“Fair enough,” I said. My ultimate plan, though, was to make it to the shop. I wanted to make sure everything was taken care of down there, especially the yellow Dodge Charger.
We made our way from the bank to the shop. I cracked the window for fresh air, and the cold came right in. My driver looked at me for a second in the rearview. “Want me to turn the heat down?” he asked.
“Nah. Just want a little air. Does it bother you?” I said. “I know this is your personal car.”
“Uh-uh,” he said. “Just making sure you’re comfortable.” I noticed his dark hair was cut short and tight, and it made me instantly feel like I needed to cut my own sooner than later.
We passed Main Street and the main library. I’d spent so much time in the library as a kid with my mom. I used to love going through the stacks and checking things out. There was so much to learn and see, and a million things to learn about. Finding out how things worked was an obsession. I recalled one trip where, on the way, I’d spotted a car and tried to figure out how the wheels were made to turn, just by looking at it. I couldn’t, but once I was inside the library, I found books that explained car mechanics. My mind wandered, and I wondered who the people were who’d dreamed up the car? How did they invent it? What were those conversations and experiments like? The subject had captured my imagination on so many levels. The way things were engineered became my constant focus. I wanted to know everything about everything.
Folks were braving the elements, bundled up and pushing through the snow. Light flurries turned into wind-whipped flakes. “Getting pretty bad,” my driver said. “We’re getting near-whiteout conditions, bud. Might need to turn in.”
“Would you mind bringing me to the shop?” I asked. “That can be the last stop.”
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Down past the court,” I said. “Right off Union Street.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m not worried about the bonus. Just think I should wrap this up.”
“No problem,” I said.
We drove another mile, and I realized he was right. There was not much to see other than white outside. You could still make out the streets and the lights, but it was rapidly deteriorating.
“It’s really early in the season for a storm like this,” he said. “Does not bode well for the winter.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I bet it’s going to be a bad one.”
“Maybe as bad as the blizzard of ’78, they’re saying.”
“Who?”
“Farmer’s almanac.”
“I’ll have to look into that.”
“How you going to get home from the shop?” he asked.
“Well, I could use one of the tow trucks, if I wanted,” I said. “But there’s a cot in the back, which is probably what I’m going to do. Make it a little vacation.”
“Cool,” he said.
We slipped a little on the road. He slowed down. “Man, this is getting ugly,” he said. “Shoot.”
“We’re in no rush,” I said. “I’ll pay you for your time.”
“Just don’t want to get in an accident,” he said.
“You won’t,” I said. “If anything happens, you now know someone who owns a shop that can take care of you.”
He laughed. “Good to know.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
We stopped at a red light. The wind picked up, and I shut the window. It’d gotten to be too much. “This is insane,” I said.
“Tell me about it. There doesn’t even seem to be anyone on the road.”
“They’re the smart ones for staying inside,” I said. “Did you know about this? I watch TV and am on the net all day, and didn’t even know this was possible.”
“Yeah, same here. Nope. Heard nothing.”
“Must be that polar vortex or whatever they’re always going on about.”
“Right. That’s got to be it.” He slowly drove us forward after the light changed.
“We’re only about a mile from the shop,” I said. “You think you’ll be okay?”
“Think so,” he said. “I’m more worried about making it up Flag Hill.”
“Maybe go around through Connecticut Avenue. Less of a climb, even though it’s longer,” I said. “That’s what I’d do.”
“Good idea. Flag Hill is going to be a ski slope.”
As we drove toward the shop, I recognized many landmarks. Each Victorian house was etched into my memory. The shop was near the end of the residential part of Union Street, and started a predominantly industrial part of Whistleville. Beyond that, we had a large marsh area, with a community college up on a hill overlooking that, and the Atlantic Ocean just beyond the breakers. Our town was pretty magnificent in its diversity and reach.
“This is it,” I said, pointing to the worn hand-painted sign on top of the garage.
“Great,” said my driver.
“You can just pull over,” I said. “I know it’s rough out.” I slipped my wallet from my inside pocket, took out the hundred-dollar bill and wrapped it around my business card. I handed it to him. “Here you go,” I said.
He saw it. “You don’t have to,” he said.
“Yes. I do,” I said. “Stay in touch. Let me know you made it back safe, and if you need anything. I’m Rick.”
We shook. “Peter,” he said. “Really. Thank you.”
“I know the company’s going to give you a bit for this, too,” I said. “I’ll be sure to leave you a great review.”
“Cool.”
I got out, took my day bag with me and quickly realized I was not dressed at all for the elements. Jeans, a light jacket and sneakers are not good defenses against the snow. Especially for a guy on crutches.
“You going to be okay?” he said, seeing me maneuvering through the blizzard on my crutches.
“Sure,” I yelled over my shoulder. “There are no cars. Just need to make it across the street.” In fact, I’d made it halfway across already. The snow was falling hard, but it was still light and fluffy. It’d later freeze over and become a sheet of ice, I knew.
“Okay,” he said.
He waited until I made it to the front gate and got my key in the lock. I heard him go into gear, and his tires rolled over the snow, making a crunching sound. I knew I had only done two of the many errands I wanted, and it was definitely an overtip. Told myself I’d need to not spend like I had or I’d lose it. Once it was gone, I’d be back to square one.
Through the gate and beyond the fence, I made quick work of getting to the front office, unlocking it and getting inside.
Everything outside was white, and the shop was notoriously drafty. That was on purpose. We didn’t want to stew in the chemicals we used. “Extra ventilation,” Uncle Dave would say. Sure made the New England winters in Whistleville uncomfortable, though. There was always a cold wind coming in from somewhere. That day was no different.
Sitting down in the main chair in the front office felt strange. I’d never really sat in it while Uncle Dave was alive. “This is what he saw, day to day,” I thought, looking around. I looked at the pens in the cup holder on the desk and recognized a chubby one he preferred. I grabbed it and touched a greasy fingerprint. I froze, holding the pen in midair. His. Something left behind. Was there anything else of him left throughout the shop? Oily fingerprints. Hair. Handwriting. Objects he’d touched. Things left behind, his recent history told in fragments. My heart felt heavy. How could this all have happened? He’d been taken, just like Jimmy and just like Mikey. Nothing would bring them back. Nothing at all. I felt lonely like I’d never felt before.
My phone rang, startling me.
It was Anna.
“Damn it,” I said. “You always have the worst timing, don’t you?” I silenced the call and put the phone on the desk. I really didn’t want to deal wi
th her. Next to where I put the phone, I saw a date circled. November 22. My birthday. Uncle Dave had written “surprise” in his inimitable chicken scratch. I’d never know what his surprise for me would be.
That made me think of something: his computer. His email. He had to have his password written somewhere. He was too forgetful not to have a master password somewhere. Maybe there would be a clue as to how he was taken? Maybe some evidence I could pass along? I’d be able to patch together what’d happened to him leading up to his disappearance. But then what? Would I share it with the detectives? Would they be able to do anything? Or would it be up to me to avenge him? It’d be worth a try. Had to be, though, in the end, didn’t it? No one was going to come in and save me.
My phone beeped, signaling an end to Anna leaving a message. I didn’t bother checking it because I was sure she was just calling to chew me out again over finding me with Minarette. I just did not want to hear her mouth. I wanted to be alone.
Alone I was.
There was no one but me at the shop. I was left to my own devices. Deciding I’d look through my uncle’s computer the next day, I figured a rest would be a great idea. The errands, and the travel in the snow, had wiped me out. Doing anything in the shop was out of the question at that moment. As much as I wanted to think I was tough and indestructible, Damian’s attack had done quite a number on me. If the fatigue of healing wasn’t enough to do me in, the bouquet of pills I took knocked me out. I didn’t really have a whole lot of recovery underneath my belt, according to my body. I still had a long road ahead to travel. As much as I tried to power through, there was a metric ton of pain bubbling just under the surface. I’d been brought up to keep a stiff upper lip, so I didn’t like to complain or acknowledge when I was hurting. That was a sign of weakness. A sign of weakness would get you killed.
Still? I couldn’t deny that my eyes were growing heavier by the moment. I decided to grab the rollaway cot from the back room and bring it into the front office. There I could fall asleep and watch the storm. It’d be a nice break from my routine. Being in the shop now that I didn’t need to be felt a lot better, of course. Getting the rollaway from the back room took some finagling. I was a man on crutches, after all, and only a short amount of time removed from a good accident and beating. Putting my feet up and getting on my back felt like heaven. I let out a sigh that sounded like that of an old man—that was a first for me. It came out automatically, too. I didn’t need to try or pretend. The rollaway had a pillow and fleece blanket rolled up inside, and I’d used them. “Damn it, Minarette,” I said. “If you’d just give me your Ghost, this would all be gone. All this damn pain.”
My back sent pulses of pain throughout my body, picking up passengers in what felt like every nuanced nook and cranny. I reached in my bag, took one of the oversized ibuprofens and put an arm over my eyes. They were burning, tired from the exertion. My brain did that flippy thing that happens when you’re about to fall asleep, you know? Like it jerks a little. I let it happen. No use fighting it, anyway. It’d happen soon enough. And if I slept through the night, who cared? No one—especially not me.
Within moments, there was only darkness, and for a second I heard myself snoring, as though I were standing over myself watching. Then, in a heartbeat, I crossed over into the deep inner sanctum of dreams. That I was finally at my safe place comforted me.
It took a long time for me to realize I was dreaming, because at first there was no clue. I thought I was still awake. I didn’t see anything other than darkness. I’d fallen immediately into a deep state, and in doing so, the images someone would normally see were not there. When they finally arrived, the world of my dreams seemed to dissolve into the waking world. Snow filled every inch of every place I looked. We were in a complete whiteout. The windows of the shop shook a little as a gust hit them. Miniature drifts had formed on the linings of the panes. Icicles hung from the roof. A freezing draft crept under the front door, making me pull the fleece blanket tighter to my body. It wasn’t enough to totally keep me warm and shield me, but I felt grateful for it, and for the shelter of the shop. It sure beat being outside, and I felt somehow safer there at the shop than at my own house. There was a large iron fence twelve feet tall all around the shop, which would make getting inside a whole lot harder for anyone, especially for those I’d been thinking of as the crew.
Was I dreaming? Was I awake? I believed I was half-inside each, a portion of my brain taking in both. I thought of shutting my eyes, but none of the automatic commands I gave my body seemed to work. Instead I was met with an instant dizziness that didn’t go away, even though I was lying down. It felt as if I’d had way too much to drink, even though I hadn’t. The feeling I’d lost control of my body fell on me, and I wanted to get it back, as impossible as it seemed at that moment. Wasn’t sure how I was going to pull that off.
When I looked out the windows, there were shadows in the storm. At first they were small, and I had to train my eyes on them to make sure they weren’t just optical illusions. They moved, and every inch of me knew these were the shadows of people.
The wind blew harder, and the snow became more and more dense. The shadows moved through it all, steady and strong.
I thought about my uncle’s gun in the drawer—the one he always kept just in case. Even that didn’t comfort me. Bullets weren’t going to stop whatever was coming for me.
The two shadows formed into one, thicker, denser and more detailed. A mane of dark hair swept through the wind. Bright white eyes caught my gaze.
The person—it had to be a woman—was wrapped in a large dark coat.
She got closer and closer to the main windows.
I thought about hiding under the covers so she wouldn’t see me, but she had.
Wasn’t this a dream? Was I dreaming I was right where I was, lying on a cot in the front room of the shop? How could that be?
The shadow neared.
I was alone with no place to hide.
She raised a hand and knocked on the window. Two raps. I saw her bony knuckles and recognized them, just as I recognized her.
Minarette.
Her hair had turned jet black, although, in the wind, it seemed tinged crimson in places. Her face had gone nearly translucent in spots. Her lips were pale, as were her eyes. Their bright ocean blue had dulled. Her gestures were slow and studied, graceful and unnatural.
She said my name.
I said hers.
“Let me in,” she said. I could hear her clearly through the glass, as though she were inside the room with me.
“Sure,” I said.
“Open the door,” she said.
I tried to get up off the cot, but found my body paralyzed. My blood ran cold. Maybe something had gone wrong from the accident. The doctors had missed a blood clot. It’d moved up through my body and gone somewhere that’d permanently damaged me.
“I can’t,” I said. “My body isn’t working.”
Minarette raised her arms and undid the front of her coat. She was nude underneath, but her skin was so pale there were no distinguishing details. The cold brought forth the veins and arteries deep inside her. They were outlined not in red, but in black, like the branches and leaves of a tree’s silhouette. The blackness moved just like blood, and when it did, the vein behind would vanish, and the path where it moved became visible.
“This is me,” she said.
The dark veins went through her heart, and I saw its shape and watched it pulse—a black, leathery thing, unreal and charred.
“Everything…so dark,” I said.
“I am,” she said, “until I am a ghost.”
The light parts—the pale parts in her circulatory system—I knew then those parts had already gone clear, like she told me happened with those afflicted with the Ghost Heart. Details were only visible because she’d taken the blood, ingested it. It alone was keeping her visible…it
alone was keeping her among us.
She raised her chin to the sky. Dark blood pooled between her lips and nose, and rimmed the bottoms of her eyes. The pool of dark blood grew until it overflowed, dripping and drooling onto her middle, her hands, and covering her like a thick oil. The blood clotted and congealed as it met the air. Steam puffed from it in the freezing cold.
Covered nearly entirely in the dark blood, Minarette took two steps back and lowered her chin. Her eyes, pale and sad, searched for me as she whispered my name.
The wind picked up, as did the snow, and Minarette stepped backward, turned and once more was only a shadow, then a thinner shadow, lastly just a sliver, until she vanished into the white nothingness.
Chapter Eighteen
When I woke from the storm, the world was still cloudy. Drifts of snow had formed throughout the shop’s yard. My mind focused on Minarette, and I quickly made my way outside to where she’d stood in my dream.
There, on the small walk, was a puddle of dark, sticky, oily blood. It had to be blood. What else could it have been?
Oil?
No.
It’s blood.
Minarette had been to see me.
Hadn’t I just dreamed it? None of it seemed real at all. How could it? I had been sleeping and the dream had felt very vivid, but it couldn’t have been true. I knew I had been sleeping. I know it with all my heart.
My legs and middle hurt terribly from the exertion, an unpleasant reminder that I still had a long way to go toward healing. I knew I’d never regain the full mobility in my lower half. Not like I used to have. There’d be permanent repercussions, even though the doctors and nurses and surgeons had sworn to me through winks and smiles that I’d make a complete recovery. They were just humoring me. Besides, how could they know for sure? They couldn’t tell the future, and they weren’t inside me. True, they would have had countless cases to compare mine to, but my instinct had them one better. I wasn’t going to heal up and be back where I had been before. For that? I’d need Minarette to gift me the Ghost Heart. I didn’t care if my life would be dramatically shorter. That’d be fine with me, so long as I could live up to my old physicality and not suffer an ever-worsening decline and loss of the freedom I’d so easily taken for granted.
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