I bent down, putting my hand toward the stuff, but stopped myself. Didn’t seem like the best idea. I thought that maybe I should call the detectives and tell them, then decided against it. There was no one I knew I could trust. It’d have to be my own secret.
So what would I do with the stuff? Wash it away with one of the industrial soaps we used at the shop? Should I just preserve it, just in case? What if I needed a sample later, for some reason? I thought I just might, so I went back inside the shop, near the sink, grabbed a plastic container and a plastic spoon—we kept such things around just in case we had leftovers or anything else to bring home—and made my way back outside to the puddle. It took a little maneuvering to get down to the ground, but I did. The stuff was gloopy, sticky, and dark and reddish. Oddly, it smelled like burned flowers or plants, and not the organic rot I’d expected.
Inside the shop, I placed the sample inside the cabinet where we kept all of our cleaning sprays. For some reason, I thought keeping it in an odd place might be a good idea.
Something felt wrong. Something was off. I turned around, using my crutches as carefully and as quickly as I could.
The third bay was empty. The yellow Dodge Charger was gone.
I went over and looked for signs of entry. There weren’t any.
The bay doors were locked.
I thought back to when I’d arrived the night before. The front gate had been locked. Nothing had looked out of the ordinary.
Someone must have found the keys. But how would they have gotten them back inside with the gate closed, unless they flew over the fence or climbed? But we had barbed wire on top. That would have been an insane challenge in the best case. None of the details added up. Damn it. What was I supposed to do now that the Dodge Charger had gone missing? Who was going to believe that the entire car had just been driven out of the shop without a trace? No one. I mean, I wouldn’t. The entire situation was crazy. How come I hadn’t noticed the night before, when I came in? I was pissed at myself for not at least taking a quick look around. What the hell was wrong with me? Why hadn’t I at least looked?
After I took a breath, I realized that, had I known the night before, it would not have meant I would have been able to do a damn thing about it, anyway. I would have been up all night obsessing about it, wondering how it had happened, going over details, calling the cops, filing reports, scouring the paperwork. I never would have gone to sleep. I never would have dreamed and seen Minarette.
Making my way back to the office, I figured the best thing to do would be to check the paperwork. Oddly, there was a big part of me that told me I could just check with Uncle Dave when he came in, or Jimmy. It still hadn’t sunk in with me that they were both totally gone. So weird and wild. There was no one left but me. Still? I thought to check. I was confused: hadn’t the Charger come in after Uncle Dave was murdered? Or was it before? My mind couldn’t straighten the facts out. I’d have to reference the paperwork.
When I looked in the usual place—the tray on Uncle Dave’s desk—the paperwork was gone. We kept the older orders in heavy plastic sleeves. The one for the Charger had been on top and was missing. All that was left was an empty sleeve. I swore up and down. Sitting down, I looked in the computer. Had I entered it into our database to get parts? Entered any notes? Nothing was coming back to me. I was useless.
After holding my head in my hands, I decided I’d call the detectives and report the car missing. It was going to suck doing so. There were no signs of entry. The insurance companies were going to be all over me because they’d be fishing for proof it’d been fraud. The rates would go up. We might lose some of our coverage, even if there was a reasonable explanation. They were good like that.
When I picked up my phone, I noticed two things. There was a message, and right there on the front screen, there was a message blinking.
I want to see you.
It was from Minarette.
It must have just arrived, too. The first thing I thought of was my dream, or whatever it’d been, and the puddle outside. How was I going to handle this?
I felt crazy and lost, like I didn’t even know myself, like I was watching everything up on a movie screen or a computer screen somewhere. It had to be someone else’s nightmare instead of mine. I nodded, steeled myself and replied.
Sure. Anytime.
I meant it. I didn’t mean it. I cursed myself for answering so fast without thinking. Damn it. Why didn’t I ever take the time to go over what I was saying before I did so?
Then I looked through the rest of the phone. There were voicemails, and each was from Anna. I didn’t bother with them. I didn’t want to hear her cussing me out. I did, however, check my emails. Most of it was junk, although I did glance at one from Anna. The subject read: She’s Cheating On You. I read it.
Dear Idiot. That dumb blonde you are into was at the Universe last night kissing tons of guys. Hope you enjoy your Herpes Sores, you stupid asshole.
That was Anna in a nutshell. When she got mad, she came at you with every horrible thing she had. I rolled over what she had written in my mind. Was Minarette really kissing other guys? Was Anna just trying to get to me? It could have gone either way. It wasn’t like Minarette and I were anywhere near exclusive. Not even close. Still? It hurt me to think about, because that’d make me pretty meaningless, when she was anything but in my eyes. On the flip side? Anna was known to say and do stuff that wasn’t true when she felt wronged, whether the wrong was imaginary and otherwise. I decided I’d have to let that one roll off my back. Without proof, it was meaningless. With proof? I had no right to be anything but jealous, and that wasn’t something I was really feeling like investing myself into. There was oh so much more to be dealt with in my immediate future.
I put my phone down and searched the desk, hoping against hope there was paperwork. After several minutes, I gave up and searched the rest of the office. Maybe I’d put it somewhere else and forgot? After a while, when that came up fruitless, I looked at the cot in the middle of the room and thought it’d probably be a good idea to put it away, just in case anyone came in. As I folded it up, I saw the telltale plastic sleeve and paperwork for the car underneath. I pulled it off the floor and looked at it. The bottom was signed by my uncle, paid in full and dated for the day before.
Chapter Nineteen
Minarette called. “Hey.” She sounded uncharacteristically down.
“Hi. What’s up?” I did my best to sound positive.
“Nothing good. Can I see you?”
“Of course. I got your—”
“When? Now?”
“Okay.”
“Are you still at the shop?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m ten minutes away.”
She hung up.
How’d she known I was at the shop? She had to have been there the night before. How else and what else would explain things? Maybe she’d explain the reason the Charger was gone mysteriously, and how the hell she’d appeared so vividly inside my strange fever dream. What else would I do with my day? There were so many other things I needed to get to. That was for damn sure. But I wouldn’t tend to anything I was supposed to until the next day.
I made it outside and thought it would be a good idea to hide the bloody puddle in front of the window. Grateful for snow, I shoveled a few loads on top and did my best to make it look natural. When I was done, I was certain to put the shovel around the corner of the building to keep it out of sight. I wasn’t a moment too soon because I heard her car coming up the street, its transmission now loud and cranky.
She pulled in and immediately I noticed that her blonde hair had turned dark. Minarette looked every bit the gothic angel, just as she had in my dream.
When I saw her, my heart hurt. I mean it physically ached. Stupid and silly as that sounded, it was true. It wasn’t in a Romeo and Juliet kind of way, either—it was a lot h
ow I imagined a heartache would feel. Did that mean I was in love? Or was my body just projecting danger signals? I kind of went with the latter, all recent events considered.
“You look great,” I said. “Dig the hair.”
“It does that sometimes,” she said.
“Changes color?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s like when people with hazel eyes go from green to pale blue, you know?” she asked. “Most of it has to do with diet.”
“Huh,” I said, not sure she was really being on the level with me.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
“Yeah. Just let me lock up.”
* * * * *
On the drive to the beach, I noticed many things I’d ridden past hundreds, if not thousands, of times before in my life. “I know Whistleville like the back of my hand,” I said. “And just like the back of my hand, it’s grown and changed slowly. But sometimes I look out and I remember how my hands looked when I was a kid, and I think of how far I’ve come, and it’s come. It’s all just a blink, and then, boom, gone.”
“Wow,” she said, steering her wheel a bit to the left to take the curve of the road. The wheels skidded ever so slightly on the icy, dark roads. Even though it was sunny out, that alone didn’t mean the snow had thawed. It’d melted just enough, then refrozen. “You’re making me think, Rick. That was really poetic.”
“Guess a little bit, it was,” I said. “It’s just that that’s the way I’m thinking right now.”
We’d made it to the long stretch of road right before the beach, where one of the elementary schools stood out among the Nantucket-style cottage houses. I’d always loved my town so much because it was by the ocean and was so typical New England.
After we passed the old miniature golf course and arcade, we drove through the gates to the beach. The guardhouse was boarded up for the winter, which I found both cool and a little distressing. If something bad happened and our phones didn’t work, what would we do? There was no one around to protect us. Growing up, I always knew I could run to one of the lifeguards. My mother had told me to do that, and so I always felt there might be some safety net. As a grown man, I realized that was not quite true.
We drove the perimeter road until we came almost back around to the front of the beach. There were two places where you could park: one away from the pier, and one right next to it. We took the one closer. “Can we go for a walk?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
We got out of her car and I was immediately struck by how cold it was. She took my arm, helping to steady me. I was better, but still rocky on my feet from the attack. Minarette looked perfectly suited for the cold—her face looked chiseled, and the cool winter accented her features. “I want to talk to you about the other night,” she said. “About what happened between us.”
“Sure,” I said, unsure where she was going with it. My gut tightened. Hoped she wasn’t breaking it off before it even started.
“I’ll put it bluntly. Do you think sex is important in a relationship?”
“There’s a reason it’s called making love,” I said, laughing a little at the end.
“Seriously?”
“Honestly? The older I get, the less important it is. I mean, I’ll admit I think about it all the time. Guess that’s just my being a guy. But when it actually happens, in real life, it’s not quite as fun. It’s a lot more like working out than fun, in a lot of cases. Sometimes I feel it’s like jogging uphill on a really hot day, and I can’t wait for it to be done.” I added, “But not with you.”
Minarette laughed. “Of course not,” she said. “We had a nice time, but we didn’t go all the way. I was worried that would upset you.”
I held her tighter. “I honestly think the best part of lovemaking is the beginning part…the kissing…the touching…exploring someone’s body…but not just their sex organs…their back…their neck…their hands.”
“You are a special bird, Rick,” she said. “You know that?”
Crossing the small gate that led to the pier, Minarette held me even tighter. “This is such a beautiful little town.”
“It is,” I said. “There’s something very comforting about this place. I love the pier. First time?”
“Yes,” Minarette said. “But I’ve wanted to come out out here ever since I saw it when I first came here.”
“And here we are,” I said.
We made it a few steps onto the pier. “It feels a lot more solid than I thought,” she said. “I thought it’d be rocking and swaying.”
“Nah. It’s really made well. It’s made it through decades of nor’easters. Pretty amazing.”
“People come out here to fish?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “And just check out the view.”
At the halfway point of the pier, it made a hard right. There were large metal binoculars. We stopped there. Minarette pointed back to the shore. “There’s the car,” she said. “Cool.”
“Best view in town,” I said. “You can see the power plant and all the channel islands out there. There’s even Sherwood Island. And if you look real close, way out, you can see the tip of Long Island.”
“Wow,” Minarette said. “That’s really wonderful. This is like heaven on earth here.”
She leaned in and kissed me, softly, tenderly, perfectly. Every one of my cells felt charged.
Minarette pulled away at just the right time. I wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
“I really like you,” she said. “There’s something very special about you.”
“I think the same about you,” I said. “I mean, I don’t really know you that well.”
“I’m an open book. Ask away,” she said.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about where I’m from?”
“Good,” I said. “I know a little bit. Jersey, right?”
“Northville. Yes. I mean, I have lived in a lot of places over the last few years, after high school. I was in New Orleans for a while. Boston. Las Vegas. But I came back to the East Coast. It’s my favorite.”
“Me, too.”
“I think you’d like to meet my mother,” Minarette said. “She’s still in Northville. We can visit my childhood home.”
“Really? I’m honored.”
“Let’s go this week,” she said.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“I do need to talk to you about something, though. Something really important.”
“I’m open.”
“I’m not going to live forever.”
“Who is?”
“No. I mean I don’t have a lot of time left.”
“You’re sick?”
“It’s the Ghost Heart,” she said. “I’ve had it for about a year and a half now. I can feel myself winding down big time.”
“There’s got to be a way—”
“Nope,” Minarette said. “There isn’t.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“They made me pay. The Crew. For seeing you,” she said. “They’ll probably make me pay again.”
“Damian? His friends?” I asked.
She nodded. “They brought me down to the tunnels.”
“What?”
“Under the Universe,” Minarette said, her eyes meeting mine. “Way in back, there’s old tunnels that were used back to hide slaves. Whistleville was a major stop. They’re quite extensive.”
“What?” I said. “I never knew.”
“A lot of bad stuff goes on down there.”
“What did they do to you?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Minarette’s eyes drifted from mine.
“I’ll recover.”
“Is that why your hair is dark, really?”
“A little,” she said. “I had to drink. I didn’t want to. They made me.”
I reached out and took her hands in mine. “You can tell me anything. I’m not a judge. I’m your friend. You’re safe with me.”
“It was people you knew,” she said. “Your friend. Your uncle.”
“What? They found my uncle dead. His hand is missing.”
Minarette gave an uncomfortable smile. “There’s more to this than you know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s alive?” I asked. “What friends?”
“I don’t know their names,” she said. “They told me you knew them. I didn’t recognize them. The boy had blond hair.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. Are they alive?”
She shook her head, took her hands from mine. “In the same way that I’m alive.”
I looked her up and down. “You’re alive. Most definitely.”
“Am I?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”
“Maybe on the outside.”
I nodded. “You are. Does any of this have to do with me seeing you in my dreams, covered in black blood?”
Minarette put a finger to my lips. “Shush, Rick,” she said. “Just trust me. It’s worse than you know.”
“What can I do?”
“Pray,” she said. “Come on.”
She took my arm again. We walked to the end of the pier, neither of us saying anything. There was a pair of gulls on the railing, cleaning one another. “That’s like you and me. We found each other in the cold, harsh world, and for a moment, we at least have a place to our own. Just for a little while.”
“I like that,” I said.
“What they made me do? It made things accelerate inside me. It took time off me.”
Ghost Heart Page 16
