The boy stewed, clearly unprepared for his mother’s defense of a total stranger. It was hard to imagine just what it was running through his head, but most certainly there was a jumble of half-baked ideas and half-recalled memories of a world before the Turn. Or worse, of the Turn. It was rare, Kain knew, but sometimes people remembered how it was when they melted into nothingness.
“And don’t think this is over, young man. I’ll deal with you later. You understand?”
Ryan was about to start again, but knew enough not to. He nodded he understood, unconvincingly, and then turned about, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He wavered in his mild stupor, but managed to turn and cast an icy glance over his shoulder at the Little Ghost. A small grin escaped him, smug and mocking, and then he looked back at his mother with all the seriousness in the world. There was trouble brewing there, but much more; restrained excitement and cocksureness. As if he held the greatest secret never told.
“He did something, Ma,” he said. “He doesn’t want us to know, but he did.”
The boy took the stairs and they watched him go. Lynn stood distant and solemn, and at that moment, wondering just how he could possibly answer to her, Kain Richards knew that the time was nearing … that the road was his only escape.
~ 19
“Hey, cowboy!”
Kain slipped on the ladder. His arm flailed, the roller streaking the upper face of the barn. Blue paint spilled from his metal tray as he flung up an arm to steady himself, and Lynn had to step back from harm’s way as the slick goop came raining down around her.
“Cripes, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” she said, half laughing. “‘Cripes’?”
He gave her a mild shrug.
“You’ve been hanging around my father way too long. Next thing you know, you’ll be hiding beer on my deck.”
“Just don’t look under the swing,” he joked. He took a good look at his work. He had picked up the paint and other supplies last night (courtesy Big Al’s flatbed), and despite his efforts since sunup, a solid two hours, it looked as though he’d barely started.
“I was hoping to have the front done by the time you got up,” he said apologetically. “It’s my first barn.”
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“My small way of saying thank you.”
“Small? Hardly. I’ve been putting this off for so long. I guess I was hoping it would just fall down. But thank you. Thank you so much.”
He motioned with the roller. “So what do you think?”
“I love it.” She turned to the farmhouse and lingered on its faded, peeling skin. “Oh yes,” she said brightly. “Definitely blue.”
“I was hoping you’d see it that way,” he said. “I bought twelve gallons of this stuff. The old guy who sold it to me said no refunds. He was pretty gruff about that.”
“Had to be Gabe Milton.”
“No left hand?”
“That’s Gabe,” she said. “Crusty old bugger. But nice enough to give Ryan a part-time job last summer. I sent him a Christmas card.”
“So you really like it?”
She nodded approvingly, but she looked like she had something on her mind. A million things. He didn’t ask, and instead dipped the roller and rolled on more of the Sherwin-Williams.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said quietly.
“About what?”
“Last week … you know … the way Ryan treated you.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“You left pretty quick. Can’t say I blame you.”
He nodded dimly, then went back to his painting.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“… Why’d he call you ‘Ghost’?”
Here we go, he thought.
“Wanagi cikala … kin,” he replied, sounding it out slowly, still unsure of the correct pronunciation. “That’s me. The Little Ghost.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Jimmy Long.”
“Only Sioux in the Tribe.”
“‘Tribe’?”
“My little pet name for the boys.” He shrugged.
“‘The Little Ghost’?”
“Jimmy, he’s—well, I guess you know he’s on the ball team. I just stumbled on a game one day and started watching. Still do. I guess I came out of nowhere—at least from Jimmy’s point of view, anyway. The name seemed to fit. And stuck.”
“It’s cute.”
It was the first time in a week he’d been lucky enough to see that smile. He rolled on what was left of the paint on his roller and started to climb down. On the ground, he set down the tray and held up a can. Its blue-streaked logo read “Cover The Earth.”
“One dead soldier.”
“I think you’ll need more troops,” she said. He had managed to cover barely half the sprawling area above the wide doors.
“Looks that way. This old wood just sucks it up.”
He led her inside the barn. He opened the second can of the dozen he had purchased and stirred up the mix. Lynn, dressed in tattered jeans and a faded yellow short-sleeved shirt, took up a wide brush he had set on the long workbench there.
“What’s that look for, mister? You didn’t think I was going to let you do this all by yourself, did you?”
A small grin clung to him. Her blonde mane was tied back, just as it was when he had first set eyes on her in the diner. Standing there in her rough casuals, paintbrush in hand in lieu of coffee pot, she was all business, young and vibrant and ready to go. Sexy as hell.
“All this,” he said, motioning his hand like a used-car salesman toward a real gem. “And she paints, too.”
Lynn blushed. “Come on, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”
~
They had nearly finished the front in two hours. Darn thing’s a whole lot bigger when you’re painting it, Lynn had lamented, Kain agreeing, exchanging glances and small talk between strokes of roller and brush. He worked the top half, and more than once he had looked down when she wasn’t looking. She was gorgeous, paint-speckled cheeks and all, and he had to remind himself that what he was thinking—what he was wanting—just couldn’t be. They couldn’t be. He felt like a kid with a crush, for Chrissake; he didn’t want to guess if she felt the same.
Ben Caldwell’s truck rambled up the drive, a little fast, but not as fast as usual. Ben slowed beside them, honked Hello and acknowledgement of a job well done, then met Ryan up at the house. Standing akimbo at the steps, Ryan lingered, clearly not impressed by the goings-on; his eyes were peeled on the drifter. You’re still here, he seemed to be thinking, but more: I’m gonna find out your secret, Ghost. If it’s the last thing I do.
Kain was thankful Lynn didn’t see. She was putting the final touches on one of the doors, and the pickup sped off before she could get a reply from her son about where he was off to. She straightened from her hunched position, arcing her aching back with a groan.
“I need a break,” she said, staring up with one hand raised to block the sun. “Be careful, would you?”
Kain had overextended himself, reaching. “Just this last … little … spot—”
He slipped; slipped and fell, the paint and the roller flying one way, his body the other. He tried to snare the ladder and missed, the thing sliding away from him and toppling like a felled tree. He came crashing to the ground, just missing Lynn, Lynn who had stood quite frozen, arms thrown over head with brush in hand, in prayer the ladder would miss her. Luckily it missed both of them, but the paint tray flipped, splattering blue goop all over them. They looked like a couple of small children who had gotten into the finger paint.
“My God! Are you all right?”
Kain turned on his side. A sharp ache stung him, and he rolled over on his back. He was winded, but as far as he could tell there were no broken bones. He nodded to her.
She knelt beside him. She gave him a moment, and he sat up. He winced hard, the pain throbbing, but then he s
tarted to laugh. She looked at him as if he were crazy, but she joined him in the laughter all the same.
“Your father,” he said, barely getting it out. “He said I—oww—he said I’d probably break my neck.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You—” She gave him the strangest look. “What …”
He was staring. The mess of paint along her cheeks could not spoil her. On anyone else, the dab on the tip of her nose would have been comical. But not her.
“Aren’t we a pair,” he said. “A couple of clowns.”
Gently, smiling as she did, she dabbed splatters of paint from his cheeks. Her touch was warm, almost teasing, but then she drew back, if only a little. She tilted her head subtly as she checked his face for more paint, but as she did her eyes seemed to falter. He tried to meet them, but they ran past him, like a car whizzing by a hitchhiker who looked like trouble. She rose then, saying nothing, and suddenly she seemed very distant, like a lost dream.
“I could use a drink,” he said, rising with her, and she agreed, almost too quickly. She helped him up, helped dust him off (Lynn berated him calmly and asked again if he was sure he was all right, all at once), and when she emerged from the house five minutes later with a tray of lemonade for two, he was relaxing on the swing, still thinking about how he shouldn’t be thinking about Lynn Bishop … but mostly about how she had pulled away from him. He had always been the one to pull back. To walk away. Run away.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“Huh? Oh … I was just thinking about how much paint we’ll need. I’ll pick up some more this week.”
She offered him a glass as she set the tray on the table beside them. She joined him on the swing.
“To teamwork,” she said, raising her glass.
“Teamwork,” he echoed, and clanked his against hers. “It looks pretty good from here, doesn’t it?”
She took in their handiwork. “You know? It does. But I think I got more paint on me than the barn.”
She sipped her drink as Kain rocked them gently with his foot. She smiled mildly behind her glass, but he could tell there was something stirring in her mind. She’d been open enough as they’d worked, talking and joking, but in moments she’d seemed preoccupied. Maybe she was thinking about Ryan; maybe Ray Bishop. Maybe life before the Turn.
One of the black cats strolled across the yard. It had a small patch of white on its right hind leg. It paused and meowed deeply, sounding not ill, but very forlorn, the way animals can. Lynn called to Abbott, but the cat ignored her with kitty aloofness and trotted off. Kain had seen neither hide nor hair of the beasties in a week, not even the dog. Apparently, they were keeping their distance.
“I haven’t seen Costello in days,” Lynn said.
“Abbott and Costello,” he chuckled. “Cute.”
“I found them in the rain. They were just kittens. They would have died if I hadn’t taken them in.” And before he could say it: “I know. A sucker for strays.”
He took a good swig of his lemonade. “How do you tell them apart?”
“Did you see the patch on Abbott’s leg? Costello’s is on the left.” She looked about the yard wistfully. “I don’t understand it. They’re practically joined at the hip …”
“I’m sure he’s around,” Kain said. She nodded almost imperceptibly, clearly not reassured.
“He’s a she,” she said, and he gave her a look. “They both are.”
“I’m sure she’s okay. Cats do wander.”
“Yes … but she never does. She’s a real homebody.”
“I could take a look around.”
“… No … you’re right. She’ll be back.”
“What about the others? All accounted for?”
“Uh huh.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You hesitated.”
And she did so again. “It’s Pepper. The tabby? I think he might be sick.”
“Where is he?”
“Inside. He just lies around all day like a bump on a log. I know how that sounds, it sounds like a cat. But when I look at him, Kain … it’s like he’s a different cat altogether. Am I making any sense?”
“Can I see him?”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“If anything should get him going, it’s me.”
Lynn considered her options, then nodded. “I’ll get him.”
She returned a minute later and stood behind the screen door, stroking the tabby as she cradled him. Kain got to his feet and kept his distance. The cat was old by any measure, flush with silver whiskers, a full sixteen years (and that was only in Lynn’s keep; she had found it on her doorstep, fully grown, nearly frozen to death back in January of ’46), and seeing it now, the way Kain was seeing it—the listless animal held sickly, lifeless eyes—it almost seemed dead.
“He looks doped, Lynn.”
“I know. He’s eating okay, but mostly he just sleeps. He barely moves from one spot.” Mild surprise rose in her face. “He’s as calm as a pond.”
She brought the tabby outside and set him down with a tender stroke of his ears. The cat sat straight on its hind legs, seemed to come to rest, like a clock that has just wound down. It blinked once, very slowly. Lynn drew a string from her pocket and dangled it before the animal.
“He’s an old geezer,” she said, swinging the string to and fro, “but any other time, he’d be all over it.” She brought the string closer to Pepper’s face, interfering with his thick whiskers. The cat listed, staring off into space.
Kain couldn’t be certain the thing saw him; for all he knew, it had suddenly gone blind. He knelt and snapped his fingers in front of it. Nothing. He stroked it behind the ears.
“He should be purring like crazy,” Lynn said worriedly. “It’s like he’s dead inside.”
Kain saw not a trace of the Turn’s ill effects. External effects, like the yellowed eyes, had cleared up nicely, but it was clear that the Turn had done its vile work on the inside. Sometimes, the brain lost something when time turned; what that something was, God only knew. It was as if a part of the brain—memory, perhaps, of how to purr or bat a string—was lost, stuck in the other timeline, doing its thing there … and only there. He had seen this mostly in mice, at times in dogs and cats. The odd Stiff, one in a thousand. One of Brikker’s monkeys had turned so stupid after a Turn that Brikker had asked for the private’s weapon. Shot him right between the eyes, a lesson for all monkeys present. Brikker had a name for the malady—the bastard had a name for everything, save those lucky enough to “participate” in the Project, they were simply enumerated like concentration camp victims—he called it “Animal Crackers.” Maybe the Marx Brothers would have found it amusing.
The cat’s pupils were wide black stones.
“I don’t know, Lynn. You could take him to a vet.”
“I did. Yesterday. He didn’t find anything wrong. But he told me he’s never seen anything like it.”
“Me either.”
“All the others are fine. Beaks, too. I checked Abbott last night. You know, for that yellow stuff in his eyes. Nothing. Same with Pep. I wish—”
“Lynn?”
“… I wish I could find Costello.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Her.”
“Her.”
She said nothing further on the subject, and they finished their lemonade in silence before returning to their task. They worked just as silently, moving slowly along one side of the barn, Lynn keeping her thoughts close to her heart, Kain wondering how long it would be before her memories would start to kick in.
By noon he had his answer.
~ 20
She had to start over; standing on high above her, moving steadily with his roller, Kain had pretended to miss what she had said.
“A dream,” she repeated. “An awful dream.” She went on, dabbing some paint on the trim of the first of three windows on this side. “I was in the kitchen
with Ryan. He was really upset.”
“About what?”
“I can’t be sure. I was sitting at the table. He was at the sink, giving me a hard time. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“He was upset with you?”
“No … at least, I don’t think so. I—”
She stopped, granting herself a moment to recall. Finally, she looked up with a sigh. “I’ve lost it. Maybe he was angry with me. I just don’t know.”
“Anyone else there?”
Again she tried to remember. She shook her head. “I thought there was …”
“What is it?”
“It’s just a dream,” she said. “Forget about it.”
She dabbed on more paint, but her attention was clearly elsewhere. She was missing the mark with her brush, getting more on the glass than the grayed wood.
“Lynn.”
She stopped painting and met him with anxious eyes. “It’s Mortimer,” she said. “He came into the kitchen—in my dream—and all of a sudden, he just started going crazy. Fur up, hissing … the whole nine yards.”
“Go on.”
“He was all wound up over my son. Terrified. And then Ryan, he … he … he had a baseball bat, and … oh my God.” She cupped a hand to her mouth, very nearly drawn to tears. “I don’t know why I told you this. It’s just a stupid dream.”
“Hey … it’s all right.” But he saw something in her frightened eyes, something colder and darker.
“There’s more … isn’t there.”
She nodded.
Kain rolled the last of the paint off his roller and climbed down the ladder.
“I think Ray was there,” she said. “Everything in me is telling me it was him.”
“Maybe it was me. You said Ryan was upset.”
“No. It was Ray, I’m sure of it. It’s just that … well, there was something about that dream. That dream just wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It just scared me, I guess.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I feel pretty stupid, though.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I’ll never stop looking over my shoulder, will I? I mean, I go months without thinking about Ray, and then wham. I just dream him up.”
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