Ghost Hand

by Ripley Patton

  “For extraction,” Marcus said. “Maybe his dad volunteered him for the list. I don’t know.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said, clenching my fist around the bullet. I didn’t want it. I needed to get it away from me, far away from me. How could such a tiny thing hold so much awfulness? I raised my arm, ready to fling the bullet into the woods beyond the stream.

  Marcus caught hold of my hand, enfolding it in his.

  “I don’t want it!” I yelled in his face, struggling against his grip.

  “I know,” he said, “but you can’t throw it away.”

  “Why not?” I demanded. It came out more like a sob than words.

  “Because,” he said, pulling my hand down, still holding it gently but firmly. “Your hand doesn’t just pull horrible things out of people. It changes them into something else. Something we can use. Think about it. Maybe inside of Passion, the blades were just some kind of burden, but then you brought them out, and they became exactly what you needed most, something to hide you from the CAMFers.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, but I did. Marcus had listened to my crazy theory about my hand and people’s burdens, and he’d taken it one step further. And what he was saying actually made sense.

  He gently unfolded my fingers from around the bullet. “This,” he said, touching it, “used to be Jason’s fear. But we have to figure out what it is now. What it does. And how we can use it to help rescue the others.”

  “But what about Passion and Jason? He’s still as angry as ever. She’s in the hospital. Shouldn’t removing their burdens help them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it will in time.”

  “I think I should give it to him,” I said softly, curling my fingers back around the bullet.

  “Not a good idea,” Marcus said, shaking his head.

  “It’s not ours though. It’s his. And maybe giving it to him is what makes things better.”

  “I highly doubt it,” Marcus frowned at me. “You were there when he stuck a loaded gun in your face, right?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “He’s not ready for this. Take my word for it. I think you should keep it for now, until we figure out what it does.”

  “Okay,” I sighed, slipping the bullet back in my pocket. I didn’t want to leave the stream. I didn’t want to walk back to the ATVs and see Jason and know what I knew. Not yet.

  But then Marcus said, “We’d better get back to the others,” and he got up, and I didn’t have much choice but to follow him.

  21

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  In the dark we hiked, silent, dressed in black, and full of nervous energy. Marcus led the way, with me behind him. Then came Nose, and Yale brought up the rear. We’d spent the entire afternoon setting up a new camp and going over our plan, refining it, coming up with alternatives in case this or that went wrong. After an early dinner of canned stew heated on a camp stove, it was time to start the long hike into town. The wheelers were too loud and hard to hide, plus they limited our escape routes to wider roads and paths. On foot, Marcus had assured us, we could melt in and out of the landscape.

  My head still throbbed a little, but I’d taken some pain killer right before we’d left. It was slow going tramping through thick, uncut underbrush. We’d taken a route far from Old Delarente Road in case the CAMFers were still using it.

  Suddenly, in front of me, Marcus made an “oofing” noise and his flashlight went sailing, end over end, through the air. There was a heavy thud, and a lighter one off in the distance as the flashlight landed and flicked out. I crouched in the dark, my own flashlight tucked in toward my body. I couldn’t see Marcus in front of me anymore. Were we under attack? Had he been ambushed by waiting CAMFers?

  “What was that?” Nose whispered from behind me.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back.

  “I tripped on a log,” Marcus groaned from a few feet away. “These damn flashlights are too dim. I didn’t even see it.”

  “So much for melting into the landscape,” Nose chuckled softly.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, shining my flashlight in Marcus’s direction. By the scowl on his face as he sat up from behind a rather large log, I hadn’t kept the laughter out of my question.

  “Don’t shine that in my eyes,” he barked, shaking leaves out of his hair.

  I lowered the beam.

  “We need more light,” he said, standing up and stepping carefully back over the log. “If we could see better, we could move faster.” He glanced down not-so-subtly at my gloved hand.

  “Fine,” I said, starting to take off my glove, but then I stopped and looked at Nose. And at Yale behind him. I wasn’t the only one with glow-in-the-dark parts anymore. With everything that had happened, I hadn’t had a chance to ask Yale and Nose about their PSS, let alone have some show-and-tell. But if Marcus was asking me to whip out my ghost hand, maybe it was time. “Why me?” I asked, turning back to Marcus. “Why not one of them?”

  “I will, if you will.” Nose smiled, his ski mask wrinkling at his cheeks.

  “It’s a deal,” I said. I was finally going to get to see someone else’s PSS.

  Nose reached up and pulled off his mask in one quick tug.

  I couldn’t help but stare. Bright, blue, beautiful PSS

  shone like a beacon smack out of the middle of his face. It illuminated his ebony skin, and dark brown eyes, bathing his short black hair in shades of blue. But it was also disturbing, the way you felt like you were looking straight into his head. In the depths of his PSS nose, you could see where the small dark tunnels of his sinuses began, making you wonder just how far back it all went. It wasn’t gross or anything, not any grosser than my wrist stump. But it wasn’t normal either.

  Nose turned his head, showing off his profile and the wonderful nose he’d formed for it. As I watched, the nose changed shapes—a Roman nose, a hawkish nose, a bulbous nose, and finally the hooked nose of a witch, complete with a bumpy wart on the end.

  “Show off,” Yale mumbled under his breath.

  “Very nice, but we’re kind of in a hurry here,” Marcus added.

  Nose turned back toward me and said, “Your turn.”

  I reached down and peeled off my glove. I held up my ghost hand, flexed it, and watched them all stare, the reflection of my PSS glowing in their eyes.

  “Sweet,” Nose said with admiration, “but no need to show off. We’ve already seen what that puppy can do.”

  “Looks like there might be a way to pick your nose after all,” Yale said, clapping Nose on the back and laughing.

  “Gross,” I said, lowering my hand. “How old are you, ten?”

  “Sorry,” Yale mumbled, looking properly chagrined. I could actually see his expression now. I could see all three guys quite clearly and a good ten to twelve feet in any direction, thanks to the glow of the PSS.

  “Won’t the CAMFers see us coming from a mile away though?” I asked Marcus.

  “Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “But if they do it’s likely to scare the shit out of them. Besides, we need to see. It’s worth the risk.”

  “What about you, Yale?” I asked. “Three would make it even brighter.”

  Yale looked suddenly and completely embarrassed.

  Nose and Marcus exchanged a glance, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

  “Yes, Yale,” Nose said. “Help us shed some light on the situation.”

  “Shut up,” Yale said, punching Nose in the shoulder.

  Marcus and Nose were practically doubled-over with laughter.

  I just stood there, confused. Obviously, they had some kind of a private joke about Yale’s PSS. Maybe he was really shy about it.

  “Yale’s PSS is—” Marcus began.

  “Shut up,” Yale interrupted. He wouldn’t even look at me.

  “—located in a rather delicate area,” Marcus finished, smirking like a jack-o-lantern.

  “Oh. Ohhhh,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrass
ment. How could I have known Yale’s PSS was one of “those” parts? And which of those parts was it?

  “It’s not what you think,” Nose said.

  “I’m not thinking anything,” I lied.

  “Please just shut up,” Yale pleaded.

  “Let’s just say, there’s not much of a moon out tonight,” Nose continued anyway, “but if Yale joined us, there would be.”

  Moon. But. I immediately got the picture, loud and clear. And when I did I had a lot of trouble holding back a laugh. I’d always thought a PSS hand was a pain in the ass. Pain in the ass. He he.

  “See, it wasn’t that bad telling her, Yale,” Marcus said, turning to lead us over the fallen log.

  I tucked my flashlight into a pocket and followed, holding my ghost hand out ahead of me.

  From behind me, Nose began to hum “This Little Light of Mine.”

  “Shut up, Nose,” Yale said.

  * * *

  “It’s six after eight.” Marcus informed us.

  We’d just arrived at the edge of the woods right behind my house—what was left of it anyway.

  Nose put his mask back on, and I pulled my glove back over my ghost hand, crouching next to Marcus.

  There, just past my dad’s studio shed, was a heaping pile of charred remains, the two old brick chimneys of the fireplaces jutting up out of the black debris like alien monoliths, the only real landmarks of what had once been my home.

  “So, that was your house?” Nose asked softly.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking beyond it to the front yard area and the driveway. “But I don’t see my mom.”

  “She may be parked where we can’t see her,” Marcus said, “or waiting for you to show yourself before she does. But we can’t wait. The CAMFers have probably zeroed in on us already.”

  “So they know where we are, but we have no idea where they are,” I pointed out. How had this ever seemed like a good plan?

  “Which is why we need to move fast,” Marcus said. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I was measuring distances in my head. Our position was halfway between the shed and the old maple tree.

  “Remember, we’re right here if you need us,” Marcus promised.

  I exhaled, took a deep breath, and stood up. I stepped away from the guys, wading through tangled ivy and rotten leaves to the edge of my back yard. I was tempted to glance back to see if I could pick out the three teenage boys crouched in the shadows, but that might give away their position. And the CAMFers needed to think I was alone, that I had come by myself to meet my mother.

  I stepped out on the lawn and realized I was shaking, my body grown suddenly cold and wobbly. This was where I’d barely escaped a fiery death, where the CAMFers had almost killed me, whether they’d been trying to or not. They had done that, and here I was, baiting them. This was stupid. Why had I ever agreed to this?

  After a few calming breaths, I walked across the back yard and stood at the edge of the burnt back porch. The underporch was gone, reduced to damp, grey ash. I took a few more steps up the incline toward the front of the house, and stopped. I hadn’t expected to get this far. We’d thought the CAMFers would try for me as soon as I showed myself. And I still didn’t see my mother anywhere. Maybe she hadn’t come.

  I walked along the side yard, coming even with the living room chimney, and something caught my eye—color, pattern, a familiar wisp of shape and face, a blue figure on black. It was my dad’s painting, The Other Olivia, tossed on top of what had once been our leather couch and looking only mildly scorched. My heart leapt with sudden, inexplicable joy. It had survived. I wouldn’t have to live in a world where I would never see it again. But why would anyone just leave it there, like trash, like nothing?

  I glanced around, scanning the front yard and the street, my neighbors’ fences and houses. I strained, listening, but there was no one nearby. Not my mother. Not the CAMFers. Not even a stray cat or two. Nobody. The CAMFers hadn’t taken our bait. Maybe they weren’t even monitoring my mom’s e-mail. In all our planning, we’d considered every possible scenario except this one—the one where the bad guys didn’t even show up.

  I let myself relax a little. I should go back. The guys were waiting. I knew that. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave The Other Olivia lying there like a piece of garbage.

  I gave a quick, furtive look to the dark spot between the garden shed and the maple. Then I waded through soggy black gunk, stepped over several piles of melted something, and bent over my dad’s painting. The canvas was singed a little, but only around the edges. It didn’t appear to have any water damage, which was amazing. I could have it cut down and re-stretched over a new frame. It was salvageable. I was sure of it.

  I grabbed the edges of the painting, hefting it in my arms.

  A few feet to my left, a dark form emerged from behind the living room chimney and reached out for me.

  “Got ya,” said Mike Palmer, grabbing at me.

  I swung the painting out of pure reflex, knocking his hands aside.

  He grabbed it, and we grappled, the painting between us. He was trying to rip it from my hands, but I hung on for all I was worth. This was not the plan. The plan had been for me to bolt and run at the merest sign of CAMFers. They would chase me back to the guys in the woods, where Nose and Yale would split off and lead them on a wild goose chase while Marcus and I went to get the blades. The plan had not included my father’s painting. I needed to let go of it and get out of there.

  Instead, I kicked as hard as I could under the edge of the canvas, feeling my boot connect solidly with some softer part of Mike Palmer.

  He bellowed and yanked the painting upward, pulling me off my feet. I didn’t let go. I was not going to let go. This was the bastard who had taken everything from me. He’d burned my house to the ground with me in it. He’d stolen the only personal possession I’d had left in the world, while I’d lain unconscious in an ambulance. And now he was trying to take something else, and I’d be damned if I was going to let him do that. I needed my dad’s painting. I was not leaving it behind. I was not losing one more thing.

  I came back down on my feet, one of my ankles twisting, and I lost hold of the painting. At least that’s what I thought happened. One minute the painting was there, the fulcrum between me and Mike Palmer’s struggle, and the next minute it was gone.

  We both fell backwards.

  I crashed into the soggy couch behind me.

  Mike stumbled back against the chimney. The painting wasn’t in his hands. It wasn’t on the ground. It wasn’t anywhere in the debris. It was as if it had gotten fed up with being fought over and simply blipped itself out of existence.

  “What the—what did you do, you little freak?” The Fire Chief asked, fear in his eyes.

  And that’s when I saw the handgun tucked in his belt.

  The gun he was reaching for.

  “Olivia,” someone called, and I looked up to see Marcus, and Nose, and Yale running across my back yard toward me, running toward us, toward the man with the gun.

  “No!” I yelled, rising from the couch. This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to lead the CAMFers to them. They weren’t supposed to run to my rescue. I hadn’t let them bring their guns. There weren’t supposed to be any guns.

  Mike Palmer ignored all that, pulled out his weapon, and fired.

  22

  UNLOCKING THE BULLET

  It was strange how things seemed to happen out of order.

  Marcus, who was only a few feet away from me, suddenly jerked backwards and crumpled to the ground.

  The weapon in Mike Palmer’s hand gave a tooth-jarring crack.

  Nose let out a guttural yell, and leapt over Marcus, still charging Mike.

  Mike took aim at Nose.

  Yale fell to his knees beside Marcus.

  I saw it all. Saw Marcus lying still and silent where he’d fallen, Yale bending over him. Saw Mike’s finger pulling back on the trigger again. Saw Nose coming, r
elentless, fearless, running straight toward the man who was going to kill him. I saw everything that shouldn’t happen. That couldn’t happen. That was happening. Everything that would be my fault and destroy what little was left to me.

  I saw all this in the blink of an eye, and I threw myself at Mike Palmer, clipping him in the shoulder and knocking him off balance even as his gun discharged a second time. Mike tried to right himself, to swing the gun toward me, but he was too slow. I jumped on his back, arms locked around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist; clinging to him, I covered his face with my hands so he couldn’t see to shoot again.

  He reached up with a meaty arm, knocking my hands away, but I clung to him with my legs.

  I knew what to do.

  I tugged at the edge of my glove, stripping it from my ghost hand and tossing it away. I grasped at Mike Palmer’s nose, his lips, his eyebrows, wherever my ghost fingers could find purchase.

  He roared and tried to shake me off, bucking and spinning in a circle like a deranged bull. I could feel his entire body spasm in fear. He was afraid now. Afraid of my PSS touching his face. So afraid that he dropped his gun and reached up with both hands, trying to pry me off.

  “Don’t move,” Nose barked from in front of us, pointing the gun at the Fire Chief’s chest.

  But Mike Palmer was beyond reason. He charged backwards, ramming me into the chimney, pinning me between unrelenting brick and the hardness of his back. The air whooshed from my lungs. A cascade of cold, crumbling mortar trickled down the inside of my shirt. I was losing my grip on him.

  But if I let go, he wasn’t going to stop. Nose was going to have to shoot him. That was the only way we were going to get out of here, and it was all because I hadn’t let go of my dad’s painting. A painting that was now inexplicably gone. If only Mike Palmer had disappeared with it.

  And then he did.

  One second he was there, as solid as the chimney he was grinding me into, and the next he was gone.

  I dropped to the ground like a stone, my butt banging painfully as I landed at the base of the chimney.

  “Holy shit!” Nose said, waving the gun back and forth wildly. “Where did he go?”