Gray's Ghosts

by Carey Lewis

  Deputy US Marshal Carter Grant had a nice time fishing with his buddies.

  “EXCUSE ME,” SOMEONE SAID FROM behind them. Brooke and Deacon turned around to see a young woman with two kids. “You guys are the Gray’s aren’t you? From the TV show?”

  They looked at each other, then back to the woman. They nodded in unison.

  “Would you mind terribly if I got a picture with you?”

  Deacon and Brooke smiled and told the woman they wouldn’t mind at all. They posed, the mother trying to get a good shot of the celebrities with her two kids. After the third picture, the representative for Avis came back to tell them their bill was settled. Deacon signed the paper and they were away from the kiosk, walking toward the terminal.

  They finished shooting the show last night, the final show they would do. They spent the night at Ma Bell’s Bed and Breakfast with the cats, sleeping in separate rooms, neither one getting much sleep, knowing a part of their lives were over.

  “You really zap yourself with the taser?” Deacon asked, moving along the people, coming up to the escalator.

  “How much is it going to cost for you to not bring it up again?”

  “More than you’re willing to pay.”

  Deacon stepped on the escalator and turned to face Brooke. “You remember that family of racists? The Campbells?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Yeah. The one guy you zapped correctly,” Deacon said, smiling at Brooke. “Ben somehow got their number. Stumbled on an Internet ad telling people to visit the haunted house from Gray’s Ghosts. He phoned them and Joe told him we tried taking his house too but he ran us off.”

  “Where he got the idea I take it,” Brooke said.

  “Got the money back from the house. One of the protesters went and burned the place down before it came out of escrow.”

  “Burned it that bad?”

  “Turns out there’s quite a few black people working at the fire department up there.” Deacon stepped off the escalator and started walking, looking up at the signs, figuring out where to go. “They weren’t in a hurry to get over there and save the house hate built.”

  They found their way to security and got in line. “Got your boarding pass?” Brooke asked.

  “You’re going to have to learn to stop worrying about me.”

  “You’re going to have to learn to start taking care of yourself.”

  They didn’t say anything for awhile. Both of them looked to the Security Screeners, watched the travelers put their belongings in the plastic trays then walk through the metal detectors. They all seemed to have a sense of relief when they passed through. Once in awhile the red light would go on and a person would come over and scan them with a wand.

  “So why do you think Huey killed himself?” Deacon asked.

  “I really couldn’t tell you. Colton and Whitmore said it was weird, getting Hector over there to watch him commit suicide. They would’ve guessed he got Hector over there to kill him. Maybe he just lost the nerve at the last minute.”

  “You okay?”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  Deacon nodded, understanding. They took a few steps forward, getting closer to emptying their pockets into the plastic trays.

  “Marty tells me you’re done,” Deacon said.

  Brooke looked at him. “You okay?”

  He took a moment to steady himself. “Can’t say I didn’t know it, even if neither of us said it.”

  “Just one of those things you know.”

  They were silent again. They took another step closer as another traveler made their way to the metal detector.

  “I was thinking why don’t you take some vacation,” Deacon said. “You should have enough to bring you to the end of your contract.”

  “I already told Marty I’m done.”

  “Think she’s hoping you might change your mind, hasn’t put the word in to Dave yet. I’ll tell them you developed a thing for electrocuting yourself,” Deacon said, trying his hardest to form a smile.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “Just so you can get some extra money and Dave can’t come after you over the contract.”

  They took another step forward.

  “You know,” Brooke said, “we might have to come back. Tell more people what happened.”

  “Long as we keep our story straight we’ll be fine.”

  “Not what I meant,” Brooke said, locking eyes with Deacon, surprised she found herself nervous.

  He looked back at her, the smile gone from his face. “I know.”

  “You okay with Cesar? Him being down there?”

  “There or prison, it’s the same. What he was going to do to us…” Deacon said, letting the sentence trail off.

  “I know.”

  “Probably gets more visitors where he is. Bit of a celebrity now, the American dream.”

  Brooke offered a shy smile, said, “I know.”

  “What can you do?” Deacon said, more to himself.

  Another step closer. They were next.

  “You have a different ticket don’t you?” Deacon asked.

  Brooke nodded.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Don’t Deke.” She looked down, unable to face him.

  “Next,” a Security Officer called.

  “What can you do, right?” Deacon said, forcing his best smile before walking to the metal rollers and emptying his pockets into the plastic tray.

  He heard the Security Officer next to him yell out for the next person, knew it was Brooke walking over behind him, emptying her pockets, taking off her heels, placing everything into a plastic tray.

  Deacon took off his coat and shoes and placed them in another plastic tray and pushed them toward the X-Ray machine. He waited in front of the metal detector until the guard ushered him through. He was relieved the light stayed green and the guard motioned him over to collect his belongings.

  He waited, taking a breath, afraid to turn around. Afraid to see Brooke for maybe the last time. Afraid to see tears. Afraid of having his own. He was afraid of watching her walk out of his life forever. He knew this moment would come and as much as he prepared for it in his mind, he wasn’t ready at all.

  He put his jacket on, put his shoes on, put his things back in his pockets and finally turned around.

  Brooke was gone, off somewhere to start her own life. Her life without him.

  Now Deacon had to start his.

  THE END

  KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF BESTSELLER

  About the Author

  Carey Lewis traded a mundane job in Toronto, Canada, in favor of a backpacker life of nomadic travel. He can be spotted with his beautiful fiance somewhere in Southeast Asia, drinking coffee and scribbling furiously into a notepad while cursing his credit card debt and writing about bad guys that are cooler than he’ll ever be.

  Thank you for reading Gray’s Ghosts. Gaining exposure as an independent author relies on word-of-mouth, so if you have the time and inclination, please consider leaving a short review wherever you can.

  Visit www.careylewis.com for update, books, and more

  Including a free copy of A Life Untold

  when you sign up for the mailing list!

  The “Gutter Dogs” Series:

  The Split

  Transformers

  Underdogs

  The Van Halen Guitar

  Warriors

  Bestseller

  Gray’s Ghosts

  Mr. Miracle

  Generation Z

  A Life Untold

  Summer of 94

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  BESTSELLER SNEAK PEAK

  THE SMOKE FROM THE dangling cigarette between his lips was stinging his eyes, but wasn’t enough to make him look away from the monitor as his fingers danced over the keys. He barricaded himself in his home office in the attic, complete with a tilted ceiling and boxes that had never been unpacked. He’d been here since sometime yest
erday afternoon. It was enough time to fill the three ashtrays on his desk and drain three quarters of the bottle of Wild Turkey by the time it was eight AM. With a smile holding the burnt cigarette in his mouth, he typed ‘THE END.’ Gordon Nolan finally finished his book.

  He leaned back in the chair and felt the warmth of the light coming in from the tiny window behind him. It was only then did he see the time in the corner of the monitor. 8:03 AM. Gordon felt a weight slide off his shoulders. He thought it was how athletes felt after winning the Super Bowl or some other apt metaphor. The people who accomplished something great in life would understand. He was now bonded with them. Like vets that could only relate to other veterans of war. You had to go through it to understand. Hell, he didn’t need to come up with a simile or metaphor, he just finished his book. Everything he had to say was in the pages.

  Gordon leaned forward. The burnt out cigarette fell down his chest, to his lap, to the floor, leaving a trail of ash behind. He poured the bourbon into his glass and grabbed another cigarette from the pack. He lit it, taking a moment, looking at those two magical words with the cursor blinking behind it - THE END.

  He was an astronaut. A marathon runner. An Olympian.

  He took a deep breath and moved the mouse across the screen, clicked ‘File,’ then ‘Print.’ The printer on his cluttered desk came to life as it started feeding itself paper. He looked at the Title Page that shot out - ‘The Last Year of My Life by Gordon Nolan.’

  Gordon grabbed the glass of bourbon and squeezed his way between the desk and wall, stepped over a few cardboard boxes, and left the smoke-filled room.

  Entering the kitchen, it was the first time he heard birds outside. The shower was running, Alexis getting ready for work. He went to the counter and grabbed a mug, pouring the bourbon from his glass into it, then topped it off with coffee from the urn. Then he moved over to the table and sat down.

  He took a drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke blow out, watching it blend with the dust hanging in the air, the rays of sunshine from the window creating shafts of smoke he liked to watch. He was facing the hallway that led to the living room and front door, waiting for Alexis to emerge from the washroom. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction.

  The door in the hallway flung open and steam poured out. Gordon smiled and straightened himself in the chair. He took another sip of his bourbon/ coffee and couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Alexis moved out of the washroom in a flash, wearing only a towel, going into the bedroom across the hall.

  Okay, it wasn’t the worst thing. She was getting ready for work. It was understandable.

  “Did you eat?” Gordon called out.

  “You said you were going to fix the fan,” was the reply he got from the bedroom.

  “I’m going to.”

  There was no response.

  “I thought you liked hot showers,” he said.

  “Where’s the steam going to go?” Alexis called out, still in the bedroom. “It makes it like ten degrees hotter in there.”

  This was not what Gordon wanted to talk about. He just finished a book, he didn’t need to be reminded of his shortcomings as a handyman. People who write books don’t have to be handymen.

  “So?” he asked.

  “So? So it makes mildew and mildew turns to mold. It ruins paint. Not to mention you didn’t fix the water heater like you said so I can’t turn the heat down.”

  “So keep the door open.”

  “Or do something you say you’re going to do.”

  He took another drink of bourbon.

  Alexis came out of the bedroom wearing a white T-shirt with khaki pants. Her wet hair was up in a ponytail and dripping onto her shoulders. “You seen my smock?” she asked coming into the kitchen.

  “Did you eat?” Gordon asked.

  “You hungry? That’s what you’re getting at?”

  He didn’t like the attitude he was getting. Alexis standing there in the doorway with her hand on her hip, glaring at him.

  “Eggs would be nice,” he said, smiling, wanting to talk about his accomplishment.

  “My smock.”

  “Think you put it on the chair in the living room.”

  “You drunk?” Alexis asked, leaving the room.

  “I’m drinking coffee.”

  She came back down the hallway to the kitchen, buttoning up her blue smock. “Coffee makes your eyes slit and bloodshot?”

  “Jesus, what’s with you today?”

  “I’m late.”

  “For your… period?”

  Alexis laughed, not in a nice way. “You’re not very good at math are you?” She took a step to the table and started digging through the bowl which held change and mail. “Where are my keys?”

  “I was working,” he said.

  “For who?” Gordon didn’t know what a scoff was, but was pretty sure she just did it.

  “Us.”

  “Look at the lap of luxury your work did for us.”

  “The market’s slow.”

  “Says who?”

  “My agent. I’m a writer in case you forgot.”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to him buddy?”

  “It’s how I know the market’s slow. It’s all these e-books.”

  “I don’t care what you do up there, Gordon, I just want my keys. Where are they?”

  “Where are my eggs?”

  It got Alexis to stop rooting through the bowl. She stopped and stared at him for a moment before a smile crossed her face. Gordon didn’t like it. He knew that smile. It was her sinister smile. “I’m sorry, I forgot,” she said as she walked away from the table to the stove.

  She picked up the frying pan and faced him. He felt his arms tense and his shoulders rise, ready to block a frying pan swing. Instead she stopped. Her brows arched, waiting for him to say something.

  “They’re in your jacket by the door,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Alexis then flung the scrambled eggs from the frying pan at him before slamming it back on the stove and left the kitchen.

  Gordon watched her storm down the hall, to the living room, grabbing her jacket on the coat-rack beside the door before slamming it behind her as she left.

  Gordon looked down at himself, seeing the cold eggs in the folds of his shirt, on his lap, on the floor and table. He picked a piece up and ate it, then repeated the process, eating the scrambled eggs off his clothes.

  That didn’t go nearly as well as Gordon had hoped.

  THE WORST PART ABOUT her morning, the absolute worst part of it, wasn’t dealing with Gordon, or the shower with too much steam, or her wet head. No, the worst part about Alexis’s morning was knowing she was going to have to deal with that pimple-faced prick, Manager Mike.

  That’s what infuriated her enough to propel her out the door, slamming it behind her. It’s what drove her legs in a piston-like manner across the gravel driveway. It wasn’t even when she struggled to turn over the engine on the Ninety-Four Ford Tempo, yes, Nineteen-Ninety-Four, eventually coming to life with the sound of a shotgun blast and a plume of black smoke that moved like a cloud down the street. Nor was it the crunch of the engine as she shifted into reverse and it wasn’t the car stalling when she pulled onto the street, nor the other shotgun blast and plume of black smoke when she restarted it. It was knowing she was going to have to deal with Manager Mike.

  Let’s not forget that the dial for the stereo had fallen off and was stuck on some teeny-bopper pop station playing music that said ‘baby’ too much and felt the need to rhyme love with above in every goddamn song. Oh, there was also the engine that would overheat so she had to drive around with the heat on full to keep the car running.

  Alexis slammed on the gas, eventually getting to ten above the speed limit when she had to slow down at the stop sign at the end of her tree-lined street. It was once a nice area but fell into decay when jobs, and therefore people, started leaving the city. The city that put all its money and resources into casinos, leaving the rest of
the city to flounder. Now her tree-lined street was filled with families struggling to get by.

  Her and Gordon were no different. Gordon. Gordon the writer. Gordon the writer who never sold a damn thing and never even met his agent. She remembered the day he got on the agent’s roster. It was so long ago she couldn’t even remember his name, or the agency for that matter. Some big shot in Toronto. Gordon promised he’d turn their life around then, all she had to do was watch. That was what, ten years ago? Jesus, she didn’t know how much longer she could do this.

  “Why can’t you work and write in your spare time?” she had asked him some time ago, one of the last times she bothered to go up to the attic and enter that smoke filled cancer-space.

  “You only have so much energy in a day,” he started telling her. “Think of it like a video game. You have a bar of health. Working a job I hate will drain that bar. Then there’ll be nothing left for our future.”

  “Looks like you already do that,” she said, moving her eyes to whatever bottle of booze he decided to swim in that day. “Draining the bar.”

  “It’s the creative process. Hemingway did it. Look at Hendrix or Joplin, it’s the same thing. Eddie Van Halen was a drunk.”

  “You’re comparing yourself to those people?”

  “It’s how genius works.”

  Funny thing, Gordon didn’t even know who Hemingway was until she bought him a book of his short stories once. What she got for being supportive.

  The clock on the dashboard said 8:43 when she pulled into the All-Save parking lot. Another black plume of smoke enveloped the car when she turned it off, just to remind her how shitty her life was. With any luck, Manager Mike wouldn’t notice she was thirteen minutes late.