by Jodi Picoult
Ethan rolled over on his bed as his uncle opened the door to his bedroom. “You still up?” Ross asked.
He had been staring out the window, watching the sun come up. As always, a thick pane of glass was protecting him. He knew he’d totally lucked out; if Eli Rochert had decided to be honest and if his mother hadn’t come home with that box of old papers, he’d have been reamed up one side and down another for sneaking away.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Ethan sighed. “And it’s not like I wanted you to get in trouble too.” He picked at a stitch on the quilt that covered his bed, a lame blue thing with babyish trucks on its hem. Didn’t anyone except him realize that he was growing up? “It’s just that she doesn’t get it. Not like you would.”
Ross sat down on the bed, and put the laptop he’d been carrying on the floor. “Why me?”
With shining eyes, Ethan turned to his uncle. “Because you’ve skydived, and played chicken with a train, and fought back when someone pulled a knife on you. All those stories you tell me about things you’ve done. Sometimes I wake up and think I want to run until there’s nowhere left to go, and that if I don’t do it I might as well just croak right here and now.”
Ross shook his head. “When I do those things, it’s not for the thrill. It’s because sometimes I get so down that I need to feel something, anything. And since a pinprick isn’t cutting it, I’ve got to try a meat cleaver.”
“I know,” Ethan breathed. “And that rocks.”
“The thing is, Eth, I’d give anything to be sitting on a bed in a house that was safe, knowing that on the other side of the wall was someone who would rather die than think of me being hurt.” He pulled at the same stitch on the quilt that Ethan had toyed with, and unraveled one appliquéd truck. “Don’t try so hard to be me,” Ross said, “when all I’m trying to be is someone else.”
Suddenly Ethan felt like a sock was stuck in his throat, and those stupid tears were coming. “I just want to be normal,” he said.
“Yeah, well . . . if it weren’t for you and me, normal people would have nothing to measure themselves against.”
Ethan hiccuped on a laugh. “I guess we’d better stick together.”
“That’s good,” Ross answered, opening the laptop so that Ethan could see the screen. “Because I’m counting on your help.”
By the time Eli got home from Shelby’s house, and this new package of nightmares, it was after three in the morning. The blasting at the quarry started at five, but he managed to get back to sleep with a pillow over his head. So when his doorbell rang at 6:30 A.M., he seriously considered taking his piece and shooting in that general direction, just to make the caller go away. Then he weighed the time he’d be stripped of his shield, and the ridiculous amount of paperwork he’d have to file for the simple discharge of a bullet, and dragged himself out of bed in his boxer shorts.
Frankie exploded into the apartment the minute he unlocked the door. “Wait’ll you hear this,” she said, making her way into the kitchen, where she held up the empty coffeepot and tsked. “I tested that nightgown at the state lab for you.”
“Frankie—”
“You know that stuff you thought was the victim’s blood?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it wasn’t. Don’t you keep your coffee in the freezer, Eli, like the rest of the modern world?” She turned around, holding the coffee-pot aloft. “You’re wearing your underpants, for God’s sake.”
“Underwear. Grown men don’t wear underpants.”
“Grown men usually get dressed before they answer the door.”
“Frankie,” Eli sighed, “I’ve had about three hours of sleep. Don’t screw with me.”
She unearthed the coffee, which was—of all places—in a box with his black shoe polish on top of the fridge, and began to measure it out. “It’s meconium.”
“No, I think it’s Colombian.”
“The stain, you jerk. On the nightgown.”
Eli yawned and scratched his chest. He was too tired, at this point, to even care about covering himself for Frankie, who was far more interested in whatever her tests had yielded than his body anyway. “So what’s meconium? Something radioactive? You’re not gonna tell me aliens hanged her, are you?”
“It’s feces. Baby poop.”
“Yeah, well, we already know she gave birth that night. So what.”
The coffeemaker sputtered, and Frankie found two mismatched mugs. “You told me the woman gave birth to a dead baby. Dead babies don’t pass stools.”
Her last sentence cut through Eli’s senses, and he swam out of his fog. “Hang on—”
“Hello,” Frankie said. “That baby was alive.”
Today was Bingo Day, and although Eli had absolutely no intention of playing, some well-meaning staffer at the nursing home had plunked a card in front of him. “B-11,” said the activities coordinator, a large woman in a jumpsuit that made her look like a prize-winning pumpkin. “B-11!”
He saw Spencer Pike before the old man saw him, and approached the intern who was wheeling him into the room before he reached the table. “I can take care of this,” Eli said, taking the handles of the chair and repositioning Pike in a corner, away from the grainy speakers of the Bingo caller.
Eli was unprepared for the way hate spread through him viscerally. This was the man who had tried to erase his family. This man once thought he had the right to decide what kind of life was worth living. This man had played God.
Eli had cringed when he’d read the 1932 police reports, where brutality was the order of the day and Miranda wasn’t even a gleam in some detective’s eye. But cruelty came easily, it turned out, when you had so much anger swimming in you that you risked floating away on the tide.
“Go away,” Spencer Pike said distinctly.
Eli leaned closer, pinning Pike’s shoulders to the back of his chair. “You lied to me, Spencer.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Your brain’s just fine. I bet you remember everything you did in your life. I bet you even remember their names.”
“Whose names?”
“O-75,” the activities coordinator chirped. “Do we have a Bingo?”
“You thought you were so smart, telling the cops you’d only just cut down your wife’s body. But you’d cut it down hours before you called them.”
A vein throbbed in the old man’s temple. “This is ridiculous.”
“Is it? I mean, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even alive. So how could I possibly know?” Eli paused. “You ever heard about forensics, Spencer? You know how many things a dead body can tell us these days? Like when she was killed. How it was done. Who was stupid enough to leave clues behind.”
Spencer pushed at him ineffectively. “Get away from me.”
“Who’d you kill first, Spencer? The baby, or your wife?”
“Nurse!”
“It must have made you crazy to know that you’d married one. That your child was one.”
Pike’s face had gone white. “One what?”
“Gypsy,” Eli said.
Almost immediately, Pike struggled halfway out of his chair. His skin darkened, and his watery eyes fixed on Eli. “You . . . you . . .” he wheezed.
“I-20. Anyone?”
Pike clutched his chest and scrambled to grab at the armrests, but missed and fell forward, landing on the floor. The activities coordinator cried out and came running from the front of the room. Two burly interns headed toward them. Eli leaned down beside Pike. “How does it feel, not being able to fight back?” he whispered.
In the melee that followed, Pike battled the staff trying to help him, shouting obscenities and scratching a nurse deep enough to draw blood. Pandemonium broke out in the activities room, with some patients egging Pike on, others weeping, and two coming to blows over who had called Bingo first. Eli slipped out of the room unnoticed. He walked down the main hall of the rest home and out the front door, whistl
ing.
Maylene Warburton moved a crystal an eighth of an inch to the right and lifted her face to the sky with expectation. A moment later, she swore and turned to her husband. “Curtis, I can’t conjure anything with him standing here. The negativity is keeping all the spirits away.”
From his spot on a folding camping chair, Rod van Vleet exploded. “It’s been four hours, and Wakeman didn’t seem to have this much difficulty. Did you ever think maybe it’s you?”
“You see what I mean?” Maylene cried.
“Cut!” Curtis called, and he clapped the cameraman on his shoulder as he walked into the clearing of the Pike property. “Johannes, take five.” He smiled at his wife, placating, and pulled her toward Rod. “If we aren’t all on the same page here, it’s no wonder the spirits won’t come.”
“Spirit,” Rod clarified. “Getting rid of one is enough.”
He was beginning to believe his original premise— namely, that all paranormal investigators were nutcases and that ghosts were about as real as the Tooth Fairy. The Warburtons had seemed a natural choice, since Ross Wakeman had touted Curtis as a mentor and since Bogeyman Nights was one of the better-known supernatural shows on cable. Plus, Curtis had asked to bring a camera, and to interview Rod on film. Who could resist that kind of PR?
But after a lot of hoo-ha and posturing and some grand ceremony that involved Warburton’s so-called psychic wife sticking rocks all over the place, no ghost had appeared. There had been no chains dragged, no bumps in the night, not even a faint moan. The EMF meter that had been set in stationary position beside a rock—after everyone had removed their watches and phones and everything else that might affect the magnetic field there—remained inactive. Next, Curtis Warburton would tell him that sometimes it took several sittings for a spirit to warm up to an investigator.
“You know,” Curtis said, “sometimes, we need to spend a few consecutive nights in order for the ghost to feel comfortable enough to show itself.”
Rod rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Well. The fact of the matter is, maybe it decided to up and leave without any help from—”
Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by a flash of light that originated from nowhere and seemed to bounce around, skimming the toes of Rod’s loafers before growing brighter.
“Johannes,” Curtis yelled. “Get your ass back here!”
The light was so bright now that Rod could see his shadow, as if it were daylight. Speechless, he squatted down toward the ground.
His shadow didn’t.
“Oh my God,” Rod whimpered. “Oh, holy shit.”
The black mass moved across the field of light and raised its arms. Overhead, pale pink globules of light began to rise into the night. A breeze rolled over the clearing, plunging it into darkness again, and scenting the air with a lady’s perfume.
“By any chance,” Maylene asked, “is your ghost a woman?”
Rod’s insides had begun to quake. “It’s her. It’s the wife that was killed.”
“This isn’t your place anymore,” Curtis said loudly. “This isn’t your time.”
The only warning he had was a rustle of leaves overhead, as a heavy limb from the tree beside him came crashing down, narrowly missing his head, and crushing the cameraman’s knapsack. “Goddamn,” breathed Johannes.
“You need to go to the light,” Curtis urged.
Rod felt something stir in his hands, and suddenly the jacket he was holding flew out of his arms and flung itself into the middle of the clearing, as if it had been possessed. “Hey!” he cried, standing abruptly. “It took my coat!”
“I think she’s trying to convey how she feels about you taking over her land,” Curtis explained.
Rod turned in a frantic circle. “It’s my land!”
“Curtis, the temperature’s dropping.” Maylene waved a digital thermometer in the air. “And look at this.” On the ground, their EMF meter was blinking wildly. A thick white fog spilled from the sky, concentrating itself into the clearing.
“Keep filming, Johannes,” Curtis whispered, and then more loudly. “You can’t live here anymore. You can cross to the other side. Show us a sign of departure!”
The mist dissipated, and Rod glanced down to find the ground covered with rose petals. He knelt and picked one up, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, and looking up at the clear sky.
At the sound of a click, all three of them jumped. “Sorry,” Johannes said. “That’s the end of the tape.”
“Well. I think we both got what we need,” Curtis said, smiling at Rod.
He stood up, looking around. “You mean that’s it? She’s gone now?”
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Rod nodded. “But what keeps her from coming back?”
“Once she finds her way to the other side, there’s no reason for it. Unless, of course, your check bounces.” Curtis grinned at his own joke, then began to gather the equipment his production crew had brought. Maylene repacked her crystals in a small silk pouch.
Rod handed Curtis Warburton an envelope with his prearranged fee, and followed him out toward the front of the property, where their cars were parked. “So . . . that’s it? I can build on it now?”
“You could have built on it before,” Curtis said. “But now you won’t have a roommate.”
“Curtis.” Maylene reached out the passenger-side window of their van. “Can we please get out of Mayberry and find a Starbucks?”
“Coming.” He shook Rod’s hand. “Do me a favor, will you? When you see Ross Wakeman again, tell him what happened tonight.” He got into the van, waving as he drove down Otter Creek Pass.
The van passed another vehicle on its way, and Rod squinted into the headlights until they switched off. A sheriff’s car, its motor still humming, sat a few feet away from him. “Mr. van Vleet?” the deputy said.
“Yes?” Rod’s heart began to pound. Was it illegal to evict a ghost?
“This is for you.”
He slit open the sealed envelope from the county court, read the contents, and swore under his breath.
Now that he’d gotten rid of his ghost, Rod was being evicted too.
As Ethan rappelled down the trunk of the tree, Ross caught him by the waist. “Easy,” he said. “You don’t want to break anything.”
He had waited to reveal himself for a full hour after he’d heard Rod van Vleet drive away, just in case. Ross reached up and stretched out the kinks in his body as Ethan swung his feet onto solid ground. “Got it all,” he promised, patting the backpack he wore. Several of the half-filled helium balloons— their globules—were tangled around his waist, floating at half-mast. “I didn’t leave anything up there.”
The scent, the globules, the roses, the fog—these were all things Ross had seen when Lia had first come, organic signs of a spirit. Except this time, they’d been hand-made. “You got the projector? The wires? And all of the mirrors?”
“I even took the fishing line.” Ethan grinned widely. “Did you see that dude’s face when his jacket went flying?”
“I told you not to try that. What if he’d moved, and gotten a hook in his palm?” Ross glanced around at the equipment he and Ethan had set up before the Warburtons’ arrival tonight. There was a sweet irony to perpetrating a hoax upon the man who had built a career of doing just that—but Ross had known all along that the odds of pulling this off were in his favor. In the first place, Warburton wanted to look like a success, so he wouldn’t have been hunting for anything fishy.
Add to that the darkness, and the fact that the haunted area was outside rather than in the confines of a room—and it had been simple enough for Ross to jerry-rig mirrors and lights and balloons.
“I couldn’t breathe from the dry ice,” Ethan said, still animated. He watched Ross bend down to sweep up rose petals shaken loose from Shelby’s pillowcases. “If you get those dirty, my mom will kill you.”
“She’s already going to murder me for using up a bottle of her per
fume,” Ross pointed out. He headed toward a small patch of white petals that he had missed.
“The coolest thing was the thermometer. How’d you get the temperature to drop?” Ethan asked.
Ross hefted the Styrofoam-packed dry ice onto his shoulder and started walking through the woods, to the spot where he’d hidden his car. “That wasn’t me,” he admitted. “I think we just got lucky.”
He had wondered, too, while he was sitting in the uppermost branches of a tree and watching the ground show below, at the stroke of good fortune that had caused the air to cool at just that moment. It was certainly something that could be explained meteorologically, from a sudden wind to a swift weather front moving through. But the EMF meter reading was another story. Ross had held that very EMF meter in his hand; it was sensitive enough to pick up the presence of a person on the other side of a wall, or the approach of a thunderstorm.
He had made certain that he and Ethan would be too far away to trigger the EMF with their equipment . . . yet it had still signaled. There had been no approaching physical body to set it off, no inclement weather. Chalk it up to a glitch in the system, a battery failure, a mistake.
Or, Ross thought, a wish blossoming, maybe not.
Eli stood beside the chief of police, decked out in dress regalia because the chief knew a photo-op when he saw one, and squinted as the camera flashes went off in his face. He wasn’t watching the main event, however—Chief Follingsbee giving Az Thompson the court order from a district judge that officially halted development on the Pike property, pending the removal of Abenaki remains from the site. Instead, Eli scanned the faces of the crowd—people he had known all his life who suddenly looked entirely different.
Winks, for example, had a drinking problem and a wife who’d left him for one of the students she’d taught English to at the high school. But today he was smiling to beat the band, this triumph made sweeter by the fact that he’d had so many runs of hard luck. Old Charlie Rope had come out for this, and had his granddaughter balanced on his shoulders. “You watch,” Eli heard the old man say, bouncing her lightly. “This is something we need to remember.”