‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ said Ruth.
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘How did you manage to put your Susan to rest?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I told you about my colleague Jack, who scattered his wife’s remains on her favorite gardens. After that, he never saw her again, so he guessed that she must have passed over and found peace.’
‘Sure, yes. But I never tried to put Susan to rest.’
‘You didn’t? You mean – you mean she still comes back to you?’
He nodded. ‘I guess you think that’s very selfish. But I find it impossible to let her go.’
‘But isn’t she suffering, wherever she is? She drowned, didn’t she? Doesn’t she feel like she’s still drowning, twenty-four-seven?’
‘I don’t know, Ruth. I don’t think so. She never gives me the impression that she’s distressed. She just clings on to me as if she doesn’t want to let me go, either.’
‘So every time you take a bath, or a shower, or go swimming—?’
‘She doesn’t come to me every time. But whenever I go near water, I’m conscious that she’s there. Or at least she could be there.’
Ruth didn’t know what to say. Today she had seen for herself that the everyday world which she had always taken for granted was only one reality in a maze of countless realities. There were dead people everywhere, whispering behind walls, walking through gardens, floating in the darkest lakes. There were people who had been strangled, or burned, or drowned, or suffered heart seizures, breathing their last desperate breath in hospital wards. And they were always whispering, whisper-whisper-whisper, because they wanted to come back through, and settle old scores, or see their loved ones one last time, or stay for ever, if they could.
Whatever Martin said, Ruth found it hard to believe that all of them wanted that seamless darkness, that eternal silence, that absolute emptiness called death.
Martin finished his glass of wine and stood up to leave. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow morning, shall I?’
‘Yes. You can catch me at the Fire Department any time after nine. Here, I’ll write the number down for you. Four-five-seven, two-six-three-six.’
‘About today—’
She took hold of his hand. ‘Don’t let’s talk about today until tomorrow, OK? I’m still trying to take it all in.’
He looked at her for a long moment without saying anything. Then he said, ‘I hope you realize that I’m no expert when it comes to all of this afterlife stuff. Nobody is. But I know for a fact that not everybody goes quietly, because I can hear them, and I can see them, the same way that Amelia does.’
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said, and left. Ruth stood by the open front door watching his car turn around in the street, and then drive off.
When she closed the door she found that Amelia was close behind her, her face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears.
‘Poor Tyson,’ she wept. ‘I miss him so much.’
Ruth hugged her and shushed her. ‘Shush, sweetheart. He’s in a much better place now.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ sobbed Amelia. ‘He’s not. He’s in hell.’
TWENTY
‘What do you think?’ Craig shouted, as they drove back into the city on South Washington Street. Jeff had brought one of his Pig Destroyer CDs with him, and was playing ‘Fourth Degree Burns’ at maximum volume, so that the window frames buzzed at every beat.
‘Fucking amazing!’ Jeff shouted back.
‘Don’t swear!’ Craig retorted.
‘Sorry, Pops! But it’s so fucking fantastic!’
The Grand Prix was in surprisingly good condition for a ten-year-old car, although the knob was missing from the gear shift and the corner of the passenger seat was heavily stuck with duct tape where the tan-colored vinyl had split. As far as Jeff was concerned, however, it was the greatest ride ever. He was driving with his dad, so he was not only observing the speed limit, he was stopping at all the red traffic signals, even if there was nothing coming, and religiously using his indicators, even if there was nobody behind him. But in his mind his car was already crowded with all of his friends, and the music was pumping so loud that they couldn’t hear themselves think, and he was revving up the 3.1-liter engine until it screamed.
They turned off South Washington on to West Sycamore.
‘Wait until Lennie sees this!’ said Jeff. ‘He’s going to, like, die of jealousy! He’s going to sob like a girl!’
‘Well, I’m glad you like it,’ grinned Craig.
‘Like it? You are absolutely the best dad ever!’
‘Thanks. I do what I can.’
‘I got to get one of those Dyno-Max exhausts, though. They got that real deep throb, if you know what I mean. You can pull the girls even when you’re stopped at the traffic signals.’
‘Sure,’ said Craig. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But as far as I’m concerned, it all happened a long time ago, on a planet far, far away.’
As they drove along West Sycamore, Jeff glanced in his rear-view mirror and said, ‘Look at this guy. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who tailgate. Like, the street is totally deserted, dude! If you want to overtake, overtake!’
Craig turned his head around. An elderly black Buick Riviera was driving so close up behind them that he couldn’t even see its radiator grille.
‘What’s his problem?’ he said. ‘Slow down, Jeff, and wave him past.’
Jeff said, ‘OK,’ although Craig could tell that he really wanted to step on the gas pedal and leave the Buick way behind him.
Jeff reduced his speed to a crawl, and waved his left arm out of the window as if he were swimming, but the Buick continued to follow them, only a few inches behind their rear bumper.
‘Overtake, asshole!’ Jeff shouted. ‘How fucking slow do you want me to go?’
‘Turn the music off,’ said Craig. Jeff did as he was told, and suddenly the loudest sound they could hear was the menacing burble of the Buick’s engine. Craig shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to see who was driving it. Every street light they passed was reflected from its windshield, so that he could only see the driver intermittently, but he appeared to have a dead white face – more like a mask than a face – and his front-seat passenger had a dead white face, too.
Jeff was driving at less than five miles an hour, but the Buick stayed close up behind them, and now Craig knew that they were in some kind of trouble.
‘Stop,’ he told Jeff. ‘Pull into the curb and stop. And put up your window.’
‘Who the hell are these guys?’ said Jeff, staring at them in his mirror. ‘Do you think you should call nine-one-one?’
Craig patted the pockets of his windbreaker. ‘I forgot my cell. How about you?’
‘I didn’t bring mine either. My battery’s dead.’ He frowned up at his mirror again. ‘Like, what do they want?’
‘I don’t know. But stay ready. If I say go, then put your foot right down to the floor and go.’
‘Dad – maybe you should drive.’
‘Unh-hunh. I don’t think that either of us should get out of the car. But if I do say go, take a left on South Western Avenue, and then another left on West Superior, then a right on South Philips.’
Jeff steered the Grand Prix into the side of the road and stopped. Immediately, the Buick shunted their rear bumper, pushing them forward three or four feet and giving both of them a spine-jerking jolt.
‘Jesus!’ said Jeff. ‘This guy’s totally psycho!’
‘Put on your parking-brake,’ Craig told him.
‘I already did! I already did!’
The Buick backed up about ten feet and then collided with them again, much harder this time.
‘Shit!’ said Jeff. ‘What are we going to do, Dad?’
‘Just hold tight,’ said Craig. ‘They’re probably drug addicts. All we need to do is stay calm.’
‘Calm?’ J
eff screamed at him. Because now, with a hideous grinding and squeaking of metal and plastic, the Buick forced itself right up against their rear bumper. The driver kept gunning his engine, and inch by inch they were pushed along the street, even though their wheels were locked and their tires were screeching in a high, hysterical chorus.
‘Reverse!’ shouted Craig. ‘Put it in reverse!’
Jeff pulled back the gear-shift to R, and pressed the gas pedal down to the floor. The Grand Prix’s rear wheels spun, and clouds of rubbery blue smoke billowed across the street, but the Buick weighed nearly two-and-a-half tons and had an engine that developed more than 300 horsepower, and it relentlessly edged them forward.
For a split-second, Craig wondered if they ought to jump out of the car and make a run for it on foot, but maybe that was exactly what these goons wanted them to do. Besides, this Grand Prix was much more than just a car. This was his way of showing his family that he was still capable of providing for them, and taking care of them. He wasn’t going to let some crackhead morons in masks take it away from him, less than fifteen minutes after he had picked it up.
As the Grand Prix was rammed further and further along the street, the grating of metal and the shrieking of tires grew deafening. Jeff tried stamping on the gas pedal in bursts, but the Buick was unstoppable. Craig turned around again to look at its occupants, and he was sure that the front seat passenger was laughing.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. Remember – when I say go, give it everything you’ve got. And don’t hesitate. Not for a moment. Keep going as fast as you can until I say it’s OK.’
Jeff nodded. He released the parking-brake and shifted gear into D1, but kept his foot pressed hard on the brake pedal.
The Riviera backed away, only nine or ten feet, but then its engine bellowed and it collided with them yet again. It backed away once more, even further, nearly three car-lengths, and the driver was obviously preparing to ram them even harder. Its headlights filled the interior of the Grand Prix with blinding white light.
‘Go!’ said Craig, and they slewed away from the curb and sped along the street.
Craig looked around again, and he could see that the Buick was coming after them, but they had a two-block start, at least, and in this part of Kokomo there were scores of criss-crossing streets and avenues where they could shake it off.
‘Keep going! Keep going!’ he shouted. ‘Left at South Western Avenue – there!’
The Grand Prix’s tires howled as Jeff steered them around the corner. The rear end of the car snaked from side to side, and for a moment Craig thought that they were going into a 180-degree skid, which would have left them facing back to West Sycamore Drive, and the Buick that was chasing them. But with his hands flailing at the steering wheel, Jeff managed to straighten them out, and they roared off southward, faster and faster. South Western Avenue was only a quiet suburban street, lined with trees and single-story houses, but by the time they were halfway down it they were touching sixty-five miles an hour.
Craig turned around. He could see the Buick’s headlights as it turned into the avenue after them. His heart seemed to be beating three times faster than it ought to be.
‘Next left!’ he panted. ‘Here – West Superior! Go!’
Jeff steered the Grand Prix in a wide screeching semicircle, and again Craig thought that he was close to losing it. With a resonating bang, their nearside rear wheel hit the curb, and the whole car joggled and bounced. They ended up sideways across the street, with the engine stalled.
‘Shit!’ said Jeff, and punched the steering wheel in panic and frustration. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
‘Shift into neutral,’ Craig told him, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘That’s it. Now restart the engine. Brilliant. Now put it into drive, and go.’
West Superior was only a short street, but they hadn’t even reached the end of it before the Buick came around the corner in pursuit, its suspension dipping, black and battered like a malevolent old shark. Craig said, ‘Right! Go right here, into South Philips – then right again – then left!’
His plan was to lead the Buick and its occupants into the intricate maze of roads and crescents next to the railroad lines, so that he could loop around and double back and leave them comprehensively lost. He just hoped that they didn’t know where he lived, and follow them home, but once he and Jeff made it back they could call the cops. Besides that, he had his own gun – a Glock, in the left-hand drawer of his desk.
They turned right into West Carter Street and then immediately left into Conradt Avenue. ‘Now – switch off your lights,’ said Craig.
Jeff’s confidence was growing now. Conradt Avenue was narrow and heavily overshadowed by trees, and there were cars parked all along the right-hand side, but he put his foot down and by the time they were only halfway down it they were nudging forty-five. Turning around again, Craig saw the Buick miss the turning from West Carter Street and carry on speeding westward.
‘We lost ’em!’ he said, triumphantly. ‘They didn’t see us come down here!’
Jeff lifted his hand and gave him a high-five. ‘Wahoo! Nobody messes with the Cutters! No-bod-ee! Way to go, Dad!’
At that instant, Jeff realized that there was somebody standing in the middle of the road, about a hundred feet in front of them, under a street light. A young boy, not moving, not making any attempt to jump out of the way. Jeff stood on the brakes and the Grand Prix went into a long screaming skid.
Craig saw the boy coming nearer and nearer, as if he were watching a slow-motion movie. He could see the boy’s face with unnerving clarity, pale and unsmiling, with wide-apart eyes and lips as pink as a girl’s. He could hear a high-pitched squealing noise, a squealing that went on and on, but as the boy drew closer he realized that it was Jeff, making the sound of brakes, as if that could somehow bring the car to a stop any sooner.
The Grand Prix stopped so close to the boy that he was able to raise his right hand and rest it on top of the hood.
‘Holy shit,’ said Jeff. ‘Holy shit that was close. I could of killed him.’
He reached for the door handle, but Craig grabbed hold of his arm and said, ‘Wait.’
‘What? The kid was standing right in the middle of the road and I could have knocked him down. I just want to make sure he’s OK.’
‘No. Wait. This is the Creepy Kid your mom was talking about.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sure of it. Pale face, dark curly hair. Washed-out black T-shirt, red jeans.’
‘OK. So what’s he doing out here, trying to get himself knocked down by a car? Doesn’t he have a home to go to?’
‘Mom says he killed Tyson. Burned him alive, and himself, too. I know it sounds crazy.’
Jeff pulled a disbelieving face. ‘He doesn’t look very burned alive to me.’
‘I know. I know that. But I think the best thing we can do is just get out of here.’
‘He’s a kid, Dad. That’s all. You’re not scared of some kid?’
‘Jeff – your mom has gotten herself involved in some pretty weird stuff lately. I’m not saying that I believe in any of it, but I think we’d be wiser to play this safe.’
The boy was still standing in front of the car, staring at them. Not smiling, not moving, but keeping one hand on the hood, as if he wanted to stop them from leaving.
‘Let me just ask him if he’s OK,’ Jeff suggested. ‘There can’t be any harm in that. I mean, look at him. He can’t weigh more than sixty pounds.’
‘Your average pit-bull terrier weighs less than sixty pounds, but it can still tear your throat out. Come on, let’s go.’
Jeff shifted the gear-shift into drive, and waited.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Craig asked him.
‘He’s not moving out of the way, is he? I can’t just run him over.’ He waved his hand and called out, ‘Hey, get out of here! Get lost, kid! Scram!’ But the boy stayed where he was, with his hand still resting on the
Grand Prix’s hood.
‘The only thing you can do is back up,’ said Craig.
‘OK,’ said Jeff, and engaged reverse. When he turned around in his seat, however, he said, ‘Oh, shit. Look.’
Craig turned around, too. Coming slowly toward them down the street was the black Buick Riviera, with its lights out. It stopped about fifty feet away, its engine running, and smoke blowing out of its exhaust. Craig could see the white-faced driver and the white-faced front-seat passenger, but now he could see that there was another passenger, in the back seat, and that he had a white face, too.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ said Craig. ‘Like, who are these guys?’
The Buick’s doors opened and the three men climbed out. Apart from their white masks, they were all wearing long black overcoats, so that they looked like three gunfighters from a Sergio Leone movie. They came right up to the Grand Prix and the man in the laughing mask rapped on Craig’s window with his knuckles.
‘Get out of the car!’ he said, in a loud but muffled voice.
With a tight feeling around his heart, Craig was suddenly reminded of the laughing mask that Ruth had seen in Doctor Beech’s clinic, except that this man was more than just a disembodied head.
‘Get out of the car!’ the man repeated.
Another man rapped at Jeff’s window. This man had no expression on his mask at all. ‘You heard what he said. Don’t pretend you didn’t. Get out of the car!’
Craig vigorously shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is you’re not getting it! I’ve called the cops, they’re going to be here any second.’
‘Are you deaf? I said get out of the car. I have a message for your wife and daughter.’
‘What? What message?’
The laughing man stepped away from the car, tugging at his black leather gloves. ‘I’m not telling you until you get out!’
Fire Spirit Page 24