entrance to the hallway. “Let him in.”
Denise opened the door without a word. She glared at Crystal and then stalked upstairs.
Jay held out the roses.
Crystal seemed reluctant to accept them. “What do you want?” She laid the bouquet on the coffee table.
“Can I sit down?” God, why did she have to look so good?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The words struck him like a sucker punch to the gut. She wasn’t his anymore. It was as if he were meeting her for the first time, as if they had never kissed, never made love. It was as if she had reached inside herself, flicked off some hidden switch and erased seven years of memories.
And suddenly he felt like he might cry. Right here in the living room while Denise listened from the stairs, snickering to herself.
“Are you all right?” Crystal asked.
“No. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I’m going crazy without you. Please give me another chance.”
When she didn’t answer, he reached into his pocket and brought out her engagement ring. “You forgot this at the house.”
Crystal swallowed. “I didn’t forget it.”
Jay closed his hand over the ring. “I was afraid you might say that.” A tear broke through his defenses and slid down his cheek like an alien kiss. “I don’t blame you for leaving me, and I know I don’t deserve another chance, but you loved me once. Will you come back if I check into rehab? You can sign me in yourself.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Jay. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to get hurt again. Do you have any idea how much pain you’ve put me through? I need to move on. For my own good.” And then she burst into tears.
He wrapped his arms around her, but she pushed him away. Smacked him on the chest. “Why do you have to be a drunk? I loved you, Jay. I wanted to spend my life with you. But you ruined it.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Please—just give me a chance.”
“I told you before, it’s either me or alcohol. And you made your choice. So I’m sorry, but I’m done being second to your one true love.”
“I’ll change, I swear! Look, I’m not drunk now. I’ll stay this way. Just give me another chance. Please.”
Crystal stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
“I want to show you something.” He pulled Steve’s camera out of his jacket pocket. “I wasn’t drunk the other night. I know you don’t believe me, but just look at this.” He scrolled to the picture of the boy.
She wiped her eyes and stared at it. When she looked up, her face had changed. “Get out.”
“What, why?”
“There’s nothing in the picture except an overexposed smudge of light. So that means you’re either crazy, drunk, or mean. And you know what? I don’t really care which one…because we’re done.”
He stared at the picture. “It’s the wrong one,” he lied. “Give me a second, I’ll find it.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if there was a boy that night, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re an alcoholic. You’ve broken too many promises. I know you mean them with all your heart—and that’s what makes this so hard—but I also know you can’t keep them.” She shook her head. “It’s over, Jay. Good-bye.”
She pushed past him and ran upstairs.
“Crystal wait!”
At the third step from the top, she drew to a halt, but didn’t turn around. “I think it’s best if we never see each other again. And no more phone calls, Jay. Drunk or sober.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah sipped a juice box and squinted down at her math homework. Fractions—ugh! You had to convert them to a common denominator before you could add or subtract them, which was kind of tricky. Almost sneaky. And you couldn’t even check your work with a calculator. At least not with the cheap one Mom bought her today.
They got it at the Forest Mall in Gilford. Mom surprised her with the trip after she got home from school. The Forest Mall had much better stores than the mini-mall down the street—Macy’s, Dillard’s, Saks Fifth Avenue (where Mom said they could look, but not touch), and Brookstone (the store with the cool massaging chairs). The mission had been to find some shorts and some summer shirts for her and some makeup and dress slacks for Mom.
She liked shopping with Mom because it was the only time they really got along. When they went shopping, they were like a family from one of the mushy TV shows that Mom always watched—talking and laughing like best friends, just plain having fun. Not once did Mom bring up Jenny or how Sarah always asked to stay home from school.
It was a great day—one of the best she’d had in a long time. Probably the best since last summer by the stream. She liked to relive that day whenever she felt sad, imagining herself sitting in her favorite spot as the sun warmed her face and the water gurgled around the stones, making mini whirlpools. The air had smelled sweet and clean, like pine trees and flowers. And as she dipped her toes in the water, a Monarch butterfly touched down on her knee, its fuzzy feet tickling her skin. It flexed its wings and then lifted into the air, fluttering higher and higher until it vanished into the canopy.
Sometimes that memory was all she had to keep herself from going crazy, a reminder that no matter how bad things got there was always a place she could go where she felt welcome. A place that was beautiful and peaceful and real. It was her special place, and she’d never shared it with anyone besides Jenny. Someday it would be nice to share her place with, well, a real person, a real friend.
She snapped her math book shut and stood up. Mr. Whiskers blinked sleepily at her from his favorite spot on the bed before settling his head back down between his paws. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the desk. Butterfly stickers lined the mirror’s edges—bright orange ones, small red ones, fuzzy green ones. They appeared to fly when she tilted her head to the right or to the left.
The girl between the butterflies had shoulder-length brown hair and big, brown eyes. Tiny freckles spattered her face, most of them clustered around her nose. The other day Susie Jenkins had called her ugly ... and maybe she was. Her skin seemed too pale, her head too big. And with two teeth missing, she looked like a beaver.
Most of her classmates already had a full set of adult teeth, but Mom said she wa
s a late bloomer. She lost one of her teeth just the other night. Instead of popping right out, it hung by a sliver of pink flesh that she had to twist and yank until it pulled free. It had hurt a lot, but it was worth it the next morning when she woke up to find that the “tooth fairy” had left her two dollars beneath her pillow.
She’d known the tooth fairy was really her parents since the age of seven. It happened by accident. When she woke up one morning to find a dollar in place of her tooth, she ran into her parents’ room to show them. But lying right there on the nightstand beside her sleeping parents was her tooth. She was only seven, but she wasn’t stupid. She also knew to keep her mouth shut or else the tooth fairy might stop bringing her money.
From what she could tell, most kids didn’t believe in the tooth fairy. Or the Easter Bunny. It was kind of dumb—a giant rabbit hopping around from house to house, leaving painted eggs. Rabbits didn’t even lay eggs. And even if they did, why would they want to give their babies away? The tooth fairy, too—what would someone want with a bunch of teeth? Maybe for the silver in the fillings, but not all teeth had fillings. The tooth fairy had taken her teeth, and she’d never had a filling in her life.
Santa Claus was different, though. Her grandmother had told her once that Santa was really an angel that God created to bring happiness to all the kids in the world. Santa Claus had been alive a long time. He had reindeer that flew and magic dust that allowed him to shrink down small enough to slide down any chimney. It sounded crazy, but it all made sense if you thought of Santa as an angel. That’s probably why some people called him St. Nick. Besides, everyone believed in God and angels—even grownups. They wouldn’t go to church for an hour every Sunday just so that they could fool their kids into thinking Santa was real.
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