Hunching over, I slumped onto the tabletop, face in hand. Out of the corner of my watery eyes, I saw the patch of milky mist come to hover at my side.
“I wish you were solid,” I wept, hating myself even as I whined. “Then you would qualify as a shoulder to cry on.”
He wafted closer, pressing into me as he expanded, stretching out and filling in. He became solid just in time. I was so tired, so drained from it all. I buried my face into his flannel shirt, finding it neither soft nor warm, but comforting nevertheless.
“She’s got red hair,” I cried, “so she should have an iffy skin tone, freckles, rosacea, something!” I sniffed. “But she’s perfect, like the prettier version of me. And she fits Lucas better too. They both have those low, sexy voices, all mysterious and stuff.” I wiped my nose. “Do you think he likes me because I’m an imitation of her?”
His answer was no. I could feel it, could feel his flat palm rubbing circles on my back. It should have creeped me out, and at one time would have, but for some reason didn’t. I could tell him anything, because he already knew all of my secrets. He knew me better than anyone, even my best friend. I could never tell Francesca about Lucas and Elaine, she would never believe that they weren’t sleeping together. I could hear the ‘I told you so’ already. And Lucas, the man I had feelings for, was utterly drawn to, even him I couldn’t confide in. In a way, the space between us was an ocean. But Smith, Smith was a rock. A dead rock, but my rock even so. When I needed him most, he was always there.
Chapter 24
The next day was a Sunday, and I woke up that morning feeling deflated. I sort of lumbered around the house, my pity party carried over from one day to the next. Smith was gone. The ghost dog was also absent. I made breakfast, burning the bacon and spilling my orange juice. With hours to kill before my shift at work, I was at a loss, knowing I needed to find a distraction or things would get ugly. If left to my own devices there might be more crying.
I flipped through my phone book while I ate, skimming the pages for Bill Shrader. I found a William Shrader, and tearing out the page, I decided to stop sniveling and go borrow Luke’s computer.
He was already at work, so the venture would require little courage. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him, or that I was mad, or even that the minor spat from yesterday was a problem. The problem was that Elaine had been right, I was threatened by her. It didn’t make sense either, because I trusted Lucas. I just couldn’t seem to trust the fact that he would choose me over her, especially with her strutting around right under his nose.
I got ready for the day, taking my plans into account and dressing for yet another ride off the island. My car’s idea of air conditioning was the fan blowing warm air in off the engine, so I wore short shorts and a loose T-shirt, slathering on the deodorant and popping my hair into a bun so it would stay up off my neck.
Stepping outside through the kitchen, I found a note stuck to my backdoor. It said only: come over. Luke, always to the point. He had given me my space last night, but I appreciated the message and its encouragement.
I let myself in and flopped onto the couch at his house, pulling the laptop closer as I turned it on. As I waited for it to wake up, something shiny caught my eye. Shoes, two little sandals, strappy and metallic, they lay forgotten in the corner. Intentionally forgotten and certainly not mine. Elaine’s little ruse, her excuse to come back. I wasted no time in picking them up, carrying them to the kitchen, and dumping them straight into the trash. I hope it was her favorite pair.
After that my mood was black, no cream, no sugar. I copied down directions to Bill’s place, mentally calculating the time frame. It wasn’t looking good. I would probably be late to work again. Oh well, there was nothing for it. I went home and gathered up my things, stuffing the tape and recorder into my purse.
“Smith!” I called, thinking I should consult him first. “Smith!” But he was really gone, probably off haunting Stephen. Not wanting to wait, I wrote him and note and left.
I drove with all the windows down, wind whirling through the car, beating me in waves. The tires thrummed a rhythm as I crossed the many bridges, the soft sound dulling me slack as I sped over the blue water beneath me. I was feeling better by the end of my journey, sort of refreshed despite the pulsing heat.
Bill lived in a subdivision, the cookie-cutter houses all rowed up nice and neat. It was a neighborhood for families, but my impression of Bill had convinced me he didn’t have one.
I parked in his driveway, suspecting the swath of concrete would never be the same. My car was known to leak, dribbling black goo. No matter, I planned to make this quick, in and out before an oily puddle could form. I rang the doorbell and waited.
A waft of cool air escaped when the door was pulled open. Bill was there, and for once he wasn’t sweating. With his thermostat set to arctic, I couldn’t wait to get inside.
“Do you remember me? We met at the picnic. I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, taking in his dress pants and tweed jacket. “I need to speak with you. It won’t take more than minute.”
He was concerned, even a little put out by my arrival, but that’ll happen when faced with an unexpected visitor. He covered it well, sweeping the door open. “Come in,” he said politely. “And no, you aren’t interrupting. I just got home from church.”
His living room was bland, beige carpets and couch. No sports memorabilia. No mounted moose heads. I guess it was true what people said, accountants really were boring.
He lowered his girth into a recliner, gesturing for me to sit across from him. I was talking before my butt hit the cushion. I confessed my theory that David Smith didn’t abandon his family, but rather my belief that some ill fate had befallen him.
“What makes you say that? You would have been what, ten, eleven,” Bill pressed. “Just a child when all of this was happening.”
I tried to be vague, but he was insistent, curious to know what’d precipitated my search. I pulled out the tape recorder just to distract him, knowing I would lose all credibility the second I started to ramble on about ghosts. Sure enough, the tape did the trick. He was totally surprised and I had his full attention, curiosity sparked and flaming. He listened without speaking, and when the tape was through I warned him about my Marks encounters, well, the first one. I needed to impress the seriousness of the situation, because his emotions weren’t registering in as somber. And if anything could do it, crushed fingers would.
“I’m bringing this to your attention because you remember David,” I said. “And as an SL&S employee you can easily report this to your boss and the authorities. Marks knows who murdered David Smith, of that much I’m sure.”
He was thinking hard, a blend of thoughtful distraction. Underneath all that was vigilance, which I thought was a good sign. At least he was taking me seriously.
“I hope you won’t think badly of me,” he said, “but I need a drink.” Bill grabbed an armrest and wrenched himself upright. From behind me I heard brittle clinking, and turning I saw him use the decanter to fill a glass. “Can I pour you something?”
I shook my head and turned back around. “I know this all sounds out of left field,” I admitted. “SL&S, the victim of corporate espionage, and the murder of David Smith—somehow the two are tied together. I just can’t figure out how,” I said in frustration, talking to myself more than anyone. “And what I really don’t understand is why Marks taped himself. Why would someone do that?”
From behind me I heard him guzzling it down, his gullet gulping thickly, audible from across the room. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was winded and scratchy.
“Maybe he didn’t,” Bill offered. “I mean, a guy like that does hard labor. He doesn’t have access to company decisions. A higher ranking office guy could have cut him into the deal, got him to take care of the leg work, even taped him doing it just incase it all went south, because then he’d have someone else to take the fall.”
“Oh shit!” I breathed, bolting out
of my seat.
I spun around, seeing something fisted in his hands, the blur of it bearing down before it all went black.
* * *
I woke up in a dream, everything blurry and muffled. My mind drifted, the only thing sharp and certain was the pain in my head. It throbbed, luring me into awareness. Voices, I heard them murmuring from behind me. I couldn’t recall what had happened, but instinctually I was afraid of the noise. I didn’t move, holding myself still as my mind flashed forward, snapping from the remnants of lazy lassitude.
I took stock, feeling myself sprawled out unnaturally in a way I would never lay. My shoulders not quite flat, hands pinned behind me, crushed by my own weight, as I rested on one hip with my legs curled back. And the pain, the pain woke up with me, increasing as I became coherent. My head was a living drum, the aches beating out a steady rhythm. But my hands, wrists, spine, and hip rebelled as well, begging to be moved into a more comfortable position.
It flooded back to me then, all of it. The knowledge that Bill Shrader had cracked me over the head, knocking me into unconsciousness. I should have seen it coming, but I’d been lulled by his flat emotions, assuming his interest stemmed from good intentions. And now... now I was, well, fucked.
That did it. Wide awake, enough to know my hands were tied behind my back and that I was outside, the distant birdcalls finally registering in my brain, all of my concentration was suddenly snared when the voices picked up again.
From a few yards away one man said, “Don’t blame me. This is the second time I’ve cleaned up your mess.” It was Bill.
“I never asked you to hurt Smitty!” another exploded, his deep voice recognizable. Marks.
“I shouldn’t have had to,” Bill said, his voice quiet but biting. “He caught wind of the deal, made the tape, and almost ruined us because you were indiscreet. A tape you said you destroyed,” he finished, the last an accusation.
“I got rid of all his stuff,” Marks said, voice agitated. “I thought it was gone.”
“Yes, that is what you assured me. So imagine my surprise when the girl showed up on my doorstep, tape in hand.” Bill relentlessly continued. “If you had destroyed the tape, she wouldn’t be dead. And if you had kept your mouth shut, then your friend David Smith wouldn’t be dead, either. But here I am, helping you bury another mistake, so don’t complain to me.”
When compared to a giant like Marks, Bill was a small man, but of the two, he was supremely dominant. He’d easily beaten Marks into a sullen submission, verbally cowing him into line. Marks only response had been a dull grunt, barely audible over the ominous sound of shoveling, the background noise that had been going on under their dialogue.
My mind was a jumble, thoughts tumbling together, mixing and unintelligible. He was lying!
I’m not dead.
I’m not dead.
I’m not dead.
I tried to stay still, but my breathing hitched up, bits of dirt stirring around my mouth from the heavy huffs. My heart was going too fast, I was going to die. I was dying. The panic attack took over, claiming my better judgment, stripping me until I was nothing but one giant reaction.
Something gripped my ankle and I screamed, the shrill sound slapping me back to reality. I kicked out, trapping my tied hands as I rolled to see who’d grabbed me.
It was Marks standing over me, stunned in place. I had a chance to convince him, he wasn’t without guilt or remorse. I had felt it.
“He’s lying to you,” I cried, panic making my voice shake. “Smith didn’t make the tape, he did!” I said, jerking my head at Bill. “He was going to use you as the scapegoat if the plan fell through! Smith stole it to protect you,” I said, begging for him to believe me.
“She’s lying,” Bill said, angry for the first time. “She’ll say anything to save herself.”
“No! No, he said I was dead. He would have let you bury me alive. If anyone were to find my body, then he could say you were responsible, that you had buried me! He’s just using you,” I rambled.
“Nonsense,” Bill said, ripping the shovel away from Marks. “I’ll prove it by killing her myself.”
Chapter 25
He came for me, moving past Marks with a steely determination. I jerked upright, yanking my hands in frenzy, but they were stuck fast behind my back. Digging my heels into the ground, I pushed myself away, struggling to escape him and the newly dug pit.
He stalked me down in no time, swinging the shovel. I screamed, scuttling away at the last minute. But I couldn’t avoid it completely, the metal tip clipping my shoulder as I tucked my head back.
It sliced into my skin, tearing another scream from me.
Bill moved forward, stepping on my ankle to hold me in place. He raised the shovel again, grasping it like a bat. He brought it down, but was bowled over at the last minute.
Smith was a blur, there one minute and gone the next.
“What was that?” Marks asked, face furrowed.
“It’s David Smith,” I answered, feeling immense relief. I sniffed, only then realizing that my face was covered in tears. “His ghost has been restless since the day you murdered him,” I said, glaring at the two of them.
Marks snapped, guilt and terror breaking him in half. “Shut up!” he growled, lunging for me.
Smith jumped in front, catching the brunt of it. I curled into a ball as they went down, and cringed as they rolled over me. They grappled on the ground, straining muscles pulled wire tight.
Bill used the distraction to come for me, his hands closing over my throat. I tried to buck upright, but he pinned me easily. My eyes bulged, my limbs twitched, and in a last act of desperation I folded up one leg, wedging a knee into Bill’s fat gut.
He grunted, losing his grip.
I sucked in air while the image of his sweaty, red face imprinted on my brain. But he wasn’t done yet, and while Marks was busy battling his ghost, I remained helpless.
Bill shifted, kneeling beside me, his hands slipping under my skin as he flipped me over, dropping me down into the ditch. It was deep. Deep enough to knock the wind out of me when I hit bottom.
“Ugh,” I moaned. “Smith.”
The shovel passed overhead, delivering a wave of dirt. It crashed down on me, stinging my eyes. He was trying to bury me! I struggled to stand, getting my feet beneath me. But the moment I stood, the moment my head cleared the brim, he brought the shovel down. I ducked, but the metal struck, glancing off my scalp.
I fell back, dazed and blinking. “Smith,” I cried, the sound weak, barely trickling from my lips. I wanted to sleep, my eyes were heavy and I hurt. Something was pressing me down, weighing me under, and stealing my breath.
A loud metal twang startled me awake, my eyes blinking open. Thump. Bill’s thick arm came down, hanging over the lip of my hole, his face too, peering in, eyes dull and sightless.
“Smith?” I croaked, confused by the quiet.
He dropped down into my intended grave, looking tired but driven. I was covered in dirt, the earthy smell smothering and strong, bring back memories of my time in the well. Smith brushed me off and turned me around, ripping the tape from my wrists. The freedom hurt, pain and blood rushing into my weak, white fingers.
“Get me out,” I said, voice toneless and empty.
We were both drained. I waited limply as he clambered out, reaching down to pluck me up. But at the last minute I stopped him saying, “Wait.” It was something I saw, the smallest hint of white. Stooping over, I pushed away the dirt. Then I fell to my knees, digging like a madwoman, fingers clawing at the earth.
I pulled up a femur first, then little pieces. A vertebrae. Some ribs. My hands scratched at the soil, unearthing a pelvis, and finally the thing that would haunt me forever. A skull. I stared down at the gaping hole of a nose, empty eyes sockets, and a jaw. The teeth were still there, pulled into a rictus, the grim smile of death staring back up at me.
Slowly I drew back, curling into the corner, my whole body shivering. “It’
s you,” I whispered. “It’s you.”
* * *
I don’t know what happened after that. Smith must have gotten me out of the ground and away from his bones. I don’t remember it. Not any of it. I hope to never feel that way again, the shock and loss. It was as if he’d died before my eyes. I mean, he’d been a ghost all along, but at the same time he was also a vital part of my life, very real in a way. But scratching the dirt from his bones, I saw what he’d lost, and what I’d never had, and it made me ache.
I don’t remember seeing Bill Shrader after that first glimpse. I don’t remember seeing Ed Marks at all. The first thing I remember after surfacing from Smith’s grave was running. I was running and he was with me, pushing me along. I hurt everywhere, my body dirt and blood-crusted. I would slow, gasping for breath, but Smith would drag me forward again, unremitting.
At one point the trees cleared, a swath of stumps, pine by the look of it. That was when it occurred to me that I was on SL&S property. Bill, or maybe Marks, had brought me here, to be buried alongside Smith in the acres of untouched company property. I would’ve never been found. Smith would’ve never been found.
My mind started to clear. I could think, reason, and I knew that Smith was right. I needed to get away. I needed help. He led me, seeming to know the way, but eventually I got too tired to run, too tired to jog, and too tired to walk. I slogged forward, and just as daylight was slipping, the brush gave way, revealing a road. Not more than fifteen yards down was a gas station, and front and center was a phone booth, the damn thing miraculously intact.
“Smith,” I breathed in relief, turning to thank him. But he wasn’t behind me. “Smith!” He didn’t appear, and I began to worry, uncertain of when he had slipped from my side. I waited for a few minutes, but eventually gave up, thinking he was just tired. I would find him at home, needing a recharge.
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