Above the ghost, a shadow ran along the top of the ridge, tracking the blue torch.
It was the black cat. Following.
But not with him, Kimble thought. No, the cat was not a friend. He was keeping watch on him, and somehow Kimble knew that it was very good that the cat had found him. The reasons were beyond him in that moment as the fire encroached, but he understood that Silas Vesey was leaving and that it was good that the black cat trailed him.
It was important that something trailed him, and kept watch.
Kimble turned back to the cold fire then, back to what waited for him, and saw that the ghosts were all leaving. They were climbing the rocks.
For a moment, he feared for those he’d left behind, those who waited on the hilltop unaware of what was coming toward them. Then he saw that the first of the ghosts—was it Mortimer? Hamlin? one of the ancients—had detoured to the right immediately, was running for the trestle.
Coming for me, Kimble thought, and then he saw the ghost enter the flames, saw a brilliant shower of red sparks, and then there was nothing.
I’ve released them.
The next ghost entered, another shower of red sparked high and vanished, and Kimble’s excitement grew. He remembered, finally, to call out to those he’d left behind.
“It’s done here!” he yelled. “I’ve put an end to it here!”
He couldn’t see the group he’d left on the hill, though, not now, with the flames so tall. The firelight was brilliant, the night a thing forgotten. He shouted to them again, as loud as he could, and he hoped it was loud enough. He hoped that they’d heard, and that they would understand the significance of that last word.
He wanted very badly for them to know.
The fire was near him at both ends now, and one of the trestle supports broke free. It shattered with a crack and then one of the massive timbers on the trestle’s eastern edge began easing away from the bridge, as if it hated to let go, and swung down in a ribbon of golden light and met the river with a splash.
The ghosts continued their entrance—exit, Kimble thought, deliriously happy, exit—and as he was pushed farther back into the center and the trestle continued to give way around him, he saw Wyatt French coming, and he wanted to laugh, wanted to shout his thanks, but the lighthouse keeper was already gone into the warm sparks, and then there was only one left, at the top of the ridge and heading his way.
“Jacqueline,” Kimble said as she stepped toward him, “I’m here.”
He went forward to meet her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There was a time when I felt eternally bound to The Ridge myself, and I’m deeply grateful to those who cast guiding lights along the path for me (no blue torches in this group): Christine, Tom Bernardo, Vanessa Kehren, David Hale Smith.
For Michael Pietsch, I haven’t the proper words of thanks. Michael, the importance of your insight, patience, faith, and unbreakable, irreplaceable enthusiasm cannot be overstated. Thanks for having confidence to spare on the days when I ran dry.
The rescue center portrayed in this book is based on a far more fascinating reality, the Exotic Feline Rescue Center founded by Joe Taft. Joe’s willingness to share his time, expertise, and perspective with me enabled this story to exist, and his mission is deserving of our attention and support.
Every writer jokes about someday killing off his editor in a book. I’ve now done it! Felt pretty good, I have to say. But in all seriousness, I’m forever indebted to Pete Wolverton, who read my first manuscript when there was no earthly incentive to do so, then took a chance, and taught me so much about the craft through our five books together. Always, always grateful, Pete.
Josh Ritter and Joe Pug, both wildly gifted artists, graciously allowed me to use their lyrics in the book.
To Marlowe, thanks for the insight into the complex feline mind, not to mention the help with choreography. To Riley… well, you punch the time clock every day, if nothing else.
And now the list of people I’d like to thank in detail but who would take out red pens and begin cutting pages if I tried: David Young, Heather Fain, Terry Adams, Sabrina Callahan, Nicole Dewey, Amanda Tobier, Tracy Williams, Robert Pepin, Louise Thurtell, Nick Sayers, Renee Senogles, Anne Clarke, Heather Rizzo, Luisa Frontino, Miriam Parker, and everyone else involved in making the books a reality.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Koryta is the author of seven previous novels, including Envy the Night, which won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for best mystery/thriller, and the Lincoln Perry series, which has earned nominations for the Edgar, Shamus, and Quill awards and won the Great Lakes Book Award. His work has been translated into twenty languages. A former private investigator and newspaper reporter, Koryta lives in Bloomington, Indiana, and St. Petersburg, Florida.
ALSO BY MICHAEL KORYTA
The Cypress House
So Cold the River
The Silent Hour
Envy the Night
A Welcome Grave
Sorrow’s Anthem
Tonight I Said Goodbye
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Michael Koryta
All rights reserved.
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