A Ghost Story Copyright 2006 Keith Latch ISBN-13 978-1-60145-093-7 ISBN-10 1-60145-093-1 All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Printed in the United States of America. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Booklocker.com, Inc. 2006 A Ghost Story By Keith Latch To Miranda, my safe harbor in the raging sea of lifeGhosts in the night, ghosts in the night, Ghosts in the bone yard, among the dead, Ghosts in the attic, over your head, Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the night, Ghosts in the cellar, under your feet, Ghosts watch over us as we sleep, Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the night Anonymous nursery rhyme (southern United States) Prologue I t was a good night for a ghost story, if, in fact, such nights

actually existed. The flames of the campfire flickered up into darkness. It was late October and though a cold wind blew, the fire remained strong. Her name was Rebecca Kent and she had a story to tell. She was holding a mug of hot cocoa, the instant stuff, Swiss Miss, or its generic counterpart. Hot chocolate was not her favorite beverage, but it warmed her in those deep, secret places where the body gets so very cold. She sipped from her cup. She would have much preferred brandy. To say that she was uncomfortable would have been as if saying drinking high-octane gasoline would cause mild stomach upset. The people around her were friends, family. The five people that encircled the campfire represented the most solid social relationships that she d ever developed. Still, life was strange and things could change quickly. Just like last year. Damn. She wanted a drink, a Tom Collins, or maybe a martini. However, with all the prescription drugs circulating in her bloodstream, she felt rather like a walking pharmacy. Nevertheless, without the pills, she wouldn t be able to face the world. Dr. Hoffman, sonofabitch that he was, had repeatedly warned her about mixing alcohol with her medication. No one said a word. Night birds sang a mournful tune in the distance. She shivered despite the fire.

I x Keith Latch It was now or never. She hoped, as everyone with her hoped, that when she told her story she would be better, not cured, that would never happen, but better. The idea was that to expose her trauma, to bring to light those demons that had pursued her for so many sleepless nights into long, torturous days, it would somehow fade. She was doubtful. Nevertheless, like Patricia, her best friend, had said: What would it hurt? Yes, indeed, she thought. What would it hurt? She drained the last of the cocoa. It tasted sweeter at the bottom of the cup. She pulled her light coat tighter to her and placed the mug on the ground. Leaves crinkled under the ceramic cup. Tears, hot and salty, welled in the corners of her eyes. She looked out over the lake. She was safe now, as was everyone else. That had not always been so. No, in one single night everything she had cared for had been threatened and almost snatched from her very grasp. She slowly collected her thoughts, or at least tried to do so. To gather such crazy, outlandish thoughts as those that filled her head was an exercise in futility. Still, everyone was waiting. She breathed in the bitter night air. It began on a dark and stormy night The night sounds around them hushed and the people around her drew closer. Before long, everyone had forgotten everything except

Rebecca Kent and the story she had to tell. II oo young to fall in love. That s what most people said, but Elizabeth didn t believe that. How could she? The car, a brand new Chevrolet Camaro, blue and sleek, shot down the road like a bullet from a high-powered rifle. Soft rock music plumed through dynamically concealed speakers. The smell of alcohol, sour and heavy, filled the car. Behind the wheel, Jake Sanders, a year older than Elizabeth, navigated the car like a veteran racecar driver. He was beautiful. Strong and handsome and, most important, he loved her, had told her so many times that there was no way that she could ever begin to doubt it. Everything was all right with the world tonight. Lightning danced across a velvet sky. The first splattering of rain fell harshly on the Camaro s windshield. Maybe you should slow down, Elizabeth said. Jake didn t answer. He did, however, remove his right hand from the gearshift and place it gingerly on her thigh her naked thigh. It was summer and she wore a high-cut skirt. Her parents had not been home when Jake had picked her up. That was a good thing; her father would have forbid such an outfit. Jake s hand, powerful and masculine, felt good there. She wasn t all that young at any rate. She d soon be a senior. Not much longer than that and she would be eighteen and away at college. Though she knew she was not legally considered an adult, she thought herself close enough.

The rain began to fall harder, countless pellets smacking the glass. Thunderclaps could now be heard over the sizzling guitar solos and guttural bass notes of the music. Jake, where are we going? Jake turned his head towards her. If there d been light enough, she could have seen his eyes. They were dark and bottomless, mesmeric. T xii Keith Latch I told you, Liz, it s a surprise. Ya don t won t to spoil it do ya? His voice was deep and she could imagine herself hearing it until Judgment came. Of course not, Jake. It s just that this storm s getting worse, she said. Don t you worry about that, now. It s just a little rain. His right hand released her thigh and sought out her hands. She had them crossed in her lap. She could feel his palm as he took her smaller hands into his larger one. It felt warm and soft, kind and loving. Besides, it s not too far now. He smiled; even in the darkness, she could see it. She smiled back. She knew where they were going. Well, not really. However, she knew what they were going to do when they got there. They were going to do it. Again. Elizabeth was a little nervous, but not nearly as much as she d been that night last month. This man would soon be her husband; she wore the ring he d given her, though careful to keep it hidden from her mother and father. Too young to fall in love, that s what they would say.

The tires screeched and Elizabeth was slung against the window. She hit hard and could hear the crack of her skull against the tempered glass. Her teeth banged together, jarring her entire body. Outside, the world spun like a jazzed up merry-go-round. She saw Jake fighting with the steering wheel. His shoulders were tight, his biceps strained, and the muscles in his forearms bulged. Elizabeth felt the car leave the pavement. She didn t take time to consider how she knew; only that she did. Nausea grew in her stomach and her mind was a kaleidoscope of changing colors and morphing shapes. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the car was still. Rain pounded, lightning crashed across the sky, but the beating of Elizabeth s heart drowned out the thunder. She thanked God for that beating; it told her that she was still alive. They were silent for a while. Then, when one of them did speak, it was Jake. Damned deer. He smiled. Then Elizabeth smiled. It could ve been Bambi. Jake snickered. Elizabeth laughed. Everything was all right again. A Ghost Story xiii He reached over and patted her on her flat stomach. How long would it be, she wondered, before she started to show? Here we are, Jake announced. Elizabeth was relieved. They d been on some dirt (well, mud now, because of the rain) road for the last ten minutes and she didn t like the

wincing face Jake made when the occasional limb scraped at the paint job of his new Camaro, like hungry skeletal fingers reaching out for a morsel of some treasured delicacy. Elizabeth leaned close to the windshield and peered out. Darkness. The storm had not lightened up. In fact, it had become a raging deluge of rain and wind. The gusts were strong enough to make the parked car sway. She looked at Jake. His face registered disappointment. What s wrong? It wasn t supposed to be like this? He had a pout in his voice like that of a child. I found this place a couple summers ago on my bike. In the daytime, it s awesome. You can see the lake and a lot of the houses; we re about fifty feet up. Oh, but Jake, it s beautiful, she said. And it was. The first, and only, time that they d made love had been in his father s barn. Not on the hay, though. It had been too rough and scratchy. Instead, Jake had laid out a blanket and they d consummated their love next to the old Massey Ferguson tractor. To someone else, it might not seem that special, that romantic, but it had been. It made her love him more. It is? Jake asked. Of course and being here with you makes it even better. And that was the truth. He came close to her. She could smell the beer on his breath, but she didn t mind. Elizabeth didn t drink, the smell of any alcohol turned her stomach instantly. But not this night, not on Jake s breath. I love

you, he said. It was not the first time he d ever said those words, but the effect they on Elizabeth were the same each and every time. Goose bumps erupted on her skin and her heart beat a titter-tatter against her chest. And I love you too. He came close and kissed her softly on the lips. His lips were hot and soft. She smelled his cologne and she wanted to lose herself in him. xiv Keith Latch Later, when he entered her, it was painful, but nothing like before. It was the best pain she d ever felt. She gave herself to it. Her body was his, and his was hers. Their loving was long and spectacular. Over and over, without hesitation or exhaustion, as only the young can do. When they d finished, they lay on the backseat, their naked bodies entwined. Rain still drummed against the roof of the car. She wanted to tell him that soon he d be a father, that he would have a child during his freshmen year at college, and her, a high school senior. Instead, Y know what I want to do? she asked. No, what? I want to dance in the rain. Are you serious? Jake chuckled. Even in the darkness, he must ve sensed her hurt. Okay, but let s at least put some clothes on first. She grabbed his arm with a hand and whispered, We re not finished yet. The rain was cold and sharp. It felt like piercing needles to their exposed flesh. Against his better judgment, Jake cracked a window just enough so that they could hear the radio over the driving rain.

*** Jake looked at Elizabeth. She was glorious in the glare of the headlights, like an erotic apparition glowing golden. Without either one of them knowing too much in the way of formal dancing, they moved with the rhythms of each song. Their bodies pressed against one another and Jake couldn t help but get lost in the night. Soon this lovely girl would be his wife. They would be happy and in love and no one could do anything about it. Jake was so enraptured by his thoughts that he wasn t aware of how close they were to the edge. *** To her, Jake looked like some kind of Hollywood movie star. All the years playing football had sculpted his body into a work of art and she held herself close to his hard chest. A Ghost Story xv The rain was cold and the wind strong, but with him, Elizabeth was perfectly content. She could live a thousand years in his arms and never tire of the embrace. When she felt the ground fall away beneath her she, shocked and alarmed, instinctively pushed back away from him. Though Jake was much stronger than her, he was caught off-guard and stumbled back a few feet before he realized she was falling falling over the edge. Before Jake had time to react, to save her, Elizabeth was gone. Chapter 1 ight is his cloak, darkness his flesh. The sun had set only an hour ago. Already the night had come to life. Night birds sang their uniquely terrible songs.

Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. It was this time that sixteen-year-old Billy Whomper felt most alive, most powerful. In another life, perhaps he could have been a vampire, if such things existed, but he didn t believe that they did. Still, in fantasies and dreams, he was one of the undead, walking the earth for eternity, able to delve into his darkest desires and most hidden yearnings. The denim of Billy s jeans rubbed at the thighs as he walked, chaffing his skin. He was what nice people would call healthy and what less nice people called fat. It did not matter what people said, or maybe it did. Maybe that s why he had such a dour outlook on life. Maybe that was why his parents no longer understood him and the teachers ignored him. Maybe that s why the other kids called him Fat-ass, Lard Butt, Twinkie Boy, and so on and so forth. Maybe that s why he wore the inverted pentagram around his neck. He fingered the small silver symbol now. It seemed to give him strength. He was glad to have it. The woods were relatively well lit. Moonlight penetrated through the leafy canopy above, silvering the landscape. That was good. Billy thought his night vision was quite acute and so far, he d no reason to doubt it. There was just enough light for him to see his way, but not enough for anyone to see him. Billy knew these woods well. Within them, Billy felt all-powerful and, because these very woods also surrounded almost every house surrounding Willow Lake, no place was

N2 Keith Latch unreachable, especially at night. It was almost as if he were a vampire, stealing through the night unnoticed, but noticing everything. And he was getting close. It wouldn t be long now, not long at all. His mind, which even at his young age could be considered sinister, was running excitedly about tonight s endeavor. He was filled with a limitless reservoir of pure energy. His mouth was watering with anticipation. No sir ee, it wouldn t be long now. *** He could see light in the windows. Golden, warm, and welcoming light beckoned him. A great oak stood close to the house. The tree was old and hadn t been trimmed properly. Limbs, big and thick, larger than Billy s legs, started just about Billy s waist. With well-practiced moves, he was up the tree in less than a minute, not even breathing heavy yet. From a sturdy branch, Billy peered into a bathroom. Billy checked his Casio. It was about nine-thirty. Good. Very good. He had made good time through the woods. Anytime now, the woman would enter the bathroom and prepare to bathe. Elsewhere in the house, the little girl would be watching either cartoons or coloring while her mother partook of her nightly ritual. Which in all actuality had become Billy s as well. As if on cue, she entered. She wore a sleeveless tee shirt and short cotton shorts. Her shiny, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. From the distance of a little over six feet, Billy took in all of this. He

thought she was more than pretty; he thought she was beautiful. She walked to the tub, turned on the water. Almost immediately, there was steam. Just as if he d not seen her do it a dozen times, he was relieved when she opened the window halfway for the steam to escape. He silently thanked her for this courtesy. He hadn t come all this way through dark woods to stare at a window covered by a film of steam. No. He had come for what came next. The woman pulled her shirt off. Out flung her breasts. They were as nice as Billy could ever remember seeing in a Playboy or Penthouse and much better than the hard-core magazines. They weren t big and they weren t small. He thought them perfect-sized. Wasn t anything larger than a mouthful a waste, anyway? A Ghost Story 3 Her belly was flat and her skin tanned. It was then that he became aware of the tree branch between his legs. He had straddled the branch in order to keep his hands free and the pressure of the wood on his crotch was not completely unpleasant. Then came her shorts. Revealed was a scanty pair of pink panties. She d probably picked them up at a Victoria s Secret or some other exotic boutique. They were frilly at the edges, not a g-string, though. Billy thought she d look good in a pair of g-string panties. Maybe he d send her a pair, anonymously, of course. Would she wear them? Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, these were nice too. He d seen her in several different ones, and he was always pleased. His favorite pair had been black and silky simple, yet seductive. That had been the first night. Almost two weeks ago, now. He d been too nervous, and perhaps

a little too ashamed, to stay very long then. Now, he d built up his nerve. Billy tried to imagine what Mr. Filkes, his Sunday school teacher, would think of these nocturnal visits. Probably give the old fuck a heart attack, Billy thought. It d serve his hypocritical ass right. The woman slid the pink panties off. She did so slowly, as if the act was meant exclusively for Billy. He looked at the legs first, not wanting to look to her private parts too fast; that would ruin it. Her legs were slightly tanned, as her belly had been the color of fresh honey. Long and slender with the muscles taut. He tried to imagine his tongue moving over the surface of them. It didn t take too much trying, at that. Then his eyes moved to the cleft between her thighs. Beautiful and secret, exclusive and summoning; like the fabled forbidden fruit. The mountain of flesh between her legs was barely large enough to be cupped in a hand, but Billy thought that within it a dark paradise could be found. Covering the mound was soft looking, curly hair, darker than the hair of her head, but only just. He longed to touch its silken promise, to caress its delicate mysteries. His cock had risen to the occasion, stiffening against the rough branch. She freed her hair from its binding as it cascaded down like a waterfall. It reached her shoulders and down her back. It was full and lustrous and dark like silken coal, it framed her lovely face perfectly. It would feel good in his hands and he wanted to hold it, to use it as a reign, to control her with it. 4 Keith Latch

Billy s cock was so hard now it felt like a flesh-covered stone and it was throbbing. The branch met with the tree in such a fashion that Billy could easily recline and keep his balance. He did so. Pulling the zipper of his jeans down, he freed his throbbing member. He grabbed hold of it. It felt good and hot in his hands. One day soon, he would place it in the woman, enter into her secret place, and revel in the kingdom that was her body. For now, however, he was only a spectator, but soon, that would change. Very soon. *** Later, Billy walked back through the woods. He walked slowly and languidly. He was as empty of tension and anxiousness as a well pumped dry. Elation and contentment had replaced them. It was darker now; the moon had gone behind thick clouds. Nevertheless, he could still see. His night vision was still optimal and he made his way stealthily across the floor of leaves. He thought about the leaves. They were dead or dying, layers of them. What has been has gone. Was that a line from a book or was it a song? He didn t know. He d like to fuck the woman on those wet, rotting leaves. The woman. She was stuck in his mind. He would have her, and she would love it, beg for more, even. What about the kid, she could be a witness. Billy decided he d have to deal with her as well. He relaxed as he walked, sensing the profound darkness around him. He felt supreme and immortal.

The sounds of the night were a symphony and Billy walked ensconced in its seductive embrace. When Billy first noticed the light, he thought he might still be a little lightheaded from his little session atop the tree branch. Then, as his acute night vision took in the light actually more of a glow than actual light he thought perhaps someone had built a campfire out in the middle of the woods. The night had turned cool. Very cool. Billy wondered if he d been too excited playing Peeping Tom to notice the temperature drop. He found himself close to shivering and hugged himself to keep in the heat. He wished he d worn a jacket, then at least he A Ghost Story 5

Billy, a voice called. The voice was female, smooth, and soothing. It was beckoning him to the light. Billy had not known fear in the darkness for a long time and he felt none now. Maybe it was the woman from the bathroom. Maybe she had discovered him watching her and liked it; maybe she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Billy walked closer to the glow. It looked bluish-white and dim, not like a fire. He couldn t seem to find its source. The closer he came to it, the unsure he was of where he was going. Billy, the voice called again. I m coming, he thought. Just get ready; here I come. Twigs snapped under his feet. Stray vines, mangled and wild, grabbed at his arms, his legs, and his face. Gossamer spider webs, invisible in the dimness, papered his body.

Still, he went in the direction of the light. It could be some kind of flashlight, equipped with a strange, but nonetheless practical, bulb. Billy was thinking with the wrong head. Not once did he ask himself why someone would lure him deeper and deeper in the woods. Common sense was not reserved for those with such perverted, hideous beliefs as he. Instead of wondering too much of the intentions of the source of the light, Billy was hoping he would get a chance at his first lay. (Well, first real one, anyway). Besides, predators such as he often thought they were the meanest game in town, unbelieving an animal worse than they could possibly exist, much less deliver harm upon them. The light disappeared. It had grown dim, but now it was gone, completely and hopelessly gone Shit, Billy muttered to himself. He turned to try to find his way back to his own path. He had no way of really knowing how far out of the way he d actually been drawn. He wished he d brought a flashlight of his own. He vowed then and there that he would bring one on his next foray into the darkened woods. The rush of cold air slammed into him like a piano on roller skates. Crickets began to chirp maddeningly. Cicadas trumped up their tunes. Somewhere a dog howled. A laugh erupted behind him. Billy twirled and The face confronting him was terrible and gross. Illuminated from within, it was the face of a hag, wrinkled, and swelled. The scream that 6 Keith Latch erupted from its mouth caused Billy s eardrums to rupture. Tiny

trickles of hot blood seeped through the canals. His kidneys voided and hot urine flowed down the leg of his jeans. How long the torturing sound lasted, Billy never knew. He was now deaf and turned away before the horrible mouth closed. He pumped his legs as hard as he could. The exuberant amount of celluloid on his thighs jiggled as if experiencing a diabetic seizure. His big, flopping tits banged up and down against him. He ran, and ran. His mind was filled with creatures writhing and aflame. The scream was inside his head now, not without, echoing and rebounding against the interior of his cranium. His vision was filled with millions of white-hot stars. His feet lost the ground and Billy never saw the large crevasse that ended his clumsy and ultimately futile escape attempt. He had been running hunched over, his head streamlined into the little wind that his sad retreat had created. He tumbled face forward down into an even darker blackness. He felt, rather than heard, the snap of his neck as the top of his skull hammered into the hard, dry ground of the gully. The impact flipped him over on his back, his eyes skyward. Still, he did not die. He lay there paralyzed not only by fear, but also by the numerous fractures to his neck and spinal column. The mind, Billy found, is capable of inflicting arcane and fiendish visions beyond even his wildest dreams. At last, he prayed (To whom he wasn t sure) that the monster above him was only in his mind. Chapter 2

ife, more times than not, is a bitch. Peyton Harper was not one given to philosophical thought, or even one that pretended to be. But, life was, more times than not, a bitch. It seemed like a very accurate description at the moment. The drive to Willow Lake had been only about an hour and Peyton had cranked himself up about the trip, despite the low mood that had plagued him recently. The house was not huge, but it was much larger than Peyton s apartment. Then again, a cracker box would be considered deluxe accommodations in a fair comparison. Peyton hadn t been here for a long time, but now that he was, memories of good times here flooded back. The house belonged to his Uncle Mack. A summer home, if you could believe it. Mack Harper was not a rich man, but with almost thirty years on the state s payroll, he had managed his salary wisely. Since death of his father close to a decade ago, Mack Harper had stepped in, though gingerly, as not a replacement, per se, but as an alternate. Peyton stood on the deep, expansive front porch of the large house. The home was covered in well-maintained natural cedar siding, and looked every bit the nice country home that it was, rustic. Even before Peyton s father had passed, summers at Uncle Mack and Aunt Sue s lakeside retreat were a requisite. Campfires, cookouts, long, lazy summer days on the lake, filled Peyton s younger years. Now, alone, Peyton stood at the door, key in hand. He looked down

at the squirrel on the welcome mat. Its ratty brown body was crumpled and ruined. Flies, black and juicy, swarmed the rodent, drinking of the near-congealed blood. Guess I m not the only one having problems, huh, buddy Peyton said solemnly. L 8 Keith Latch The squirrel looked as if it had picked a fight with a Doberman and the outcome had not been as Mr. Nut Collector had foreseen. Peyton had no way of knowing if the squirrel was rabid, but decided not to take a chance. Instead of letting himself in the front door and plopping down on the closest piece of furniture available to him, Peyton bounded down the steps and headed towards the backyard. Mack kept a sizeable tool shed back there. Using a small brass Master lock key, Peyton removed the lock from the hasp and spread open the heavy wooden doors. Inside the shed, a wire from the ceiling suspended a single bare bulb. A beaded cord hung from the side of the bulb, Peyton jerked it once. Finding a shovel as well as a box of green Hefty lawn bags, Peyton headed back to the porch to collect the squirrel. He had already worked up a sweat. Having been unemployed for three shameful weeks, he was not yet out of shape. The temperature, Peyton reckoned, was well over a hundred degrees. The northern tip of Mississippi was under a heat advisory and local authorities were urging residents not expose themselves unnecessarily to the outdoors. He did hope that it would cool down a bit. Mack and Sue had not

only the quaint little house, but also their own pier, boathouse, and boat. Peyton was looking forward to chopping up the water in the next few days. As he reached the porch and stepped onto it, he flapped open the large green bag, and hooked it to an ornamental iron piece that Sue had no doubt encouraged Mack to place there. It had that feminine look that Mack wasn t known to enjoy. Peyton turned back to the doormat. Scooping the rodent into the bag, he saw that the dead thing s body had not yet grown rigid or stiff, as if it had been recently killed. Flies buzzed, but their disgusting offspring had yet to begin devouring the animal from the inside out. Finding a good spot under a shade tree, Peyton dug a deep, wide grave for the squirrel. He tossed it in, the bag ruffling briefly, and began shoveling the dirt back on top of the corpse. As he patted the last bit of dirt down, he thought a superstitious person might take the dead squirrel as an omen, a bad sign about his future at the cabin. Fortunately, Peyton was neither a philosophical man nor a superstitious one. A Ghost Story 9 Still, Peyton was suddenly thirsty. Hopefully, Uncle Mack would have something a little stronger than Pepsi. *** Inside, the house was cooler than the day outside, but not by much. Mack had never seen the wisdom of installing central heating and air. Instead, window units cooled the place in summer and wall-mounted heaters and a large fireplace in the den kept it crispy during the winter

months. Now, before the door was closed behind him, Peyton switched on the window unit in the den and stood directly in front of the vents. Within a minute, air, cold and icy, overtook him, chilling his thin film of sweat. He turned and surveyed the room. Heavy furniture of dark wood and darker fabrics: a large, overstuffed couch, two extra large cushioned chairs, a great slab of a coffee table the size, but not the macabre dimensions of a coffin, filled the den. Family photos in simple frames hung upon the dark-paneled walls along with a large deer head, an eight-point buck, reigning supreme over the stone fireplace. The place hadn t changed much in the last fifteen years. As Peyton started towards the kitchen, he noticed the phone on a small table. It was a telephone/answering machine combo and a red number two was blinking. Peyton depressed the PLAY button. The voice of Tina Harper, Peyton s mother, issued from the small speaker. Peyton, darling, this is your mother. Peyton thought it both a little funny and a little sad that the woman who had raised and reared him into adulthood felt she had to identify her own voice. Your Uncle Mack told me you were heading up to the lake for a while. There was a brief pause. I guess you know what s best. There was another pause, this one nowhere near as brief as its predecessor was. Peyton knew his mother well enough to know that she was carefully selecting her next words mindful of what she considered her son s sensitive

predicament. He could almost hear his mother s concern in the silence. Then, Just be careful, son. And if you need anything just let me know. Take care and I love you. With that, Tina Harper was gone. 10 Keith Latch Peyton, I hope you made it alright. It was the voice of his uncle. Mack Harper s voice was loud and deep, full of authority, but also inflected with a subtle kindness. Sorry, I and your aunt couldn t be there to greet you. Work s kinda hectic for me right now and Sue s got some kind of damned conference in Nashville, some kinda national deal she couldn t get out of. Mack was now working in the state s capitol of Jackson, and Sue, who began her teaching career at the high school in nearby Ivy Springs, was now working for the state education board. Your aunt did manage to get around to the place to clean er up for you and to stock the fridge. I even talked her into putting a little beer in there for you. The boat s been checked out and it s good to go, got gas in it and there s more in the boathouse. Mack went on in detail about everything he could possibly think of. Finally, Anyway, the place is yours for as long as you need it. Give me a call if you need anything. Just as Peyton believed Mack was going to end the call, he was surprised when Mack said. And Peyton, your Aunt Sue and me well we love you very much. Then, just as Tina Harper before him, Mack was gone. Forget the beer, Peyton thought, and headed for the liquor cabinet. *** Later, after enjoying the better part of a fifth of bourbon, Peyton reckoned that the window units had cooled down his internal workings

enough that he might enjoy a few minutes outside. With the bottle of Jim Beam in hand, Peyton walked out the door in the kitchen, which gave to a rather sizeable back deck. The deck was screened and complete with table and chairs as well as two wicker rockers and a porch swing. He took a seat in the swing and gazed out. Willow Lake was perhaps only a few hundred feet from where Peyton now sat. It was late evening and the sun had begun its daily descent into the west. Facing west, Peyton was mesmerized by the crimson light on the shimmering water. Either it was the bottle talking or the scene was perhaps one of the most beautiful he had ever had the good fortune to witness. Probably a little bit of both, truth be told. In nearby trees, cicadas and crickets began a cheery chorus. It was still hot, but now the slightest presence of a breeze could be felt. It was very welcome. A Ghost Story 11 Peyton was not much of a drinker. There was more to it than obvious reasons such as hangovers and nausea. Like most people when drinking alone, Peyton became introspective. Unfortunately, it did not end there. Anger usually replaced quiet reflection, anger that was largely unfocused, but in no way less powerful for being so. Then, as now, he turned that anger towards himself. Anger for being a failure, for the things done wrong, and those that he had wronged. Life would have been much better if it allowed second chances, Peyton often mused. That was the big thing with life, wasn t it? One chance, succeed or fail. Sometimes, you didn t even get that first chance, and life being life, did not apologize or even seem to care. Then sometimes, when it

felt like being unnecessarily cruel, it laughed. It laughed at you with the sick laugh of lunatics. You could run and you could hide, but when life wanted you to hear its laugh, there would be no choice. It would be heard. So, for these reasons and many more is why Peyton Harper, a man of only twenty-six years, knew that life, more times than not, was a bitch. Chapter 3 ellow jackets in a mason jar. That was the closest comparison Peyton could make to the storm surging within his head, just like countless small wasps stinging his cranial tissue. In fact, he had a metaphor for almost every one of his body s ailments this morning. His mouth tasted like a New York sewer. His eyes felt like shattered glass in a windstorm. His extremities throbbed like a dead chicken hooked to a car battery and his stomach swirled like Hurricane Katrina. When he managed to sit up in the bed and swing his lead-heavy legs to the floor both acts of near miraculous willpower he spotted the empty liquor bottle and all his questions of how his once perfectly healthy body had come to such a state were answered. Maybe I ll try beer next time, he said and tried to smile, but every muscle movement angered the storm in his gut and the yellow jackets in his head. With great effort and the grace of God, he managed to make his

way downstairs and start coffee. By the third cup, which he gulped only slightly slower than the first two, he made it to the front porch just in time to see the very end of what must have been a remarkable sunrise. He d always been an early riser and this morning was probably the latest he d slept in recent memory. He drained the last of the piping hot Community Coffee, his favorite brand, from his cup just as the bright pink and radiant orange faded from the sky. The sky was clear and only a speckling of cottony white clouds littered the faded blue canopy. He regretted drinking last night. Didn t you always. Everything that seemed like the thing to do at the time looked a little stupid in the hindsight that almost always comes with a new day. Y A Ghost Story 13 He decided not to beat himself up too much about it. What had it hurt, besides his whole physical being? That was only temporary wasn t it? The coffee had cleared his head, but did little for his stomach. He was craving an especially greasy breakfast. Since his wilder teenage years, greasy food had been Peyton s secret remedy for hangovers and it worked; at least seven times out of ten. After a brief inspection of the kitchen, a remarkable contrast to the den, no doubt Sue s influence, Peyton had decided to eat out this morning. He climbed in his Wrangler and drove the short distance into the small community of Willow Lake, a place too small to be called a town. Even during tourist season there weren t many dining choices for

breakfast. Actually, there were only two. The Texaco station served up cardboard-tasting biscuits with either over- or under-cooked sausage or tenderloin. The Silver Spoon had a wider variety of food, but would set off any decent cholesterol alarm before coming within half a mile of the place. Maybe the two places had improved since Peyton had sampled their cuisine. It wasn t likely. After he had the unexpected good fortune of surviving last night s binge, Peyton decided not to push his luck any farther by eating a gas station breakfast and instead chose the Silver Spoon. Peyton parked the Jeep and walked inside. He was usually a booth guy instead of a counter guy. Booths afforded, if not privacy, at least a bit of elbowroom. At six-one and weighing close to two hundred pounds, Peyton kept in good shape but eating was still one of his favorite leisure activities. He didn t like witnessing a stranger shovel food into their mouth with a minimal amount of table etiquette all less than six inches from Peyton s own plate. As his luck would have it, the Silver Spoon was quite a busy place at seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning. There were no booths available and only one stool at the counter. Oh, well. Beggars can t be choosers. Isn t that how it went? Peyton took a seat and pulled a menu from its holder. The one sheet laminated menu was slick with countless years of accumulated grease. In some places, in fact, the menu was so thick with animal fat that the lettering was obscured. What can I get ya? someone asked as Peyton was deciding. 14 Keith Latch

He looked up and was completely unprepared for what he saw. He even blinked, testing his eyes. Instead of feeling like broken glass, they now felt as if they were coated with fiberglass insulation. Not much of an improvement, but progress just the same. Her hair was dark and the way that it reflected the sunlight made it look like stars were hidden beneath those silken strands. Her face was delicate and graced with fine, exact features; her cheekbones were high, like that of a fashion model, her emerald green eyes were deep and welcoming. She was fit and trim. Even through her little waitress getup he could tell her muscles were toned, her body firm. Her skin was tanned, but only lightly, like a vague film of golden dust on a china doll. She was no older than thirty, probably younger. She did not strike him as the waitress type, whatever that was. Perhaps she was a student working her way through college after a few years in some secretarial position. All this he saw and pondered in less than three seconds. This was just a little too long for the waitress. I said what could I get for you? She had been blessed with generous, lush lips, but Peyton saw they were not smiling. Probably thinks I m looking her up, Peyton thought. Which, to be honest, I was. Hell, how can a woman like this not be used to being looked at, even ogled. Regardless, however, of what she was or was not used to, Peyton was still observant enough to notice that her patience was running thin. Very thin. He was becoming embarrassed. Peyton quickly ordered sausage and ham with a side order of toast. He washed it down with orange juice; he d had his fill of coffee for the

morning. The men on either side of him were not complete slobs and for that, Peyton was grateful. The waitress avoided him for the duration of the meal, except when she approached, laid out his bill, and retreated with speed worthy of a rocket ship. He laid out the money for his meal, plus a very large tip for her trouble. He didn t know how long he d be at the lake house and it was too early to begin making enemies. Therefore, as quietly as he had entered, Peyton Harper left the Silver Spoon. * * * A Ghost Story 15 Without much else to do, Peyton made his way over to Mean Gene s Discount Mart. The place was once a service station, but with big business establishing a monopoly on the gasoline industry, Gene Crowell had chosen to change with the times versus fading into unemployment. Mean Gene s was now the closest thing to a retail outlet that Willow Lake could boast. Loud colored tee shirts with ridiculous graphics were proudly displayed along with cheap souvenirs for tourist consumption. Fishing lures and tackle shared shelf space with video and DVD rentals. The place smelled like wet earth and Febreze fabric freshener, but somehow that wasn t as disturbing as the effect of ludicrous merchandise displayed so shamelessly. Peyton was looking over a couple of frozen drink mixes at the back of the store but his mind was on the waitress back at the Silver Spoon. He really hadn t meant any harm. Hell, he couldn t help it if he found the woman attractive. Shouldn t she have taken his eye ogling scratch

that, his alleged eye ogling as a compliment? He would have. He hadn t even noticed whether she wore a nametag or not. Now that was observant wasn t it? He was too busy keeping his head down, averting her eyes, after ordering his food to even notice such a small detail. What kind of damned cop was he? That thought stopped him cold. What kind of cop, indeed. No kind of cop. He was a former cop. For the last three weeks the closest thing he d had to do with law enforcement was trying his best not to break the speed limit. Isn t life a bouquet of shit brown roses? What the fuck do you mean, you don t have it? The voice wasn t loud, but it carried well, no doubt whoever wielded such a voice was angry and upset. The outburst caused Peyton to forget his woes of former copdom, pissed off waitresses, and foulcolored flowers. Voices, now hushed, but urgent, were coming from the front of the store. Instinctively, Peyton s right hand went to his side. Immediately not to mention painfully he remembered that he no longer wore a sidearm. He took slow careful steps towards the front of the store. Large displays at the ends of the aisles blocked Peyton s view of the cash register, his assumed position of the argument. However, he could see 16 Keith Latch over the aisles well enough to tell that besides whoever was arguing he was the store s only solicitor. He stepped out of the aisle. How ya ll fellas doin today? He sounded as country as a bumpkin and knew it. He consciously

attempted to appear non-threatening. Two men stood near the cash register; one of either side of the sales counter. The one on the customer s side looked slick and businesslike, a little too businesslike for these parts. He was taller than average and was broad in the shoulders. His dark hair was speckled with white and slicked back, making it appear greasy or oily. His face was ruddy, sunbaked. He wore a business suit with a lightweight sports jacket. Peyton didn t know how the man was managing; he was burning up in a short sleeve tee shirt. The leather loafers on his feet must have cost a bundle. He was probably in his late fifties, but could easily pass for early forties. His eyes were hard and his expression stern. He appeared agitated at Peyton s presence. The other man, Gene Crowell, stood behind the counter, with hands rested on the prehistoric cash register. Gene was a man in his sixties and every year was clearly told on his washed out black face. What little hair he had left ringed his forehead looking not unlike tufts of wild cotton. Peyton saw that he wore a bright red tee shirt that proclaimed SUPPORT OUR TROOPS in big gold lettering. Unlike the other man, Gene did not look agitated or angry at Peyton s presence, though the storekeeper knew he was already in the store. However, Peyton did notice a slight look of embarrassment on the old man s wrinkled face. Was somebody actually shaking down wasn t that what the mob called it; shaking down Mean Gene s? Surely, the store s revenue was nothing close to respectable, probably not even in the low three digits, even with a strong summer tourist season. Why would a hood, if in fact that was what the slick-dressed man was, bother with such a

place? Was this extortion? Was Crowell being forced to pay a protection fee? Even in such small towns crimes like that did exist, but usually not in places that were little more than glorified bait shops. Can I help you, sir? Gene asked. His voice was slow and lazy, southern diction at its best I ve been thinking of going fishing. Thought about catfish. You wouldn t happen to have any night crawlers would you? A Ghost Story 17 Actually, the idea of fishing hadn t occurred to Peyton until now anyway. Fresh out. It wasn t Mean Gene that answered; instead, it was the slick man that Peyton had started to think of as Al Capone. Peyton also noticed a little smart ass smirk on his lips. I believe I was speaking to this man. Peyton indicated Crowell with a wave of his hand. I really don t give a shit who you were speaking to. Good. What? Al Capone asked. Using his best asshole voice, which he had cultured to near perfection, Peyton said, I wouldn t want any shit from you anyway. Capone s face turned red. Peyton thought it a bit amusing. I don t think I caught your name, friend. The man said as he reigned in his anger. Peyton put up a hand with two fingers outstretched, the index and middle finger making a piece sign. Two things, Peyton said. First, I didn t give you my name. He

lowered the index finger. And second, by far the most important, I am not your friend. Understand? The only finger remaining was the middle and Peyton held it just a little longer. Gene Crowell shrunk back as if he d witnessed a bolt of lightning and was anticipating an ear-shattering thunderclap to quickly follow. Tell you what, the gangster look-alike said. I ll give you to the count of two own the man held up two pudgy fingers to mimic Peyton s

to get your sorry ass out of here while you still have all your teeth.

It looked as if Crowell was about to say something. Then at the last moment thought better of it. He remained on edge and silent. For a moment, no one said a word. The store was silent except for the motors of the soda coolers; their hum, usually soft and soothing, now sounded rough and threatening. One, the Mafioso wannabe began. Just as Peyton was preparing to defend himself, the bell over the door signaled someone entering the store. As all three men watched, a group of retirees dressed to the hilt as anglers entered. Instead of continuing to count, Al Capone said, Must be your lucky day, friend. It d be best if we didn t meet again. 18 Keith Latch Fuck you, Peyton said low enough that the vacationers couldn t overhear. Al Capone s face went into its color-changing routine again. He stepped close to Peyton and Peyton could smell his soured breath. Don t go pushing your luck now, he said quietly. Then more

loudly he said, G day, Gene, I ll be seeing you soon. Nice fella, Peyton said to Gene after Al Capone had left the building. What s his name? Gene managed a weak laugh. Name s Dexter Scruggs. He s a lot of things, but nice ain t one of them. You ve got some balls, kid, he said. I hope they don t send you to the grave before your time. For an instant Peyton thought the old man was only having him on but only for an instant. The black man s old, worn-out face showed genuine concern. Wonder what flavor of shit I ve stepped into this time, Peyton wondered. As it would soon turn out, however, he wouldn t have to wonder very long. Chapter 4 t wasn t the heat; it was the humidity. Wasn t that what they said? Really, Harry Mowle didn t give a hot red damn why it was so torturously hot. Just knowing it was enough. The sixty-nine year old jalopy that he called a body was sheathed in thick and sticky sweat. He d endured almost seven decades of Mississippi s harsh, unrelenting summers and he d survive this one, thank you very much. Harry had parked his pick-up, a 1972 Ford, along a rarely traveled gravel road and had walked the last twenty minutes into the everthickening woods. He remembered, though not fondly, that this same walk had once only taken five good minutes. He wondered why he kept it up. He was dressed in faded overalls over what had once been a white

Hanes tee shirt. He wore dark brown work boots that had his feet nearly crying in pain. The yellow and green John Deere cap atop his baldhead hadn t been new in a very long time. Shit. He knew why he still did it. He needed the money, pure and simple. If only the holier-than-thou Republicans up in Washington would get off their dead asses and check out the way real people lived, they d soon realize that the shameful pittance that was social security was the equivalent of a Band-aid on a gunshot wound. Harry s checks were barely enough to pay his utilities and a few groceries. Hell, a man had to live didn t he? Nevertheless, business wasn t what it used to be. People didn t drink white lightning like they used to. In truth, Harry s clientele were aging just as fast as he himself was. With beer and liquor both cheap and legal, moonshine was being slowly but surely nudged from the market. The art of distilling shine itself was quickly becoming a lost art. If people wanted illegal highs these days, they went with crank, cocaine, or some other dope. I 20 Keith Latch Harry was heavily winded. The ravine where he was heading was close and he was eternally thankful. Years ago, a much younger Harry Mowle had placed concrete cinderblocks deep into the side of the gully to serve as makeshift steps. Now, with his lungs aching, his stiff joints protesting, and his weak muscles revolting against him, he took them slowly. Harry remembered his father indoctrinating him into the world of

moonshine and its production. He d been completely amazed at the sight of the still. With its copper tubing and burbling kettles, the whole thing looked like a scene from a diabolical mad scientist s secret laboratory. Carl Mowle had even bestowed upon his son a small iron kettle which Harry had called his cauldron. Even now, all these years later, Harry caught himself occasionally staring in awe at the antique equipment that he so lovingly cared for and tended to. Set at the foot of a long, steep ravine in the mouth of a limestone cave a very rare natural occurrence in this part of the state the still was relatively well hidden. A natural spring supplied Harry with fresh water and his grandson, Gordie, with his strong muscles and a slow wit, kept him supplied with the other equipment and ingredients that Harry needed. Whether out of respect for Pa Carl or pity for Harry, those that often stumbled across the still, hunters and hikers, and the occasional lost of both categories, never bothered the still and for that, Harry was appreciative. His back was giving him nine ways of Hell by the time he made it down the concrete steps. The Lord only knew how he would make it back to the truck with a five-gallon bucket of brew for Sammy Walker over in Burnsville. He knew he should ve waited for Gordie to be done with his chores, but Sammy was in a hurrying kind of mood and he was paying double. Therefore, the rest, as they say, was history. He heard the sorrowful moans before he saw the body. ***

Small limbs and twigs slapped at his face and arms like countless leather whips. His legs hadn t moved so fast since his sixtieth birthday and his heart was pumping blood through clogged arteries at twice the speed of light. A Ghost Story 21 Oh dear God in Heaven, Harry thought. His mind was racing, the thoughts a plethora of all that was evil in the world. How could a body look like that? How in the name of Christ could someone live through that, if such a wretched state could actually be called living? Several times Harry lost his bearings, but didn t bother slowing to regain them. The day was bright but the trees above sliced the light into bars of incoherent luminescence, serving more to confuse than anything else. He heard the big motors of transfer trucks on the highway in the distance. Birds sang in branches up high. Everything seemed normal, just another pleasant summer day in the golden years of a retired mechanic. Harry didn t think he would ever feel normal again. The face, holy Hell and damnation, the face! It looked like well like ground beef. Blood-caked and terrible. The arms and legs twisted at impossible angles. Biology and all that mumbo jumbo were not stressed back in Harry s school days they d let classes out to pick cotton for Christ s sake but he had enough sense to know that bones didn t bend; they broke and broke painfully. He saw the faded green of the truck as he conquered the last rise before the gradual decline to the road. He remembered buying it so clearly now. Wasn t it funny how the mind worked? Fear-numbed and

adrenalin-flooded, his mind, though, was clear as a bell. He was thirtysix years old with the three kids to feed and Martha, God love her, had battled pneumonia almost that whole year, her prescriptions nearly the equivalent of Harry s pay. He was working for Horace Frasier at his garage, getting back and forth to work in old Chevy with a cough like an eighty-year-old smoker. Then, low and behold, a city slicker with more money than you could shake a stick at went and ran the brand new Ford into old lady Henson s cattle fence. Harry never could figure what a fella like that was doing with a pick-up truck anyway. Horace had told him that it would be fixed in a month. Fortunately, for Harry anyway, the city slicker had never returned and he d managed to work out a deal with Horace for the truck. Horace, who didn t know shit from shingles about the newer cars that were coming in for repairs, was quick to keep his top grease monkey, and best damn shiner in the parts, happy. Good old Horace, Harry thought. Been dead and gone twenty years or so now, and I still miss him. 22 Keith Latch Harry was within ten feet of his truck when he was yanked from his reverie by the smashing pain in his chest. Apparently, the old heart was ready to give up the ghost. He didn t see the light that he d always heard about. Instead, blackness, like spilled ink engulfed him, blocking out the beautiful southern sunshine. *** Delaney wanted to be an artist more than anything. However, not just an artist, she wanted to be the best artist ever. She practiced her skills and honed her craft every chance she had. The walls of her bedroom were plastered with her colorful

creations. Notebooks, sketchpads, and reams of loose-leaf paper were stacked neatly, almost obsessively, in the corners of the room. Large, glossy picture books crammed themselves onto a three-tier maple bookshelf. A small, but well-crafted roll top desk with a miniature office chair sat regally against one wall. It was the sole piece of furniture, save for a canopy bed with a bedspread of pinks, white, and other soft colors. There was no TV or radio. No computer or video game console. Cartons of crayons, boxes of markers and coffee mugs filled with colored pencils sat in a military order and neatness across a long narrow shelf halfway up the wall opposite the desk. This was Delaney s sanctuary, her retreat from the world. If she never had to leave this single room for anything, she would ve been quite happy. She hummed softly to herself as she moved a red Crayola across a sheet of white paper. Most times, as now, Delaney lost herself in trances. As far as she was concerned, nothing else existed outside the reality that she was busy bringing to the paper. That s how she thought of it; the pictures she drew the worlds she colored actually existed. She was too young to know of parallel universes or different dimensions, but if she did, she would certainly believe that that was where these realities existed. They beckoned to her, actually cried out for her to bring them to life on her paper. She rarely thought of what she was about to create before starting a project. She just put her crayon, marker, or pencil to a tablet and at that point, Delaney was swept off in a search for things, places, and people in which to populate each single sheet. A Ghost Story 23

The drawing that she considered her absolute best was now hanging downstairs in the living room in a very nice frame. Becky had insisted on placing it so visitors could see it, not that there were that many people that stopped by. The drawing was of a little girl waking to discover the Tooth Fairy sneaking out of her room with a big burlap sack over her back. Delaney had dressed the mystical friend of all tooth-losing children in a rich purple gown with amazingly white little teeth scattered across it. The fairy looked a lot like Mrs. Claus and the girl closely resembled Delaney herself. Delaney didn t think the rendering was quite good enough for display, though it was awful close. Delaney had at first been embarrassed by it but after Becky had told her how wonderful the picture was, she d felt pride in her accomplishment. Becky was wonderful mother that way and even as young as she was, Delaney knew she was lucky to have her. Most kids had a mom and a dad, maybe even sisters or brothers. All Delaney had was Becky, but that was good enough. It would have to be. Delaney had taken to calling her mother, Rebecca, by Becky further back then she could remember. Since she d been doing it for what seemed forever, she just never stopped. Maybe soon Delaney could draw Becky another picture to hang beside the Tooth Fairy. Becky would probably like that and the only thing that Delaney liked more than drawing was making Becky happy. *** Grace Hill peeked through the crack of the door at eight-year-old

Delaney Kent. She was such a sweet, sweet girl, Grace thought to herself. For the last three years, Grace Hill had watched over this child while Rebecca worked her crazy, unpredictable hours. Even at the beginning, when Delaney had only been five, she was the easiest child to care for that Grace had ever known. Grace Hill, a fifty-five year old lady with silvering hair and dark ebony skin, had tended to children, her own and those of others, for most of her life. The girl and her coloring, Grace thought happily. The child had to be practically pried away from her room just to eat. She was so young to bear such a burden, so very young. 24 Keith Latch Delaney was an angel not only in behavior, though her easy politeness and impeccable manners were quite rare in such young kids, she was also angelic in appearance. Long hair, a dark blonde, like her father's. Immense green eyes, like her mother s, and a huge smile that brightened the whole world on the frequent occasions that she exhibited it. Each time that Grace looked upon the child, she was overtaken by a bittersweet amazement of the way in which life often worked. Like a phoenix rising from its own ashes, this tender little thing had ascended from her father s lamentable passing into this kind and thoughtful individual. A young girl with a beautiful, graceful soul. She might be a little shy, maybe even a little withdrawn, but she was in no way sullen or embittered as many others might have been. Grace knew that within this precious little girl beat the heart of a lion. Sweetheart, Grace said softly as she knocked on the bedroom

door. Lunch is ready. Your favorite, peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Delaney continued at her tablet for a moment then turned her huge green eyes to Grace. Yeah! Can I have two? Of course, Grace said then held a finger to her lips. As long as we keep it a secret. I promise. There it was; that smile that would one day make teenage boys swoon. Later, when the sandwiches had been eaten, the milk had been drunk, and Delaney was tucked in for her afternoon nap, Grace plucked the tablet from the floor. Usually, Delaney put her things away in their proper place. In fact, she was notorious for it. But the child had fallen sound asleep over her drawing and Grace had ushered a very groggy eight-year-old from the floor to her bed. Grace flipped through the pages of the sketchpad, amazed at the creativity of the girl. Each page in the book was so different, depicting completely unrelated subjects. On one, a giant Christmas tree dressed up with bright silver tinsel, multi-colored lights, and shiny ornaments. Underneath the tree, gifts lay wrapped in an incredible variety of paper. On another, a stunningly green pasture populated with farm animals of all breeds: pigs, cows, horses, chickens, and even sheep. The animals were portrayed in admirable detail, all with smiling human-like faces. A big ball of yellow sun, also grinning, hung in the sky overhead. A Ghost Story 25 Grace flipped through many more pleasant and wonderful pages, but one stopped her suddenly.

It was a picture of a dark green truck with the letters F O R D drew on the tailgate. Beside the truck, on the ground, was the outline of a person, arms, and legs splayed wildly. Far to the right of the person, at the edge of the page, was a for Grace s lack of a better word a blob. Delaney had used a black crayon and overlapped it with red in a spiraling fashion to create a mass of color. Grace ran her finger over it. The child had not only pressed firmly but harshly. The big ball of red and black was imprinted deeply into the paper, as if done in some kind of rage. Unfortunately, that was not the most disturbing aspect of the drawing. Directly atop the area of apparently focused anger were the words Peeping Tom, written in big black letters. Spots of teardropshaped color sluiced from the words. For a moment, but only a moment, Grace thought it might be raindrops, then noticing their color, realized what they were. Drops of blood. Oh, dear child, Grace said. It took the sound of her own voice for her to fully comprehend how completely soundless the room was, tomb-like. Slowly, but cautiously, Grace backed out of the room. A hard knot of fear began to grow in the pit of her stomach. Regrettably, it was not of the picture in the sketchpad that she had allowed to drop to the floor but of the child that lay sleeping on the bed. Grace fled the hallway to the safety of the second floor hallway, her body shivering from a queer blast of cold air. ***

Death. Cold bodies submerged in colder water. A bad boy. A pervert. A Peeping Tom. The dry crack of bone as a too-heavy body splinters. Sweet, sticky honey. She calls out for Elizabeth. She has heard her terrible scream. Remembering the soft, delicate tone of her voice. She can t reconcile the two completely different sounds. 26 Keith Latch Delaney usually sleeps well, but not this time. Maybe she wouldn t ever again. She remembered Billy Whomper. She thought of the bottle of honey she d taken from the kitchen pantry. Becky had just said goodnight to her, had only just settled in her own bed. Delaney, alone and fully dressed, had left the warm safety of her covers and sneaked downstairs. In the kitchen, she tiptoed to the pantry. Selected a small bottle of honey and made her way to the front door; the back one creaked terribly. All the while she knew, just knew, that Becky would discover her. In a way, she hoped that she would. Elizabeth had told her that she wouldn t, though. And she hadn t. She met with Elizabeth outside. Together they had journeyed around the house, through the back lawn and through the tree line. By herself, Delaney would ve never been able to do it. Regardless of what

Billy Whomper planned on doing to Becky and to her. Not that she wanted to. The woods, especially at night, were probably the scariest things in the world. Thank goodness for Elizabeth. With Elizabeth by her side, the fear simmered, but never boiled. She d waited behind while Elizabeth did whatever she did to Billy. Delaney didn t want to know it all. She d heard the scream and that had been frightening enough. When Elizabeth had returned for her, she'd almost decided to return home, crawl back into her bed, and forget all about this night. Of course, that wasn t possible. Instead, she d done as Elizabeth had wanted. She d followed her to the ravine where Billy had fallen. His eyes had been wide and seeing. Maybe they didn t believe, but they saw nonetheless. Delaney used the squirt top of the bottle to coat Billy s face with honey. His entire face. His ears, his nose, his cheeks, even his eyes. She hadn t understood at first, and then she did. It was like that day last month when Becky and she had had a picnic out by the water. They d had fried chicken, buttered biscuits, and corn on the cob. Chocolate cake with chocolate icing had been for dessert. After they d eaten, they went swimming. Delaney liked to A Ghost Story 27 swim, though only when Becky was with her. She couldn t imagine doing it without her. When they d returned, she discovered she d left her cake uncovered. They d only been gone a half-hour or so, but the cake was covered in bugs: ants, ladybugs, and all kinds else. Then, as

she was turning to tell Becky she d forgotten to clean her cake up, a big bird, ugly and mean looking, had swooped down and taken a huge chunk of the cake into its beak. Even before Delaney could open her mouth to shout, the bird had swooped off to enjoy a mighty fine free meal. That s what was going to happen to Billy. She hadn t cared. And she didn t care now. He had been planning to hurt Becky, do all kinds of dirty stuff to her and who knows (Elizabeth said) he might even have an attraction for Delaney. Nope, Delaney didn t mind the bugs and birds eating Billy Whomper s face. She just wanted the bad dreams to stop. Before long they did. Chapter 5 ome things you never get used to. Dean Little had worn a badge for the better part of thirty years and had seen many things that were not easy to swallow. He d seen car accidents where bodies had been mauled beyond all hope of recognition. He d seen suicides, some carried out smoothly and simply, some the very worst imaginable. He d seen agricultural mishaps where some good old boy or another had, by either ignorance of specific machinery, complete carelessness, or just plain bad luck, stepped through the biting blades of a cultivator, fell beneath a tractor, and even once had the incredible misfortune to be trampled to death by their own livestock. Though homicides were rare in these parts, he d seen both the victims and

assailants of murders that were graphic and senseless. After a few of the most gruesome incidents, Dean had found the essential act of eating difficult at its very best. Through all his years as both a police officer for the city of Ivy Springs and as sheriff of Winchester County, he had never given into the nave train of thought that infected most of the good people of law enforcement: he had not seen everything and he didn t fool himself into thinking that he had. It was only with his humble acceptance of the gruesome potential of humankind that he wasn t permanently affected by each passing catastrophe that his job brought to him on a much too regular basis. Now, standing next to one of his deputies, Kevin Nunley, a good man with five years on the force, he stared at the form on the bed. Wires and machines were connected to the still shape. An IV drip was attached to his arm, a large ventilator hose strapped into his mouth. He s going to make it? Deputy Nunley asked his boss. For a moment the sheriff didn t speak. Electronic beeps and buzzes, the science fiction sound of the ventilator, filled the uneasy quiet. S A Ghost Story 29 They ve got a specialist on the way from Nashville. He was too critical to be moved. The sheriff s response didn t answer the deputy s question, but he decided not to press. Sheriff Dean Little was the closest thing to a living legend that Kevin had ever met. He d been sheriff since before Kevin was born (Winchester County had no term limits on its elected

officials). It s a good thing he was found when he was, Little said solemnly. Another night wouldn t have been easy on him. Kevin had been the one to first spot the old Ford out on Pine Forest road and the sheriff s words were the closest thing to a compliment that he was likely to get. Sheriff Dean Little, a man of few words. His parents have been notified yet? Kevin asked. Got here a little while ago. Beatrice, his mother, had to be sedated. Clyde, his father, is still down the hall throwing up. Kevin swallowed hard. What about Harry Mowle? Not yet. J.P. McIntosh is going to hold the service. Should be the day after tomorrow. This startled Kevin. You mean no autopsy. It was his heart. He was an old man. Kevin considered this for a moment. Apparently, Little saw it didn t sit well with him. Think about it, Nunley. The sheriff nodded over to the bed. If you were that age and saw that, he motioned towards the bed, so unexpectedly, wouldn t it be a shock to the system? A shock to the system, Kevin repeated to himself. That s putting it mildly. Plus, he s been sampling his own shine for a lot of years. Couldn t have been in too good of shape drinking that poison on a daily basis. I guess you re right. I d better get back to the station, Sheriff. If

it s all right with you. I ve still got a mess of reports to do. He did, but he was just as anxious to get way from the hospital room. He d never seen anything like it and he was loath to stay any longer than this. He even doubted that he would tell Jill about this one, maybe some of it; she liked this kind of stuff, but certainly not all of it. No, she wouldn t have the stomach for it. Hell, Kevin didn t have the stomach for it. 30 Keith Latch Deputy Nunley turned and headed for the door but the sheriff s called his name and stopped him short. Yes, sir? Why? Sir? Kevin responded. Why, for the love of God did someone do that to his eyes? Kevin had been sickened to the point of vomiting when it was first discovered that the young man s eyeballs had been removed from their sockets. No, not removed, not extracted. Those terms were too similar to a surgical procedure. His eyes had been eaten away. Chewed out, just as most of his face had been. No one on the scene had been able to find them either. Now, as the sheriff brought it back up, the young deputy felt bile rise in his throat. I don t know, Sheriff. I swear to God, I don t know. But we ll find them. Whoever did this, we ll find them, Kevin said. He hoped he sounded surer of himself than he felt. For their sake, I pray I don t find them first, the sheriff said. It took Kevin a second to understand what his boss meant, but when he did, he was sure the sheriff meant it. Not anyone that could do this to a kid deserved to stand trial and if Sheriff Little had his way, there

wouldn t even be an arrest. *** After his brief confrontation with a perfect stranger, Peyton s day had been uneventful. He d not accomplished anything, but, of course, he couldn t think of anything he even needed to accomplish. He d wasted about half a tank of gas exploring the roads around Willow Lake, both paved and unpaved. He had driven with the radio off. Instead of music, he derived comfort from the lulling sound of the Jeep s tires as they roared over the roads. Solitude had some good things in its favor. It was the first time he d been able to think, actually think, without the benefit, or handicap, of alcohol, in a long time. Instead of rehashing the last few weeks over in his head, Peyton opted for better memories of better times. There were times when he actually smiled and laughed. Those times felt as if they were eons ago. Finally, after thoughtful introspection had become tiresome and even boring, he steered the Jeep in the direction of Ivy Springs. A Ghost Story 31 Solitude did have its advantages, true, but what Peyton needed now was a beer, the morning s hangover all but forgotten. He drove from Willow Lake on highway 350 and he spotted the neon light of a small honky-tonk about five minutes outside of Ivy Springs. It was a small place but the gravel lot was full of cars and trucks. That was a good sign that the beer was cold. He wheeled in, parking between a huge, muddy 4X4 and a Ford Escort. The name of the place was the Dew Drop Inn. It looked like any

other back road beer joint might have. A small, boxy block building painted a light blue. Peyton pushed through the door and entered a dark world of cigarette smoke, fumes of stale beer, and wailing country music. No one turned to stare as he entered and he took that as a good sign. The place was busy, especially for a weeknight, but not packed. Peyton found and took a seat at a small table close to the bar and far away from the three pool tables and jukebox. Less than an hour later, Peyton was on his fourth beer and starting to, if not exactly like, at least learn tolerance for, the 1950 s country and western that seemed to be the crowd s perpetual choice for entertainment. Seat taken? a voice said. Peyton looked up. A woman that looked to be in her late thirties stood before him. She might ve been pretty if not for the almost shameful amount of makeup on her face. Instead of accentuating her natural appearance, the rough application of bright rouge, hot pink lipstick, and dark, dark eyeliner made her look more like a Miss Two-Dollar Tramp than a Miss Apple Pie. He knew the type, too many of them, in fact. If she d given Peyton half a chance, he could have thought of some reason that the chair opposite him at the small table would not be appropriate for her. Unfortunately, the woman sat before receiving a reply. She extended her hand over the table. Name s Paula. What s yours? Her nails were painted hot pink. Peyton was many things, but being rude to a member of the

opposite sex was one mask he tried not to wear. Peyton. He shook her hand then went back to nursing his beer. Buy a girl a beer? she asked, smiling. Dollar store makeup and life might not have been kind to Paula, but Mother Nature had. Despite 32 Keith Latch her efforts to disguise herself in the make-up and cheap, tawdry clothes she wore a black skirt, a short one, too-tall black heels, and a bright pink sleeveless blouse it was easy to see that if she d never really been pretty, she d at least been cute. Her hair was short and layered, but due to a mediocre bleach job, her natural color was lost to him. Why not, he said before he even knew it. He ordered her a Bud Light and he himself another Corona. When their beers arrived, Peyton was surprised at the veracity in which she consumed it, like a resident of Hell finally receiving a much-needed glass of ice water. Whether it was the beer loosening his lips or the fact, that Paula was the first person he d actually engaged in conversation in three weeks, Peyton didn t know, but they began talking. Slowly and cautiously at first, then, as Peyton kept ordering beer after beer for the both of them, they began talking like old friends. He noticed the swell of her breasts against the tight pink fabric of her blouse. Once, as she d walked to the bar for an ashtray, he noticed the rest of her. Miss Two-Dollar Tramp had a very nice ass. Time was lost to him. Nothing at all existed beyond their small table at the Dew Drop Inn. They talked the talk of drunken strangers, speaking of everything but of nothing at all. He was somewhere along

his eighth, or was it ninth, Corona when for absolutely no reason at all, she repositioned her chair from opposite him to beside him. He could smell her. Strong and stringent. He smelled on her cigarette smoke and beer, hairspray and perfume. He felt the hand on his leg, then on his thigh, then on his groin. What was it that Bully Barker, a linebacker on Peyton s high school football team used to say? My groin s a-growing! She leaned closed to him. He felt her warm breath on his neck. Next, her lips. Then, but only teasingly, her teeth scratching across the soft flesh of his neck. Her breasts, so full and wonderful, pressed up against him. The miracles of modern brassieres! He was so hard now; he felt he might explode! Jesus Christ. We re about to screw in the middle of a fucking bar. Ha, Ha, Fucking bar. Great one, Pate. * * * A Ghost Story 33 Rebecca Jane Kent did not wear a lot of makeup. She rarely spent longer than a couple minutes each morning on its application. The reason for such an unremarkable attraction to paint her face up was not that she thought that she was so very beautiful that she didn t need the added beauty that could be had from a compact and a few bottles of eyeliner, it was much simpler than that, she didn t give a damn how she looked. In truth, however, that wasn t very accurate either. She did care how she looked, just as any other person, male or female would. She

was not preoccupied by it, though. She did not dress in rags. She did bathe frequently and as far as she knew, she did not repel members of the opposite sex, or the same sex for that matter. Rebecca had no insecurities when it came to her physical appearance. She did have insecurities in what her physical attributes could lead to when men were involved. She was not an old marm, at thirty, she was too young to be considered old, but she was a marm. She worked three different jobs and did the very best she could do to raise an eight-year-old. Every penny she made went into the house or to Delaney, with maybe, and that was a big maybe, enough left over for a modest bottle of merlot and a few Chevy Chase flicks from Blockbuster over in Ivy Springs. Few things in life were better than watching Fletch or National Lampoon s Vacation while sipping yourself a little silly on some good wine. She had loved Derrick outrageously, but a little life insurance would ve gone a very long way. She didn t try to conceal her occasional sip of alcohol from Delaney; the girl was too smart to be fooled by anything for long. Rebecca only drank on rare occasions and never to the point of losing control. She had tucked Delaney in and read her a few pages of a Little Golden Book that was left over from Rebecca s own childhood. God, she loved that little girl. Rebecca entered the bathroom. She pulled her hair free from its ponytail binding. She turned to the tub, a huge, claw-footed tub and began to draw her bath. She moved over to the window to raise it. She

hesitated. Something about the window bothered her. Strange, she thought. Why would a window bother her? Of course, it wasn t the window, not really. It was the darkness beyond. 34 Keith Latch The window was small, but had no curtains or blinds, no screen. With it opened, it was like opening the house to the wild night, letting her home lay vulnerable for the world outside. Shit, she thought. Poor Delaney s paranoia is rubbing off on me. (Or mine on her?) She still didn t open the window. Rather than lingering, she stripped off as quickly as she could and plopped down into the hot bath water. Rebecca liked her water as hot as she could stand it and she usually eased herself in. The sudden exposure to the water was almost more than she could stand. Almost. She didn t dally in the bath, but did her business and got out. She pulled on a thin robe before even drying and hurried from the room. She had been overtaken by a queer apprehension that something had happened to Delaney. She thought of all the windows all over the house, how very easy it would be for some sicko to gain entry and have his run of the house. Rebecca had lived in this very house for eight years and had never felt this way. She was close to panic when she reached Delaney s bedroom door. She didn t know why she was so riled up, but it didn t keep her from feeling so well scared. The door was cracked, as Delaney liked it. Rebecca stopped before bursting through the door. She didn t want to frighten Delaney.

Over the thudding of her own heart, she heard Delaney s voice, as soft and light as a summer cloud. She wasn t talking, Rebecca didn t think. It sounded more as if she was singing; only Rebecca couldn t make out the words. Then she could. Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the night *** Delaney heard Becky enter the room and immediately slammed her eyelids shut. She stopped singing and put on her best deep sleep face. Even after she was sure that her mother had left the room, she continued playing possum. Then, after a long while, she started singing again. Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the night. Ghosts in the bone yard, among the dead. Ghosts in the attic, over your head. Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the A Ghost Story 35 night. Ghosts in the cellar, under your feet. Ghosts watch over us as we sleep. Ghosts in the night, ghosts in the night. You remembered it. It was Elizabeth. Her naked face was made bluer by the moonlight through the window. I told you I would. That means a lot to me, Delaney. It really does. Since I remembered it, tell me what it means. She was wideawake now, though both of their words were soft and quiet. It s a secret, Elizabeth said, but she was smiling. You promised. You promised. I did, didn t I? Well, I always keep my promises. Especially to you. Elizabeth moved closer, and then sat at the foot of Delaney s bed. It s a nursery rhyme my grandmother used to sing to me. She told me

that all ghosts weren t bad. Some were very good. The good ones watch over children while they sleep and help them when they re in trouble. Like you do for me? That s right. And whenever you need me all you have to do is sing that song and I ll be there. You promise? Delaney said as if it were too good to be true. I promise. You swear? I double swear. Will you tell me a story? Please. Okay, but just because you said please. Delaney laid there, her soft comforter the only thing separating her from a girl that had died over eleven years before she had even been conceived. She didn t have a care or fear in the world. For now. *** Peyton was barely sober enough to drive, but he made it back to the lake house without causing a vehicular accident of any kind. Paula sat beside him in the Jeep or rather most of her was. The top half, waist up, was clung tightly to Peyton s torso. She had unbuttoned his shirt and her tongue, hot and slick, was exploring his chest. Her hands caressed his upper thighs. 36 Keith Latch They made it from the Jeep and into the house in record time. Nice place, Paula said. Is it yours?

It is for a little while. Paula didn t push, but instead said, Got anything to drink, sweetie? Sure. Name your poison. How about seven and seven. Sure. He pulled her close and brought his mouth to hers. The woman should enter her tongue in some kind of Olympic event. He couldn t wait to see what else she could do. Peyton went to the kitchen, grabbed a 7up, and headed back to the liquor cabinet. He splashed a dab of soda and filled the rest with Seagram s. He fixed himself a stout rum and Coke. He turned back to Paula and handed the drink to her. She sipped. If she thought the fiery mixture was excessively strong, she didn t show it. Tell me Paula, Peyton said. Tell you what? She seemed puzzled. Why that car followed us all the way from the bar? She wasn t just puzzled now, but alarmed. She began to fidget almost immediately and that was all Peyton needed. Whatever it was, she was a part of it. He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her with him to a side hall. From a closet, he pulled a Mossberg pump-action shotgun. He checked it for shells. A sleeve holding an extra supply of double-aught buckshot was secured to the stock. He racked it, loving the sound. Oh shit! Paula said.

He ushered her back into the living room. They didn t follow us up the drive. Who are they and when do they plan on showing up? The driveway was long and the road couldn t be seen from the front of the house. She didn t answer. Peyton tightened his grip. That fucking hurts, you asshole. In his grip, Paula writhed. She slapped at him with her free hand; Peyton easily dodged it. With a flick of his hand, Peyton twisted her arm behind her back and thrust her to the wall. Not very hard, just enough to get her attention. Try something like that again and I ll rip your arm off. After a moment, she stopped fighting him. Instead of easing up on her arm, he A Ghost Story 37 twisted the wrist a little more. She cried out in both surprise and pain. Now tell me who the Hell followed us from the bar. Some guys I guess. Lot of drunks there with nothing better to do. Peyton thought of pain much like a ruler. One inch was barely noticeable, just a little discomfort. Twelve inches was enough to make you reconsider your whole belief system. He figured Paula was somewhere around five inches right now, he took it up to six. You bastard! she spat at him. Now, let s try that again. Tell me who your friends are. Light splashed through the front windows. Headlights. Time s up. With practiced skill and incredible speed, Peyton delivered a blow to the side of Paula s head with the butt of the shotgun. She dropped like a bag of bricks. Peyton turned and headed to the back door.

*** Outside, Darryl and Alan were already out of Darryl s rusted-out Bronco and almost to the house. Both were way over the legal blood alcohol limit, but they were also high on the prospect of earning five hundred bucks apiece. Somehow, someway, that fella in there with Paula had pissed Scruggs off in a real bad way. When Scruggs had spotted him walking into the Dew Drop Inn, he d almost lost his top. Next thing Darryl knew, Paula had sauntered right up to this asshole s table and before long, they were licking all over each other. That had angered Darryl in itself. He d fucked Paula back in their high school days, but now she was the property of Dexter Scruggs and everybody knew it. There were three things certain in life: death, taxes, and the wrath of Dexter Scruggs. Darryl didn t really give a shit what the fella had done. In his mind, he was already spending the five hundred smackaroos. Alan reached the front porch first. Alan was a tall guy, close to six foot, but not very wide. Still, the tire iron in his hands would probably equalize the situation. Darryl, on the other hand, made about two of Alan, but wasn t as tall. He had a pair of brass knuckles on his right hand and he was giddy with the prospect of breaking a jaw or busting a nose. You fellas lost? 38 Keith Latch The voice caused both Darryl and Alan to about-face so damned fast that they almost lost their balance. Alan raised his tire iron high and was about to step up when the moonlight glinted off the barrel of

the Mossberg. That stopped him completely. Darryl saw the muzzle was pointed right at him. The man holding the gun was a good fifteen feet away. Perfect range for a shotgun. We came to give you a message, Darryl said. Peyton studied them for a moment. He saw the tire tool and barely made out the brass knuckles. I believe I ve got the message. Well, friend, I m not too sure that you do. This time it was Peyton s turn to be startled. The familiar voice of Dexter Scruggs came from behind him. It was close, too close. Both Darryl and Alan smiled, though their surprise was evident. A blow smashed into the back of Peyton s head. He had half-anticipated it, but was a second too slow getting out of the way. He felt the shotgun slip from his hands. He felt a punch to his ribs, heard a couple of them crack. Pain, white, hot, and enormous. He was knocked to the ground, but rolled away quickly and was halfway up when the tall, skinny guy swung the tire tool. Peyton dodged it, grabbed the guy by his waist with one arm, and punched high into the man s slim throat with the other. The towering man gagged and fell down, his hands grabbing his neck. The tire tool clanked on the gravel drive. Peyton snatched it up just as he was kicked in the back. Instead of falling over, he rolled over and sprang to his feet. When he turned, he turned swinging the tire iron. He heard the crack against the big man s skull. He fell close to his friend who was still grasping at his throat. Neither one of those two would be causing trouble anytime soon. He was sure of that.

Peyton turned. He saw no one else. Impossible. The yard was big and it should take a minute to get out of sight. The pain in his side was a raging fire. Maybe the third man was hiding, but Peyton didn t think so. They had underestimated him this time. Peyton was quite sure that Dexter Scruggs wouldn t make that mistake again. He walked over and bent down for the Mossberg, feeling every muscle in his body cry out in protest in the process. I believe its time you two get going. I think you fractured my skull you sonofabitch, Darryl said. A Ghost Story 39 Peyton placed the muzzle of the Mossberg on the groin of the man. Could have been worse, couldn t it? Apparently, the guy got the message. He got up and pulled his lanky friend up as well. Together, they stumbled down the driveway. Good riddance to bad rubbish, Peyton said to himself. He remembered Paula inside the house. She could gain consciousness any minute and the Mossberg was not the only gun in the house.

Chapter 6 aith Hill s Fireflies album played softly. It was early yet. Dawn would not come for another hour or so. The room, once a small bedroom, was now outfitted as a home office. A cheap corner desk, a few bookshelves, and a lot of computer equipment filled the room. Rebecca needed a top of the line machine for her work. Besides her full-time job at the Ivy Springs Library and her occasional shifts at

the Silver Spoon she also designed web pages. She had started out slowly at first, but word of her skill had traveled well. She now had over fifteen active accounts, which she continuously updated as well as a new account every few weeks. She enjoyed the work immensely and felt that she was good at it. Unfortunately, working over forty hours a week as a librarian, usually twenty as a waitress and trying to raise Delaney, she didn t have much time to devote to it. Before long, she would have to stop taking new business. That s not what she wanted to do. There were times while sitting at her desk that she could forget everything and everybody else and focus her complete person on the task. It was like some kind of therapeutic meditation. Now, however, she found it hard to lose herself in the caress of the monitor s light. She was troubled. At first Rebecca had tried to explain away Grace Hill s strange behavior yesterday afternoon as crankiness brought on by old age. The woman had literally run from the house just as Rebecca had pulled her car into the garage. Usually, they chatted for a few minutes about each other s day and, occasionally, threw in a good dose of town gossip. Not this time, though. Rebecca remembered thinking at the time that Grace Hill had been spooked by something. She d never seen the lady move so fast. Then, there was the matter of Delaney talking in her sleep. She d never known her to do that. Of course, talking in one s sleep was hardly a rare occurrence. Delaney had long since wanted to sleep alone, F A Ghost Story 41

proving her maturity to Rebecca, and God only knew how much talking she really did during slumber. However, Rebecca admitted to herself, it wasn t the fact of the kid talking in her sleep; it was what she had said. Ghosts in the night? Maybe it was some sort of nursery rhyme that Mrs. Hill had sang to her. Rebecca doubted it, but maybe. The phone rang. Ms. Kent? It was Grace Hill. Yes, ma am. The woman hesitated. I m so sorry but I won t be able to watch Delaney today. Rebecca had been expecting this. Mrs. Hill had only begged off sick twice in the last three years. She would not do so unless there was real good reason. Still, Rebecca would have to miss work and that peeved her slightly. Are you sick? Rebecca asked. Sick? Grace asked as if she d never heard the word. Then, Yes, I m afraid my arthritis has flared up again. It s pretty bad this time. Lies. Pure lies. Rebecca thought to herself. I understand. Thanks for calling Mrs. Hill. Oh, you re welcome. I Could I ask you something, Grace? Rebecca interrupted. Well sure, Grace said, but she sounded a little apprehensive. Did something happen yesterday? Grace Hill seemed to consider this for a moment. Whatever do you mean hon?

I mean with Delaney. Did anything or out of the ordinary happen yesterday? Not that I know of. We had a real good day. She drew most of the day, as she always does. I made sandwiches and then she settled in for a long nap. Rebecca tried to remember if Delaney herself had acted unusual last night. Rebecca didn t think so. Maybe she was just making a mountain out of a molehill. Stranger things had happened. I m sorry to ask, it s just that Delaney was talking in her sleep. I d never heard her do that before. Well, Mrs. Kent, that s not so strange. My husband has been doing it for years. Drives me near crazy, it does, but nothing bad about it in itself. Y know what I mean. 42 Keith Latch Yeah I guess I do. Anyway, I hope you get to feeling better. Thank you, and tell the little girl I ll miss her. I ll do that, Grace. Goodbye. As Rebecca replaced the phone on its cradle, she couldn t help but thinking that Mrs. Hill had lied through her dentures and wondered why. *** Peyton Harper hadn t bothered walking upstairs to the bedroom last night. He had carried a semi-conscious Paula to the Jeep, deposited her in the parking lot of the Dew Drop Inn, and had hauled ass back to the lake house. With that done, he just didn t have the energy necessary to mount the stairs. Instead, he found the couch suitable enough a resting

place. He woke late at a few minutes after nine. His head was swimming and his stomach swirled from the beer. Nevertheless, this morning s hangover was nowhere in the league of the last one. He was sore though. Very sore. When he first tried to stand, he had to sit back down quick. His side ached. He wasn t completely convinced that his ribs were cracked, but if by some chance they weren t, then they were bruised pretty badly. He had a few other, less severe, injuries. A hot shower took care of most of that. He found an Ace bandage in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom and used it to help immobilize his ribs. With the bandage, the stairs proved only painful instead of torturous. He dressed and was in the kitchen brewing a pot of strong coffee when he heard the knock at the door. Good morning, sir, the sheriff s deputy said when Peyton opened the door. Morning, Peyton replied. He hadn t yet decided if it was a good one or not. Can I help you? He had decided not to involve the authorities in what had transpired last night. He thought he could handle it just fine. Peyton also didn t think anyone else from last night would have contacted the cops. What would they say? We were in the process of roughing this guy up when he decided he didn t want to be roughed up. There just wasn t a chance. A Ghost Story 43 The deputy put out his hand. Name s Nunley. I m a deputy with the Winchester County Sheriff s Office.

Peyton took the hand and shook it. Your name, sir? Peyton. Deputy Nunley waited for a second. When he saw that Peyton wasn t planning to be any more forthcoming he said, That your last name? No. Peyton didn t exactly smile, but Nunley could see he was having a good time with him. The pleasantness was gone from the deputy sheriff s face. Look, guy, I m not here trying to bust your balls. That s a good thing, Peyton retorted. Nunley smiled, but it wasn t a good kind of smile. Last I heard this place was owned by Mack Harper. He wouldn t happen to be around would he? Peyton made a big show of looking around behind him, then an even bigger show of looking out the door past the deputy. No, I don t believe so. Look, smart ass, I Peyton held up his index finger and moved it side to side. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Lawman. I m answering every question you ve asked of me and fully intend to cooperate with any and all law enforcement instructions. I have legal right to be on this property. You, on the other hand, may not. So why don t you tell me why you re on my front porch this morning and I will, in turn, answer all your questions to the fullest of my ability.

The deputy was completely raging, but when he spoke, he spoke in short, clipped sentences. Peyton had bested him, and he knew it. I m investigating a crime. A substantial crime. Peyton stepped closer to the lawman. He was perhaps a couple years older than Peyton, but Peyton had a good three inches on him and at least thirty pounds. He looked like he had a couple years under his belt. His uniform was pristine and he was in good shape. No cop belly yet. The deputy didn t step back, as Peyton had expected. Neither did he reach instinctively for his sidearm, what looked like a .38. You want a cup of coffee? Peyton asked. The deputy didn t hesitate. I d love one. 44 Keith Latch *** Dexter Scruggs was already working. He was disappointed by the way things had worked out last night. Nevertheless, he should ve known better than having those two shit-for-brains, Alan and Darryl, attempt a job like that. They were usually good for your run-of-the-mill strong-arming. However, he should have known from the start that this guy was going to be a harder nut to crack. But crack him, Dexter would. He was at his desk going over some paperwork when the phone rang. It s me, the caller said. Hope you have something good to tell me. Got a pen and paper. Yeah, go ahead.

Name s Harper, Peyton. Twenty-six years of age. Last known occupation: patrolman for the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Address Four-Oh-Five Fillmore Street, Corinth, Mississippi. Mack Harper s nephew? That s the word. When Dexter didn t say anything, the caller continued. I hear he s a private citizen now, been gone from the highway patrol a couple of months. Okay, thanks a lot. Anytime, mayor. Mayor Scruggs hung up the phone and considered his next line of action. He d checked the overnights from the police department and had an underling do the same for the sheriff s office. There had been no mention of an assault out at Willow Lake. Apparently, this Harper fella disliked attention just as much as Scruggs did. There must be a reason why, and Dexter was determined to find out. He picked up the phone and dialed his secretary. Yes, your honor? Vickie, see if Sheriff Little can work me into his schedule today. I d like him to stop by around noon. Tell him lunch is one me. Yes, sir, Vickie answered in her sweet southern belle voice. Oh, and Vickie, after you ve done that, step in here please. There was nothing as conducive to strategic planning as a midmorning quickie. Chapter 7 he day was perfect, sunny and bright. And hot. The shades of large maples and oaks, however, made the city park bearable

and Rebecca sat on a bench watching Delaney. This beautiful, clear Thursday had attracted many people to the park. Kids of various ages ran this way and that. They slid, swung, climbed on the monkey bars, laughed, and yelled. Parents, mostly mothers with only a sprinkle of fathers and grandparents, watched the kids, lost themselves in the pages of romance novels or seemed to have cell phones growing out of their ears. Rebecca wanted more than anything for Delaney to join in with them, but she knew better than to push. The young girl sat cross-legged in the grass under the shade of a huge tree drawing. Delaney was very talented for a girl her age, but Rebecca couldn t help but feel a little sad that she would rather color pictures in a tablet than join the other kids as they played. It just wasn t natural. Nevertheless, of course, it was. In a way, Her daughter was so much like she herself had been at that age that it was almost uncanny. She stood from the bench. Her backside was numb and her legs stiff as she made her way over to Delaney. Sweetheart, don t you wanna play? Delaney didn t answer. Delaney, doll, you want me to swing you? Delaney, still busy at her notebook, said, In just a minute. Rebecca knew how just a minute could drag on almost forever. She bent down to inspect Delaney s work. It was the crude figure of a man. In relation to his surroundings, he was tall and wide. He stood beside what Rebecca took to be a dark blue Jeep. Who s that honey?

I don t know his name, Delaney said. She worked at the picture almost furiously. Well, then, how do you know what he looks like? T 46 Keith Latch I just do. Suddenly the unease that had plagued Rebecca since hearing Delaney talking in her sleep until late this morning returned. Delaney. Rebecca stooped down beside the small girl and cocked her head into her line of view. How do you know this man? I don t yet, Becky. But I will. It could have been the ramblings of a child, but somehow Rebecca knew it was more of that. Despite the heat of the day, a cold shiver invaded the marrow of Rebecca s bones. She felt terribly uneasy, but just couldn t say why. It hadn't been the picture that disturbed her; it was more of the way that she had been so certain of the things she had said. She really believed that she would soon meet this man. Then what? Would this man abduct her? Molest her? Kill her? Rebecca was almost ashamed of herself. She had a wild imagination, she knew that much. She read a lot and her work designing websites demanded creativity, but she rarely considered such morose thoughts. Come on, honey. Let s get something to eat. After it was said and done, Rebecca wasn t sure she d be able to eat. ***

So, what is it you want me to do, Mayor? the sheriff asked. Now, Dean, I know you re a county official, and I have no say over how you conduct your investigations, and I d like to add that I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, but there s come to my attention that there s an out-of-towner staying up at Mack Harper s house at Willow Lake. He hasn t been there long. Okay, the sheriff said took a big drink of sweet tea. The mayor had chosen to treat the sheriff to lunch at The County Seat. It was a place where most of the downtown crowd: lawyers, accountants, and the more well to do city officials lunched. The County Seat served a wide variety of good, next-to-home-cooked, meals. The sheriff was having roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy, and steamed vegetables. Dexter Scruggs, not the fussiest eater, was having fried chicken, black-eyes peas, turnip greens, and fried okra. They both drank sweet tea. You know who this fella is? A Ghost Story 47 Yeah, I do. I hear he s Mack Harper s nephew. Used to be a state trooper, but I m not sure what he s doing now. Peyton? I ve met him. Been a few years ago. You think he might be involved in this mess with little Billy Whomper? Well, let s just say, it s as good a place as any to start. The sheriff didn t comment. Damn shame about Harry Mowle too. Old son of gun made damn fine shine in his day. Oh, excuse me sheriff, my mouth got away with me. I ll just bet it did, the sheriff thought. What s the matter Mayor?

Glad the old man finally bought the farm. Must have been hindering your profit margin. Oh, yeah, I forgot, you deal in the heavier stuff, don t you. Sheriff Little wanted to verbalize all these thoughts, but knew better. He wasn t scared of Mayor Scruggs; there was very little fear of anything in Dean Little. He knew when to pick his fights, however, that s probably one of the reasons he d held the position of the highest law enforcement official in the county for so long. That s alright, mayor. Mowle wasn t always on the up and up, but he was a decent man. Here, here, Scruggs said raising his tea glass. The sheriff didn t reciprocate and Scruggs finally lowered his. My deputies are canvassing the area as we speak, interviewing everybody they can. I d like to think it was a wild animal, that s what some of the doctor s are saying, but I just can t swallow it. Well, if myself or Chief Hall can be of any assistance, don t you be shy, sheriff, Scruggs said. Joe Hall, the Ivy Springs Chief of Police was a well-known lap dog of the mayor. I appreciate that, Mayor. Well I need to get back to it. Thanks for the lunch. The sheriff stood, his lanky, six-foot-three frame looking frail and weak. Scruggs knew better. Dean Little could and would scrap with the best of them. It was after the sheriff had gone that Mayor Scruggs noticed that *** Sheriff Dean Little walked slowly, casually to his official vehicle, a big, 4x4 Bronco. His mind was heavy, but his heart was heavier.

What was Scruggs playing at? 48 Keith Latch There was really no way to tell. It was a damn shame that a town as nice as Ivy Springs would elect such a crook as mayor. The people weren t blind were they? Surely, word of Scruggs under-handed dealings was widely known. How could it not be? Little was just rehashing an old dilemma. This was Scruggs second term. He was the mayor and there was no changing that. Little decided to think on things that weren t within his control. Peyton Harper couldn t have possible been involved, could he? The last time that Sheriff Harper had seen the young man, Mack was throwing a big party for him on account of him being accepted to the Highway Patrol Academy. He seemed like a smart young guy with his head on straight. Last he d heard he was working a few counties over, in Alcorn County. He wondered what had happened? Then Sheriff Little decided that it might not be a bad idea to find out. As for Dexter Scruggs, well, you give a man enough rope and he ll eventually hang himself. *** The English Court Mobile Home Park was right at the city limits out on Highway 27. A collection of trailer houses so old, so dilapidated, filled the four-acre area that tetanus shots should ve been required before visiting any of the tin death traps. Dexter Scruggs pulled his big SUV up to number 14 and killed the engine. He looked around and saw that nobody was stirring. He popped

open his glove compartment, took out a small baggie of white powder, and palmed it. Dexter was a man that loved power, no, more than loved it, he was addicted to it, and the powder in his hands had brought him so much of his drug. He knocked on the door for a full five minutes until Paula answered it. She looked like a reject from a casting session of Night of the Living Dead. Dressed in a black teddy and nothing else, her skin looked as pale as an albino s and her hair was a rat s nest. Paula was nothing more than a coke whore and she knew it. Without the generosity of Dexter Scruggs, she would ve had to stoop to unimaginable depths to support her habit. However, with him, she only had to be at his disposal and to submit to his every whim. In return, he rationed her enough blow A Ghost Story 49 to keep her feeling as if she were among the land of the living. She thought it was a good deal and if she ever thought ill of it, she had never once voiced it. Not that she ever would. Hey baby, Paula said in greeting. You fucked up last night, bitch, Dexter Scruggs said. The haymaker came out of nowhere and it knocked Paula to the ground. Blood leaked from her busted lip. Dexter, baby, I didn t. I swear I didn t. She began backpedaling on the dirty carpet, trying her best to get away from him. I should cut you off right here and now. He stepped towards her so that he towered above her. All I wanted was a small favor and you can t even do that right. But I did, baby, I did.

Scruggs raised a heavy foot and began to aim it at her chest. Please, Dexter, please don t! she begged. I ve got something for you. I promise! Dexter placed his foot back on the floor. It better be good. It is. I promise. Well just don t lie there all day. Go and get it. Paula scrambled to her feet and ran to the bedroom. Seconds later she returned, a sheaf of folded paper in her hand. Dexter snatched it from her and opened it. He noticed the official seal and slowly began reading. A thin, hateful smile grew across his face. Where did you get this? It was in his Jeep. Folded up and tucked between the seats. She hesitated a minute, then asked, Did I do good? Yes, darlin , you did real good. Dexter reached a hand out to one of her breasts. Through the thin fabric of the negligee, he felt the nipple. Using his fingers, he massaged her mound until the nipple grew hard, taut. She moaned slightly. He felt himself respond down in his nether regions. She moved to kiss him, but he stopped her. He took her hand an opened it, depositing the bag of cocaine in it. The reaction was instant and amazing. She smiled and plopped down on a couch and placed the baggie on a mirrored coffee table and greedily went to work with a razor blade that she had seemingly produced from thin air. 50 Keith Latch One line, Dexter said. Then take a shower and clean yourself up

a little. I ve got more work for you to do. He didn t know whether she had heard him or not, she was too busy getting stoned. Chapter 8

espite Rebecca s earlier misgivings, her unexpected day off with Delaney had been quite pleasant. After a good lunch with hot fudge sundaes for dessert, they d caught a matinee of the latest Disney movie, a computer generated epic of a fantasy played out underneath the ocean s surface. The clear, hot day had turned stormy and as they d exited the Malco, they had anticipated what Delaney called sun sting, the discomfort of the eyes subjected to a bright day after being immersed in a dark theatre. Instead, they saw big, dark clouds swirling in an even darker sky. Rain would come soon and it would come hard. Rebecca had ushered a drowsy Delaney to the car before the bottom dropped out and they got soaked. Now as Rebecca s aging Volkswagen Beetle made its way home through a literal downpour, she watched as the small child, wrapped tightly in a raincoat Rebecca had discovered wadded up in the backseat, and a seatbelt, dozed ever so lightly. The stormy day was dark enough to demand headlights be used and Rebecca cursed under her breath as she remembered that she d failed to have the low beam bulb of the driver s side changed out. The high beam had gone about a month ago and then just two days ago the other had followed suit. Now, depending on just the high beam of the passenger side, Rebecca struggled to keep the light Bug on the road amidst harsh wind and driving rain.

350 was a good road and there usually wasn t much traffic, but nonetheless, it was a long, narrow two-lane and it could easily turn treacherous given adequate opportunity. Like most of the rest of the car the radio had went the way of the angels. Rebecca had never had enough money left over to install a video or DVD player so that Delaney could enjoy a movie during a long drive. Even if money had not been an issue, she doubted she d ever had such a contraption installed. Two reasons for this were; one, D52 Keith Latch that such hi-tech entertainment devices would be as out of place in the antique Volkswagen as cell phones on Viking warships and; second; despite having the desire to, Rebecca and Delaney never traveled outside their little world of Winchester County. Too many bills had to be paid the old-fashioned way: by working. There just wasn t time enough between shifts at different jobs to consider a trip. So, to keep both Delaney sleeping and herself calm, Rebecca sang to herself. A Faith Hill or Sheryl Crow she wasn t, but she was able to carry a tune in a bucket, even if she had to use both hands on the handle. Softly, in a near-musical voice, she battered out the first few lines of an Evanescence tune. When the tire blew, it was the closest thing that Rebecca had ever felt to a heart attack. In one blinding instant, she went from singing a song to battling the steering wheel of the Bug for the lives of her two favorite people. The car bucked and rocked like a rodeo bull with no less attitude or

hostility. Gravity became a thing not only respected but also feared. The car was oh so very light and Rebecca s weight and that of small Delaney was as insignificant as that of grains of sand on some far away tropical beach. Delaney was wide-awake now and crying out for Rebecca. Oh sweet child, Rebecca thought, please don t be afraid. We can t die today. Not today, maybe and perhaps sometime later, much later, but not this day. Please God in heaven, not today. She s still so very young, so incredibly tender, and me, maybe I m not so young anymore, but I love my life, it s the only one I ve got. With a sickening thud, Rebecca s prayers were answered. The ass end of the Bug, the motor compartment, crashed against a tree and the whole world danced on end. Rebecca actually felt her teeth rattle in their sockets. The thin edge of the safety harness bit into her neck. She couldn t begin to imagine how Delaney s delicate body was fairing. Rain, mad and raging, pounded on every surface of the Volkswagen. The engine had long-since died and though the sounds outside were horrific, the interior of the car was eerily noiseless, as free and unencumbered by sounds as the vast vacuum of outer space. Becky, Delaney said. Her voice, remarkably, sounded no less vibrant as if she d just woken from an afternoon nap. A Ghost Story 53 Rebecca concentrated for a moment. She wanted to believe it was really Delaney talking, that somehow the child had not only survived but also thrived. It seemed almost more than she could hope. Then the

voice called again. She turned her head to the little girl, a flare of pain erupting in her neck, and yes! Yes! She was alive. I m here, baby, I m here. Don t be scared. The child did not speak. The expression on her face was stoic and firm. Then, with gracefulness born out of young, youthful joints, she raised her arm and pointed. She was pointing towards Rebecca s window later, Rebecca thought it amazing that not one single window or mirror had burst, much less cracked. He s here, she said calmly. When Rebecca turned and saw the face staring in at her through the wet, rain covered window she imagined that her own life had flashed before her eyes. Then, for the very first time in her life, she fainted. *** By late afternoon Peyton realized why he d come to Willow Lake, if he d ever forgotten. He d needed a break from the harshness of life. After a long talk with Deputy Nunley and more than a few cups of Community coffee, Peyton had learned that a teenager had been mangled beyond almost all hope of recovery. Plus, an aging moonshiner by the name of Harry Mowle now there s a Dr. Seuss name if he d ever heard one had suffered a fatal cardiac arrest after spotting the boy and either turning tail and running or going for help. Such good times we re living in. Nunley had thanked him for his time and his coffee. The deputy had worked right on through the night. Now that was something about the job that Peyton didn t miss. After Nunley had left, Peyton headed off to the boathouse.

The boathouse was large and, besides housing a sizable speedboat with a huge engine and two jet skis, it was a working garage. While the lower portion was situated on the water, the second, higher, section was firmly rooted on the ground. It looked more like a contemporary twostory building designed by a deranged architect than a boathouse. Tools of all shapes and sizes were mounted on pegboard; three large toolboxes, red and black, were positioned strategically to take up as little space as possible; two long worktables were pushed against the 54 Keith Latch walls, one with a vise grip bolted securely. The whole place smelled vaguely of gasoline and oil. But the thing that caught Peyton s attention more than anything, more than the speedboats, more than the jet skis, more than every tool and attachment, was what sat dead center of the work area of the boathouse. Covered in a light brown tarp, he knew immediately what it was and couldn t believe he d forgotten it was here. With the slow, cautious steps of a child stepping to the very last unopened present underneath the tree on Christmas morning, Peyton walked over. He grasped the tarp tenderly, almost lovingly. It was a polyester cover. Not one of cheap plastic variety, the kind that became brittle and rigid, and sometimes fading onto the very objects they preserved. With the care of a neurosurgeon, Peyton lifted the cloth up and then off. There it was, all sparkling and glorious: a machine of shiny chrome and lustrous black iron. The 1980 FXWG Wide Glide Harley Davidson was painted flawless black with all chrome accents. The fuel tank, a Fat Bob, was flamed, the orange and yellow blending masterfully.

It looked every bit the chopper that had came back in style with the help of West Coast Choppers and Orange County Choppers. The engine, a Harley 80 cubic-inch Big Twin, was the most powerful Vtwin of its time. The wide-spaced fork tubes hugged a 21-inch spoke front wheel. A stepped saddle seat, forward-mounted brake, shifting pedals, bucket-style headlight, and pullback handlebars, with a bobbed rear fender. Peyton couldn t help but to stare in awe at the perfect example of supreme American engineering and design. Since he was knee high to a grasshopper, Peyton had loved the big bikes as he used to call them, as opposed to the little bikes like his bicycle and the moped the kid down the street used to ride. His mother had even told of, many times and to too many people, how when Peyton was two or three years old and wouldn t sleep at night that she and Peyton s father would wedge him in between them and take off on Peyton s father s own 73 Electra-Glide. Before you knew it, little Peyton would be sawing logs and counting z s. Now if that was a story you didn t want repeating, Peyton didn t know what it d be. Uncle Mack and Peyton s father represented the large percentage of Americans that, even though they rode bikes that were big, loud and A Ghost Story 55 bought into a life that embraced freedom and a certain amount of social anarchy, they could still be rock-solid, contributing members of society. Too many people perceived all bikers to be criminals and outlaws; Peyton knew this to be a major misconception, just another stereotype humankind had used to handicap itself. Peyton remembered fondly waiting for his father and uncle to

return from some big bike extravaganza, whether it was Sturgis or Daytona, Florida s Bike Week, so that he could hear the stories and see the photographs they d taken, after his mother had censored them of course. Women at such meets were not unlike the ones that frequented Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, never shy about exposing their breasts to anyone wanting to see. They were different in the respect, however, that they didn t wait for someone to throw them a string of twenty-five cent beads before bearing all. They just did it for the pure fun and thrill of it. As for the bikes themselves, Peyton had skinned many a knee and suffered a lot of road rash during his teenage years. The benefit was that he could assemble or teardown almost any model, if given the time and tools. When he switched on the big overhead fluorescents, he found the Wide Glide wasn t as shiny as he d first thought. A film of dust overlay the paint and the chrome was in desperate need of polishing. He looked at the tires, expecting to see them dry-rotted; there was no telling the last time Mack had taken the Hog out for a little ride. That s the way it went; you work all your life to afford the things you want and then find yourself too old, too tired, to enjoy them they way they were meant to be enjoyed. Therefore, instead of doing it half-assed, you just don t do it at all. The tires didn t look bad. They might still have a few miles left on them. Just like that kid on Christmas morning, Peyton started a mental game of thinking of all the fun stuff he could do with the new toy. He

had to stop himself. It wasn t his toy, was it? The Wide Glide was his uncle s and even though Mack had said that the boat had been checked out and gassed up obviously an invitation, right. and that the whole

place was his for as long as he needed it wasn t that what Mack had said, as long as he needed it? that certainly went for everything

didn t it. Still, Peyton was a little unsure of Mack s meaning. Did the courteous invitation extend to the bike? Did it give Peyton the right to 56 Keith Latch roll up his sleeves and tinker with the thing, to get it road worthy? Surely it did. It was his uncle s for Christ sakes, his father s brother and wasn t blood thicker than water and all that jazz. Surely, Mack wouldn t mind. After all, when Mack had said the whole place was his for as long as he needed it that need part still shook him up for reasons he didn t yet know. Was he that bad off; that sullen and that sad that he needed anything? Worse, could people see it in him, hear it in his voice? Thoughts like that were not friendly shores. Back to the matter at hand. Wasn t the motorcycle just a thing, just an inanimate object? Peyton couldn t remember having such a hard time deciding whether to use the toilet paper after his monumental early morning bowel movements; or the six scoops of Community coffee to each pot; or sleeping on his aunt and uncle s bed linen; or even the Mossberg last night. Should this be any different? Probably so, Peyton decided, but who really gives a damn? After making the decision to say the hell with the consequences and begin getting the Harley back in shape, Peyton couldn t help but feeling

slightly uplifted, as if the very act of doing something was so beneficial to his soul that just deciding to do something began closing wounds from the word go. Therefore, since the verdict had been delivered that he would try and restore this beautiful machine to optimal performance, Peyton began. He checked the flaming fuel tank and found a small amount of gas still in residence. From underneath a workbench he withdrew a round oil pan and a length of rubber tubing. With a pair of needle nose pliers he gripped the clamp that secured the fuel line that led from the petcock to the carburetor, placed the rubber tubing on and turned the small thumb-sized lever on the petcock to the open position. Almost immediately old, foul-smelling gasoline flowed through the line and spurted out into the oil pan. When the tank was empty, he removed the drain line and, with rusted ability, removed the tank from the frame. Using a handful of rags as a cushion to prevent damage to the paintjob, he placed the tank right side up between two sawhorses from the smaller shed. Then, after searching for a good fifteen minutes, he found a bottle of carburetor cleaner and filled a fourth of the tank with it. With gas reserved for the speedboat, he filled it on up. He placed the lid on the tank and picked it A Ghost Story 57 up. Holding the tank at chest-level he shook it vigorously, at least until his sore ribs decided that they d had enough. He gingerly placed the tank back on its bed of rags on the sawhorses. He went to work pulling the carburetor. When he had the heart of the machine that s the term his dad had first used to describe the

carburetor s purpose, its similarity to the human organ plucked free, it took only two times of working the intake flap to see that the heart s internal workings were gummed up from the old gas. An empty drywall mud bucket was filled with cleaning fluid and the carburetor was submerged; sitting in the fluid would help loosen the muck but it would have to be rebuilt, its tiny pieces meticulously cleaned. Peyton had stepped out to drain the Fat Bob tank when he noticed that the sky had grown incredibly dark over the last few minutes. He decided that instead of starting on the rest of the repairs he d run into Ivy Springs to pick up the items he d need for an oil change. By the time he returned, hopefully the storm, if that were what to be, would ve passed. After moving the sawhorses and the tank back into the boathouse and locking everything behind him, he made it to the Wrangler just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. After a stop at AutoZone to pick the things up for the HarleyDavidson, Peyton decided to grab a quick bite before heading back to the lake house. He stopped in at the McDonald s and woofed down a garden salad. By the time he was back out on the 350 wishing he d went for the gold and ordered a double Quarter-Pounder or at least a Big Mac with fries, the storm was in full swing. Tall trees were nearly bent over and the power lines at the side of the road were swinging as if some invisible health nut was using them as jump ropes. Despite its awkward design and being notoriously top-heavy, the Jeep Wrangler handled well. Peyton wasn t very worried about his vehicle or his ability to control it. He was more worried about other drivers or the prospect of something fallen over onto the road.

Instead of listening to a CD in his Pioneer sound system, he had switched it over to satellite radio and was enjoying a good block of eighties hair band music. He was proud of his audio system. He didn t have any big Boom-Boom speakers or any of that other mumbo-jumbo like amps or equalizers, though. The deck, a moderately priced Pioneer system, was installed professionally and was rather sharp looking, or at least he thought so. Its LCD display was full color and it was both 58 Keith Latch satellite radio- and iPod-ready. He had a Pioneer Sirius Satellite Radio tuner installed in the back and wired in along with a Pioneer iPod car audio interface mounted in the glove compartment. At Peyton s immediate disposal were about twenty gigabytes of digital music on the Apple music player, 120 clear satellite stations, about a dozen or so local radio stations, and last, but not least, a binder of about one hundred CDs. With so much musical media coupled with the challenging act of navigating a top-heavy Jeep at a speed of about seventy miles per hour, it should have been next to impossible to become distracted by one s own thoughts. However, that was exactly what happened to Peyton Harper. It was the last day or, at least his last day in Glynco, Georgia. He was still dressed out in his navy blue sweats; the ones with the letters embroidered across the back and down the legs. He was outside the main administration building and he d just been told he should be on the next thing smoking out of the state. It was still all too fresh in his mind, too new to him to comprehend. In the blink of an eye, everything he d ever dreamed of had been

taken away. No. Not taken away, exactly. More like snatched. Taken is a word without sufficient emotion, a word that doesn t call to mind the swift ferocity of what had happened. Peyton looked up to the third floor window, to the office he d just left. He d entered with his whole future ahead of him and left with only the thoughts of what might have been. Such bittersweet thoughts they were, bittersweet to the point of easily causing stomach upset. That hadn t been the worse part. Oh, no. That wasn t the worst part by any stretch of reason. The bastard had been smiling! That no-good, unethical cocksucker had been smiling down at him from his ivory tower. Probably had a good laugh with his secretary about it just as soon as Peyton was out the door. Peyton had become so angry he thought his heart would burst at the seams. He would remember that smile until his dying day; there was no doubt about it. The memory of that fetid smugness, that sour, acidic smirk haunted him. Names may fade, dates may become lost to the passage of time, but the sight of that smile was as emblazoned on A Ghost Story 59 Peyton s brain as the Ten Commandments had surely been etched onto a stone. Bastard, Peyton said lowly but harshly. With his fist, he struck the roof of the Jeep. The man in the third floor window disappeared from Peyton s mind as he looked back to the road. A single headlight, weak but visible was

cutting into him from the side of the road. At first the lone light made him think of a motorcycle, then as he closed in he saw a light blue Volkswagen Beetle with more rust than paint, resting against a large pine, the side rumpled like wadded up paper. So, more like the man he used to be than the man he was now, Peyton halted the Jeep and jumped out into the raging storm. Chapter 9 ebecca Kent s first thought was that if an elephant played hopscotch on her skull it couldn t have conceivably caused any more pain in her head than she was now experiencing. Then she opened her eyes. Now that was real pain. The room was dim. Thank God for small favors. Her vision was fuzzy and it took her a few seconds to focus it to some degree of normalcy. Her throat was unbelievably parched. Well, well. There you are. The woman s voice startled Rebecca, but not as much as the jolt of white fire that shot up her neck when she moved her head to the side. She grunted uncontrollably. Easy, there. You need to take it easy, the voice said. Rebecca felt a hand patting her shoulder. Incredibly, there was no exaggerated pain associated with the contact only the normal pressure and barely that. W-Where am I? Rebecca almost didn t recognize her own voice. Why, you re in the hospital. No shit, Rebecca thought to herself and would ve probably said so

if speaking weren t such a hassle. Magnolia General, sweetheart. Room 3302, the voice continued. Delaney! How could she have forgotten about Delaney? Rebecca couldn t believe the girl had slipped her mind even for a nanosecond, especially at a time like this. What kind of mother am I? Then, finding the words, she asked, My daughter, where is she? Rebecca hoped that her words had come out coherent, if only to save from having to repeat them. Finally, the woman stepped into Rebecca s field of vision. She was much older than Rebecca had assumed. Wasn t that the thing about assuming? Assume made an ASS out of U and ME? Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it! Rebecca screamed in her mind. R A Ghost Story 61 It must be the drugs, she guessed, painkillers, no doubt, narcotic ones. Must be Morphine or Demerol. That s why she had forgotten to ask about Delaney. No. That was no excuse. Mothers remembered their daughters. No matter what, didn t they? Be it Morphine, Demerol, or crack cocaine. They remembered. The nurse, an elderly woman that looked like a refuge from a nursing home, was smiling. Smiling. You sadistic cunt! You evil, evil woman! You bad, bad woman, Rebecca screamed inside herself. Why are you smiling? She s right out in the waiting room, dear. As right as rain and as fine as a frog hair split twice. All understanding was lost to Rebecca.

Apparently, the nurse, Emma, if her gold-plated nametag could be trusted, realized this and continued. Your daughter s really okay. Not a scratch on her! Words came, but not easily. C-Can I see her? Of course you can, but only for a minute. It s getting late and you need your rest. If Rebecca Jane Kent, born and raised a devout Southern Baptist, had ever had a doubt of a God in heaven, she didn t now. When Delaney appeared at door of room 3302, Rebecca thought she was the most beautiful little girl that had ever lived and rightly so. Her dishwater blond hair was brushed straight and smooth. Though the underneath her eyes were red, no doubt from crying, the pristine jade green of her irises penetrated deep down into Rebecca, a place reserved only for those she loved. Ms. Patricia Webster, the head librarian of the Ivy Spring s library and Rebecca s boss, stood beside her, Delaney s hand lost in her own. Ms. Webster was in her fifties with bright white hair pulled back into a big bun. Her skin, rosy red, was flawless except for laugh lines around the corners of her mouth and her eyes. She was dressed in a long summer dress, a conservative brown with matching leather boots. Both Delaney and Patricia looked happy to find Rebecca awake. Rebecca was happy too; so happy, in fact, that when Delaney ran across the room and embraced Rebecca in a huge bear hug before Emma or Patricia could stop her that Rebecca merely gritted her teeth and absorbed the pain.

Oh, Becky, I love you, Delaney said while tears filled her eyes. 62 Keith Latch I love you too, baby girl, Rebecca said, trying her very best to restrain her own cries. She failed miserably. Over the next few minutes Patricia had done her very best to fill Rebecca in on the gap in her memory from the time of the accident until now. The car had apparently had a blow out on the front driver s side tire. When the tire exploded the car had went into a wild spin, the wet pavement no doubt a contributing factor. The rear of the Bug had knocked hard against a huge pine tree and the spin had stopped. Despite having worn her seatbelt, Rebecca received a serious blow to the head against the doorframe and the sudden stop had given her a bad case of whiplash. Then after the initial rush of adrenaline had passed and there was no imminent danger, Rebecca had blacked out. Incidentally, Delaney received no injuries, not even a scratch. The only damage done was the fear of Rebecca being hurt and then the worrying that accompanied her mother s unconsciousness. A passerby, a Good Samaritan, had spotted the Beetle and transported them both to the Magnolia Regional Emergency Room where Patricia, as being listed as Rebecca s emergency contact, was notified. The car had been towed away by a local garage and that was that. A concussion and a bad case of whiplash, but it could ve been worse. Much worse. For that, Rebecca was immensely grateful. Okay, that s enough for now, Emma said. She began ushering Patricia and Delaney out. Dr. Edmondson will be making rounds

about eight in the morning. If everything checks out you should be out of here, she said to Rebecca. Emma had both Patricia and Delaney to the door when the little girl went under an arm and bounded over to Rebecca s bed. I told you, Becky. I told you, she said excitedly. Confused, Rebecca said, Told me what, honey? The man, the man from my pictures. He s a good guy. Patricia and Rebecca, and even Emma looked at Delaney as if she were talking gibberish. What man, Delaney. You re not making sense. The man with the Jeep. The man I drew. He s the one that saved us. Rebecca swallowed hard. Don t you remember Becky? Rebecca didn t answer, but she did remember. Suddenly she was cold, too cold. A Ghost Story 63 As Nurse Emma escorted Delaney and Patricia from the room, Rebecca was overtaken by an odd thought, one that she didn t welcome. She and her daughter were in for something bad. How she knew this, she couldn t say. Again, it just might be the effects of the pain medication, but Rebecca didn t think so. Not at all. *** Patricia Webster lived alone on a nice, oak-lined street in the heart of residential downtown Ivy Springs. The house, a two-story, was neat and well cared for. It had been built around the beginning of the 1900 s. The site on which it now sat was a former Confederate stronghold during the Civil War. Patricia had researched the property s history

herself and petitioned for it to be added to the Civil War Historical Registry, which it had been ten years ago. That s where her heart and soul lay, in books and in history. Back in the days that Patricia Webster had been just another grade school student, she had excelled in every subject, though she could vaguely remember struggling through math and science courses. Her real talent had been in history and social studies. As a matter of fact, her dissertation for her doctorate in American History had been on the demise of the U.S.S. Commodore Jones, a former New York ferryboat that later became a Union gunboat which met with fate on the James River in 1864 due to a sophisticated Confederate electrical mine. Naval history, especially during the time of the Civil War, was the focus of the innumerable volumes that filled Patricia s study. Huge, hand-made mahogany bookshelves ran the length and height of three of the walls with the fourth reserved for a cherry curio cabinet filled with artifacts that she had either unearthed, or helped in their discovery. The house was a study in cleanliness and order. Patricia was not only the head librarian of the Ivy Springs library, but also the district chief with ten other counties under her management, which ate up a lot of her time. Whatever leisure time there was leftover was devoted to one historical endeavor or another. Therefore, to keep the house so clean and organized she enlisted the aid of a housekeeper. The study, however, was off limits to anyone without Patricia being present. She admitted that she could be a little eccentric when it came to her 64 Keith Latch collection, as she called it, but it was her house and she would do as she

saw fit. Michael O Riley, a tall, wide man with a craggy face and wild red hair a testament to his not-so-distant Irish ancestry without a speck of gray, sat at an antique roll-top desk with his back to the door as Patricia walked into the study. A larger desk, actually the chart table of an old shipwreck, was sitting in the middle of the floor; it belonged to Patricia. Michael was in his mid-fifties. Patricia and Michael had been close friends and business partners on more than a few occasions. Born in the coastal city of Mobile Bay, Alabama to a successful ship-builder and an heiress to a fishing company fortune, Michael had been blessed with every opportunity to become a member of the executive board of his mother's corporation or maybe the CEO of his father s maritime empire. Instead, for all intents and purposes, he was a treasure hunter. With degrees from almost every Ivy League school in the country as well as a doctorate in oceanography from the Scripps Oceanic Institute in California, he was the closest equal to pure intellect that Patricia had ever come across. Still, true love had eluded the two. Michael, more of an adventurer than a lover, and Patricia more of a brain than a heart, the two had, in their wilder days, traipsed across the globe, he adding notches to his belt, as it was, and her, taking care of their two-person operation and attending to details while he was out chasing women. The two, however, did care for each other in a profound, unexplainable way. Just in from a flight from the Pacific Rim, by way of Memphis International and a Hertz rental car, he d stopped over in Ivy Springs on

his way to Muscle Shoals, Alabama to visit his youngest son, Thad, for his tenth birthday. Michael had just arrived when Patricia received the urgent call from Magnolia General. He sensed her enter the room and turned her way. He looked tired and haggard, but still the rugged good looks that he was famous for were still there. Everything okay? Then he noticed the little girl beside Patricia. Guess not. Michael, this is Delaney, she said to him while Delaney was busy trying to hide herself behind Patricia s legs. Her mother is a good friend of mine. She s staying the night. Michael, much more of a people person than Patricia could ever be, rose from the desk and moved towards them. When he was five or so A Ghost Story 65 feet away, he knelt down to one knee and spoke calmly to Delaney. Well, hello there, big girl. My name s Michael. But they call me Pirate Mike, he said and made the Arrrggg! sound that pirates in children s tales are famous. At first, Patricia thought Delaney would jump out of her skin. Rebecca had worked at the library for the last four years and she had come to know the little girl relatively well. The child had never taken to strangers never. Patricia had seen shy children before, but Delaney took the cake. Stop it, Michael. You re scaring her, Patricia scolded. C mon now, girlie. You ain t scared of an old pirate now are ye? Michael asked in his best pirate impersonation. Why I ve lost me parrot, Cluckie. You wouldn t have by chance seen him. He s a

beautiful bird, yellow and red and green, a beautiful bird as you has ever seen. Patricia braced herself for what she knew would come, crying. She didn t blame Michael, he was usually great with kids, but Delaney was different. She opened her mouth to speak, to scold Michael yet again, to put an end to what he thought was a harmless little game. Then something amazing happened. Delaney laughed. It was the sweet sound of children s laughter the world around, but it was still shocking. Out of three years Patricia didn t think she d heard the little girl laugh more than a couple of times and always those laughs had been dragged from her by Rebecca. Here she was laughing, well, more of a giggling really, but it meant the same thing. Arrrggg! You re a might pretty little thing. Would you like a ride on me ship, the Daydream? Yes, sir. I would, Delaney responded. Well then, missy, we ll be shoving off shortly. Soon as I finish me plunderin . Mind ye, you ll be manning the cannon. Ever done that before? Michael was pulling at his small red goatee. No, sir. Well, it ain t too hard, y see. I ll be showing you how. I m afraid it s time for you to cannonball on up to bed, Delaney, Patricia said. She immediately saw the disappointment on Delaney s sweet face. It couldn t be helped; it was going on midnight. 66 Keith Latch Michael saw it too. Well, missy, we must be mindin the lady, she

knows what she s talking about. We ll take that ride very soon. Alright? Okay, Delaney said in the deflated, exaggerated voice that kids, and some adults, are famous for when they don t get what they want. If Delaney s laughter and the fact that she talked to Michael were completely out-of-character for her, what happened next was groundbreaking. Michael, still knelt down, extended his hand to shake with Delaney. It looked as if she considered this for a second then emerged from behind Patricia s legs and wrapped her arms tight around Michael s neck. A few minutes later, as Patricia was tucking Delaney into the guestroom bed, Delaney asked her a question. Will Michael stay here tonight? Patricia always reminded the kindergarten and grammar school kids in the library s reading groups that she read for that honesty was the best policy. Even in this awkward situation, Patricia opted not to fib. Yes, yes he is, she said then added, Michael is a good friend, and he s got his own bedroom. I-I didn t mean that, Delaney blurted. Embarrassment was evident in her glowing cheeks. I just wanted to know if he was going to be here. Yes, he ll be here. Is that okay? Yes, ma am. I want him here. Patricia placed her hand on Delaney s head and ruffled her hair.

Do you like him, sweetie? I sure do, and he s a good guy. Yes, he s a nice guy. No, Ms. Webster. He s a good guy. Is there a difference, Delaney? Patricia asked. I don t know, but I know he s a good guy. Delaney seemed quite adamant about that. Did this have anything to do with what she d said to Rebecca as they d been leaving the hospital room? Just like she had said that the man that had picked them up on the side of the road? Well, how do you know? Patricia asked. She told me? Delaney whispered. She pulled the covers closer to her chin. A Ghost Story 67 Who s she? Your mother? Patricia asked. No, ma am. But I can t tell you. Please don t be mad at me. Patricia was about to tell her that of course she wouldn t be mad at her, but it was too late. She was out like a light. Sleep well, dear girl, Patricia said and gave Delaney s forehead a quick peck. *** Patricia and Michael sat matching leather wingback chairs facing a wall of framed photographs as they sipped Remy Martin. She was no lush, but Patricia fully understood the pleasures of good liquor. A good drink went a long way towards making the world seem logical and comprehensible. Michael, on the other hand, drank to get drunk; these days,

however, it took only a fraction as much to achieve the same results as in his wilder days. Patricia remembered fondly a time when the two of them had been anchored off a distant Australian island. The ship s captain, a fiery little Aussie with a chip on his shoulder the size of a small continent, had contracted a fever and had become bed-ridden. The only other member of the crew, Nowinke, a native African with very little in the way of English-speaking ability, had refused to stay aboard after the captain had gotten sick, having taken off in a small motorized launch for God knew where. Therefore, with an able ship but with no crew, Michael and Patricia had found themselves in the middle of the Indian Ocean with only their wits to guide them. This was in the days before the Global Positioning System and other technology would come along and greatly simplify the acts of sailing and navigation. Nevertheless, with luck and a good supply of Puerto Rican rum, the pair from the great American South had not only found their way to port but also retrieved a few sunken artifacts to boot. The artifacts value had been more than enough to justify the hardships they had been forced to endure. We were a lot younger then, Pat, Michael said. He was either reading her mind or enjoying his own personal reverie as his eyes washed over the pictures. Yes, Michael, we were. A lot younger. Tell me what s bothering you, he said. 68 Keith Latch She looked sharply at him. What do you mean? I m worried about Rebecca. She had, in detail, explained to Michael the circumstances

behind Delaney s stay. Yep, he said. I m sure you are. But there s something else. Isn t there? He knew her well, and she knew it. What was she to say? Well, actually, Michael, I m a little more worried about Delaney than I care to admit. Michael refilled their glasses as he said, The kid? You like her. Shit, Pat, there s no shame in that. I know that, Michael. It s just that that girl has had a hard go of it already. She went on to tell him of the death of Rebecca s husband. Finally, after a short period of silence, Michael said, That s got to be a tough little gal, Pat. I m sure she ll be fine. Patricia considered this. I know you re right, Michael. Just my heart getting into uncharted territory, I guess. I m sure she ll be fine, Patricia said. However, would she? Would she really?

Chapter 10 little more than forty-five minutes after Peyton Harper had stepped down from the steps of the porch of his Uncle Mack and Aunt Sue s lake house he stepped back up onto the porch. He d run a good five miles and was thoroughly soaked in thick sweat. His breathing was labored and his legs felt as if white-hot fire pokers had replaced his bones. Nevertheless, he felt good. Real good. He had neglected his daily routine for a little over three weeks, no

longer caring to keep it up. Besides hitting the weights at least three times a week, he did his best to make five miles a day. Peyton kept to this demanding schedule not just to keep in top physical shape for the performance of his duties, or former duties, as a state trooper, though that was certainly a benefit. Neither was he narcissistic and believed that he was God s gift to women. At age twenty-one, his doctor had told him that his cholesterol was reaching unbelievably high levels and that without strong medication and a strict diet that he was a prime candidate for a heart attack before he reached the ripe old age of thirty. His liver, he was told, produced more cholesterol than his body could manage and that if he took medicine for the rest of his life, he might and that was a big might avert heart disease. Peyton didn t like mights and decided that instead of becoming a slave to a pill, he would take matters into his own hands. Remarkably, within a year, his cholesterol level had drastically lowered and his doctor had remitted on his prescription order, for now. Peyton still had to have blood work completed every ninety days as a safety measure, but he much preferred this over mandatory doses of some drug. In addition to his exercise routine he also kept to a modified diet of low fat and high nutrition, which he d pretty much trashed at the Silver Spoon the other day. He did, however still afford himself some of life s A70 Keith Latch pleasures: an occasional drink, and more infrequently, a big, juicy steak, cooked rare.

All evidence of last night s storm was gone. As Peyton turned towards the sunrise and inhaled the good morning air, he saw that today promised to be beautiful. With the project of restoring the Harley ahead of him, he couldn t help but feel good about the day ahead. For the first time since being escorted off the grounds of the United States Marshals Service training academy, he had something to look forward. Even with the job of retooling the Wide Glide over the next couple of days, Peyton couldn t shake the events of last night. He thought it was more than a little ironic that the same woman that he d so inadvertently angered at the Silver Spoon for what she had (mistakenly?) taken as eye ogling and the woman in the wrecked car last night were the same. Even after a car accident, she was beautiful. That was probably bad for Peyton to think, but it was the truth, nonetheless. And the little girl. It was hard to believe that she didn t have a scratch on her. She didn t even seem scared, surely concerned for her mother, but not scared. Peyton remembered her intense green eyes. They were the clearest, brightest that he d ever seen. He d try to reassure her and comfort her as he d moved the woman from the car to the Jeep, careful of her neck. The little girl, Delaney she d said her name was, needed little comforting. She d seemed quite at ease with Peyton, though he didn t know why. He had never been good with children. He figured he lacked the patience or maybe he just didn t like them, pure and simple.

This little girl had been different. She had acted so grown up and composed, as Peyton had hauled ass to the hospital, breaking more traffic laws than he would care to remember. He d known adults that would have been put to shame by their behavior during such an incident. Of course, Peyton had already checked the woman s injuries before moving her and ascertained that there was little external damage. Maybe some sore areas and a concussion, but he couldn t tell if Delaney believed him or not when he d told her his diagnosis. It was if hell, it was if she already knew. It was a fruitcake idea, for sure, but Peyton couldn t shake it. A Ghost Story 71 Maybe a few hours working on the motorcycle and it would work itself out. That s usually the way it worked. The more he thought on something, the more its solution faded to him. But if he just went on thinking about different, unrelated things, then SMACK! The answer would come. He hoped it would be so this time. But she was a pretty little girl and sweet too. Not nearly as pretty as her mother, though. Maybe he should ve stuck around until she came to and introduced himself to her. Who knows? *** Peyton was just starting the coffeepot as he heard someone coming up the gravel drive. He made it to and out the front door as a familiar figure stepped out. Tall, lanky, and full of danger, Sheriff Dean Little had aged much since Peyton had last seen him. It took one look at his face for Peyton to see that the officer was here on official business.

Good morning, Sheriff, Peyton said from the doorway. With a wave of returned greeting, the sheriff mounted the stairs. He stepped to Peyton and held out his hand and said, Good morning, Peyton. Peyton took the old man s hand and shook it, surprised at the strength left in the man s grip. Hate to intrude on you. Don t be ridiculous, sir. You re always welcome here. Little removed his ten-gallon hat and wiped his brow. Apparently, the early morning was already hot to him. Care if I come inside. I think we need to have us a talk. Oh shit, Peyton thought, but said, Sure. How about a cup of coffee? That d be real nice, Little said in slow southern drawl. The sheriff wasn t one to beat around the bush. He d told Peyton that he d spoken with Deputy Nunley after his visit yesterday and the deputy had responded that Peyton was a hard-ass, but seemed like a decent enough guy. He also told Peyton that for some reason, Dexter Scruggs had taken an immense disliking to him. Peyton was floored to discover that the low-life thug was the mayor of Ivy Springs. When the sheriff told him that Scruggs was doing his best to finger him for the assault on Billy Whomper, Peyton almost lost it. 72 Keith Latch Now, now, settle down. You and I both know there s nothing to it, he said. But I would steer clear of the honorable Dexter Scruggs if I were you. Through gritted teeth, Peyton told the sheriff of his late-night visit from the honorable Scruggs and his cronies and the girl, Paula. If the

sheriff was the least bit surprised, he hid it uncannily well. See what I mean, was all he said. I heard you played the hero part last night. It had come out of nowhere and for a split-second Peyton couldn t think. Oh, you mean the car accident? Yeah. Saw the car off the road on my way home and stopped to check it out. But how did you know? The sheriff smiled. Small town, people talk, a lot. Usually about the things you d wish they wouldn t. You know her name? Peyton asked. Sure, don t you? No. She was unconscious and I failed to ask her daughter. Name s Rebecca Kent. Good girl, hands full with a lot of different jobs and her daughter. What happened to her husband? I m not one to air dirty laundry, Peyton. But I m sure you ll find out. Little raised his coffee mug and drained it. With a wave of his hand, he refused a fill-up. Thanks for your time. You be careful, now. Peyton stood as the sheriff did and walked him to the front door and they shook hands. One thing, Little said. Since I figure you ll go digging anyway, I suppose I would if I were you, despite my good advice, he paused for a big grin, the little girl Delaney, Peyton furnished. Yeah, that s it. Anyway, she s Scruggs s granddaughter. Derrick, Ms. Kent s former husband, was his son. So if you feel Cupid pulling back his bow, you be doubly careful, he said and was out the door.

I will, Peyton said. Little climbed into his official vehicle and cranked the engine. Sheriff Little was more of a myth than a man to Peyton. Anyone ever involved in any way with law enforcement, or crime for that matter, in the state of Mississippi had heard of the man. He was a modern-day version of Tennessee s Buford Pusser, with a little more finesse. Hell, he d have to, he d been sheriff for as long as Peyton could remember, and probably much longer than that. He recalled a A Ghost Story 73 conversation that his father and Mack had had one summer, years ago, after a bar-b-que at the lake house. Mack had said that Little had ice water for blood, and Peyton s father had quickly snapped, Hell, to have blood, ice water or not, that mean s you got a heart. That man is steel, through and through. Personally, Peyton thought the old law dog was a decent guy. Then again, he d never been on the business side of the man s revolver either. The telephone began to ring. Peyton was confused at first. Except for the two messages that had been on the machine when he d first arrived, he wasn t even sure the thing really worked. He moved to the wall-mounted extension. Hello, he said. Silence was the only response. Hello, he repeated, this time louder. Look, if this is some kind of joke, I can play too, he said and hung up the phone.

Peyton looked for the Caller ID screen, but didn t find one. Apparently, Uncle Mack didn t think the feature necessary. He replaced the phone back on its cradle and stomped off. He needed a shower, and a couple more cups of coffee and he d be ready to hit the Harley. *** Rebecca Kent held the phone in her hand. She was ashamed of herself for being so timid. After coaxing the name of the person that had delivered her and Delaney to the emergency room last night the information was required somewhere deep in the mountain of paperwork that had been necessary to admit her from a young, pimple-faced nurse s aide, she d been determined to call and thank the man. When he answered, she lost all nerve. She replaced the phone and pulled a phone book from the bedside drawer, cross-referencing the phone number to find a name, Mack Harper. Nevertheless, hadn t the name she d received from Howie, the nurse s aide, been Peyton. Maybe Mack was a first name, and he only went by Peyton. Hell, Mack could even be his father s name, or maybe even that of his significant other. 74 Keith Latch She was saved from the downward spiral of reasoning by a knock at her door. They d finished her release papers just minutes ago and already she was dressed and ready to split this joint. Could Patricia have made it this soon? When she d called Patricia had said she was on her way, but it had only been fifteen minutes ago, at the very most. Come in, she said.

The person that entered the room was not Patricia, nor a nurse making a last minute check on her. The person that stepped through the door immediately ignited anger in the very center of Rebecca s heart. What are you doing here? she asked. Now, now, Rebecca. Shouldn t a father-in-law be worried about you? You re not my father-in-law, Dexter. Never have been, never will be. Her words were venom-soaked. Well, I know I m not anymore technically, Rebecca. I am your daughter s grandfather. Ain t I? He stepped closer to where she sat on the bed. He was dressed in gray slacks, a bright blue button down, and red silk tie. He wore no jacket and his hair was slicked back. The cologne he wore was probably an expensive brand, but to her, he stank. How did you know I was here, Dexter? Well, I am the mayor, he said. He seemed to derive some secret satisfaction out of that. Okay, I ll accept that, she said in short, clipped words. Now, tell me what you want. He outstretched his arms and upturned his palms. What I ve always wanted. What any grandfather wants. To see his grandchild. A wolf in sheep s clothing, Rebecca thought. I ve already told you, I have no problem with supervised visitation at either my home or a public place. I WILL NOT BE TREATED LIKE A CRIMINAL IN FRONT OF MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD! he roared. The famous Scruggs

fury was never far from the surface. Despite herself, despite the relative safety that the hospital afforded, Rebecca felt incredibly intimidated. Still, she had never been one to back down either quickly or easily. As far as I m concerned, Dexter, you are a criminal. You just haven t been caught yet. His face reddened, but he didn t yell when he said, It s unfortunate for you, Rebecca, that you can t be persuaded to see reason. A Ghost Story 75 Oh, you mean like Judge Anderson, Rebecca retorted. When Dexter s son, Rebecca s husband, Derek, had been found murdered in cold blood out on some backcountry road, Dexter and his wife had petitioned Judge Harold Anderson for custody of Delaney. It is very rare for a child to be taken from their mother, especially when said mother cannot be found unfit. It had been no big surprise- though a relief to Rebecca just the same when Judge Anderson had ruled in Rebecca s favor. The good judge disappeared three days after the final ruling. Neither his whereabouts nor his body had yet to be discovered. Instead of denying the claim, Scruggs said, Exactly. It was that one word scared her more than anything did. She knew he meant it. Let me tell you one more thing, woman. This is my town, don t you forget that. I d hate to see your pretty little ass in water over your head. Oh, I m sorry. Did I interrupt anything? Patricia asked as she stepped through the door. She looked just like a mother walking into her daughter s room and finding a stranger harassing her, and then she

recognized Scruggs and her eyes turned hard and cold. All his constituents almost universally disliked Scruggs. He only won reelection because there was no opponent audacious enough or stupid enough to run against him. No. Both Rebecca and Scruggs answered in unison. I was just leaving, the mayor said. He walked to the door, but turned towards Rebecca before he took his exit. Now, you take heart in what I said, daughter-in-law, he said and winked. What was all that about? Patricia asked. Absolutely nothing, Rebecca answered. Where s Delaney? Believe it or not, she said she wanted to stay with Michael, Patricia said looking a little embarrassed. Michael? Oh, your oceanographer friend? Oceanographer? Yes, among other things. Anyway, she s taken quite a shine to him. He s got a pirate voice that she is positively taken with. Really? was all that Rebecca said. Delaney wasn t exactly the kind of child to take a shine to anyone new, pirate voice or not. She didn t press. She had much bigger things on her mind. Chapter 11 eyton was up to his elbows in grease and loving every minute of it. He hadn t thought of Sheriff Little, Dexter Scruggs, Delaney, or the woman from last night all morning. More importantly, though, he hadn t thought of the United States Marshal s Service, either. There had been days he would have swum in a sea of grease for that luxury.

Mack had a small stereo system tucked back in the corner and Peyton had brought in his CD binder. Rob Zombie s Living Dead Girl was playing in the background. He had changed the oil and transmission grease first thing and was now using an old toothbrush to clean the carburetor. He was satisfied with the way the cleaner had ate away the gummy substance that had attached itself to the carburetors innards and outtards. Once he was satisfied that the internal workings were spotless, he reassembled the housing and used a small precision screwdriver to adjust the jet, which would control fuel flow. Replacing the heart of the machine, however, proved more difficult than removing it. After a skinned knuckle or two and a stream of foul obscenities, he finally got it right. He spent about twenty minutes on the Fat Bob fuel tank and tightened it back onto the frame. After double-checking all connections and screws and bolts, making sure he hadn t overlooked anything, he came to the decisive moment. The Wide Glide was equipped with both an electric start and kickstart. His ribs were still paining him so he chose to try the electric start. After a near religious moment of silence, Peyton pressed the small black start button. The starter whined and the engine coughed, then fell silent. Shit, was all he could say. P A Ghost Story 77 Then he remembered something, walked around the bike, and turned the fuel supply to the ON position. He walked back around,

applied the choke, and once again pressed the start button. The starter whined and the engine coughed again, this time worthy of a terminal emphysema patient, then, like thunder on a summer day, erupted into life. The engine sounded weak. Peyton twisted the throttle. New gas made its way from the tank to the engine and the unique roar of a Harley-Davidson filled the small enclosure. Now, that s what I m talking about. Peyton grabbed a small, halfshell helmet from atop a workbench, with the motorcycle still running, leaned it up from its kickstand, and walked it outside into a blazing summer day. Taking time to lock up the shop, Peyton mounted the Harley and with legs still on the ground, he walked it around until it pointed towards the long gravel drive. He placed the helmet atop his head; with orange and red flames painted on sleek black, it matched the fuel tank perfectly. Peyton placed both hands on the tall, chopper-like handlebars. He revved the engine twice then slipped the machine into gear. The gravel felt loose under the tires, but Peyton quickly adapted. He made a smooth turn onto Willow Lane, the two-lane road that encircled the entirety of the lake, by leaning left. When he straightened the bike up, he twisted the throttle, gaining speed and switching gears. The wind whipped at his exposed ears. The helmet, a barely-legal version, only covered the very top of the head. Before long, he was up to sixty miles per hour. With the tires humming and the engine roaring, it felt like double that speed. For the first time in a very long time, Peyton felt free. Freedom was

a very good thing to feel. *** Chief Deputy Frank Delacorte had been married for the better part of twenty years and had fathered two children. Heather, a senior in high school, and Devin, an eighth-grader. Both thought their father was the best dad in the world. Cathy, his wife, knew better. Frank was many things, but good did not apply in any way. What he was talented at was keeping his bad habits very hush-hush. With the fear that he d put into 78 Keith Latch Cathy, she was almost as good at keeping her husband s secrets as he himself was. It was understood in Winchester County that once Dean Little stepped down as sheriff; Frank would gain that spot in a landslide election against any opposition. With a stint in the Marine Corps, and a distinguished career as a deputy, then as chief deputy to Little for most of a decade, he commanded plenty of respect from both his subordinates as well as the citizens of Winchester County. Frank was a big man, at six-feet-five-inches he towered over most men. His biceps were so large that his uniform shirts had to be specially tailored. He couldn t ever recall losing a fight, whether fair or otherwise. Chief Deputy Delacorte was also on the payroll of a prominent local criminal that just happened to be the mayor of the county seat of Winchester County, Ivy Springs. Dexter Scruggs paid very well. Well enough for Frank to buy a cabin up at Willow Lake. However, the money wasn t the best part. What really got Frank s goat were the

fringe benefits. Frank had what was called a wandering eye when it came to the women. When you re in good with Dexter Scruggs, you had many opportunities to do much more than look. Therefore, in a round about manner, that s how he found himself at his cabin, deep in the sheets with Paula Colton straddling him. Old Paula wasn t much too look at, especially when she was strung out, but she could fuck like a ten thousand dollar whore. There wasn t much this gal couldn t, or wouldn t, do and given enough physical motivation, there wasn t anything she wouldn t try. Apparently, Scruggs had given her enough nose candy to make her feel almost human, because she was screwing like a damned animal. A little later, when Delacorte had had enough of conventional sex, she covered him with Cool Whip and licked it off him while he took a pill from a prescription bottle and took a hit from his own coke stash. He wasn t as young as he used to be and if he needed a little help to keep it up, who gave a damn. Paula certainly wouldn t say anything, she knew better. So much as a snicker and Frank would knock her teeth down her throat. By the time the Cool Whip had been eaten away, the Viagra and cocaine mixture had done its job and Frank s tool was back in operation. A Ghost Story 79 Okay, babe, let s see your imitation of a Hoover. Later, as the fun of their meeting began to wane, Frank lifted himself from the sticky sheets and walked to the bathroom. You know, Paula called from the bed. I ve got a friend, Stacy

that just moved up from Jackson. Dexter said that if you pull this off, you and me can break her in real good. Frank, finished pissing, stuck his head out the bathroom. Tell him, it won t be a problem. I ll take care of it tonight. After a long, hot shower, Frank dried himself off and stepped back into the bedroom. Paula was gone as he figured she would be. He looked at his bag of coke on the nightstand and saw that it hadn t been touched. He knew that Scruggs kept his people on a tight leash. Then sadly, he wondered how tight the leash was on him. *** When Rebecca and Patricia arrived at Rebecca s house a powder blue 1965 Mustang was sitting in the short paved drive. Delaney and an older, redheaded man, who Rebecca took to be Michael O Riley, were sitting on the porch swing. Becky! Delaney exclaimed as she stepped out of the car. The girl ran down from the porch and gave her a big hug. I want you to meet Pirate Mike. He s the best, he really is. Delaney was happy and excited and Rebecca was proud. For too long, she d been not exactly sullen, but so low-keyed, much too much for an eight-year-old. Ma am, Michael said as they made their way to the porch. Despite his age and the wild red hair, he was an attractive man. Rebecca could feel a warmness emanating from him and she found herself immediately liking him. Well, we need to get going, Patricia said. Michael s got to head

over to Muscle Shoals today. Well, not exactly, Michael said. Rebecca couldn t help but hear a bit of sadness in his words. What do you mean, Michael? What about Thad s birthday? It seemed that Patricia had realized she was speaking of personal things after she had finished speaking. 80 Keith Latch Michael, however, didn t seem so shy about it. I talked to Blythe before I left your house. Looks like her and Thad s stepfather are at Disney World for his birthday. Patricia said, Oh, Michael, I m sorry. It s nothing, he said, but his heartbreak was evident. I d like to go to Disney World, Delaney blurted, obviously oblivious to anything else that was said. It was the icebreaker every one needed. Everyone had a good laugh, except for Delaney. She didn t see anything funny. Well, since no one has anything pressing, how about lunch? We really should get going, Patricia said. Yeah, you need your rest, Michael said. Nonsense. It s the least I could do for you both. Yeah, Pirate Mike, Delaney started then noticed the sharp look from her mother, I mean Mr. O Riley, you and Ms. Webster please stay. Pretty please. It s hard to turn down a pretty please, isn t it, Pat? It sure is, Patricia agreed. Then that settles it, Rebecca said, happy herself to have company.

*** The Wide Glide was handling great. Peyton felt like he owned the road, felt like he knew every contour, every curve, every turn of the asphalt as if it were wired into his consciousness. He d been riding for hours, how long, he didn t know. The bike had performed incredibly except for once, when it starting missing. A cursory inspection discovered a loose spark plug wire, but after tightening it back onto the plug, the engine hadn t missed again. The last time he d ridden a motorcycle had been at his father s funeral. His father, a highly decorated captain with the Mississippi Highway Patrol, had received a hero s funeral, but a large group of men in suits riding Harleys had replaced the cruisers that were supposed to lead the procession from the funeral home to the gravesite. Peyton had rode his father s 1973 Electra Glide. He had been barely old enough and stout enough to hold it up. Nevertheless, he did, very well, his mother had told him. A Ghost Story 81 He thought of his father now. However, it was happy memories. It was of all those days they had tinkered out in the garage, building and rebuilding Harleys. One day in particular came flooding back; they had been out on the lake in a small, flat-bottom fishing boat. When they came home with no fish but plenty of fish stories; of the Halloween when Peyton s mother had took a sewing needle to one of her husband s old uniforms and produced one of the most realistic costumes that Peyton s friends had ever seen at his seventh-grade costume party and the look on his father s face when Peyton had first

tried the costume on. I love you, dad, Peyton whispered. His voice, however, was absorbed by the wind as the Harley rocketed down the road. He was hungry and his stomach was beginning to growl, but he resigned himself to make one more loop around the lake before heading back. He was slowing for a big curve when he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was standing at the side of the road. A stark blue figure among the landscape. Her hair cascaded down, obscuring her face. In one glance, Peyton saw that she looked as if she was dripping wet. All of a sudden, without a warning of any kind, the Wide Glide fell out from beneath him, and Peyton found himself sliding across the asphalt. The bike had laid completely on its side, sparks showering from the side. Through the helmet, he felt the road the very one he thought he owned hammer him into unconsciousness. *** They d lunched on every leftover that Rebecca could dig from her fridge in good conscious; some of the bowls had been in there for a while and their contents probably wouldn t even resemble the food that they had once been. Delaney, full and drowsy, had fallen asleep on the couch as she listened to Michael tell fanciful stories about adventures around the globe. Rebecca and Patricia were washing and putting away the dishes in the kitchen.

She s really taken with him, hasn t she, Rebecca remarked. 82 Keith Latch You know, I knew he was good with kids, said Patricia. But it s like they ve been around each other for years. I wish he was as good with his own kids. Rebecca didn t know what to say to that, so she did the only intelligent thing, she said nothing. I meant to ask you something, Rebecca, Patricia said. Rebecca looked to her friend and boss. The tone of her voice had been sensitive, yet serious. Yes? Now, I want you to tell me if it s none of my business, okay. I promise no hard feelings. Rebecca considered this. Okay, shoot, she said. It s Delaney. Last night she mentioned something or started to, but I couldn t get her to finish. She was telling me about the man that picked you up last night and about Michael. She says she knows that they re good guys and that someone told her, but she wouldn t say whom, Patricia paused, swallowed hard, then somehow found the fortitude to continue. Now, I m not saying that there s anything wrong with that, you and I both know kids ll be kids, and I would never say anything different, it s just that Her dear friend was babbling, probably more out of concern for Rebecca s feelings than not actually being able to articulate her thoughts. Patricia Webster was one of, if not the, smartest and most articulate individuals that she d ever met. Why she wasn t some professor in some exclusive university or something along those lines

was beyond Rebecca s understanding. She felt embarrassed for Patricia and looked for a way to pull her friend from the hole that she had dug for herself, but she was a bit apprehensive to do so. After all, she was talking about her daughter. No matter how close they were, did that give her the right to ask questions about her daughter? After all Delaney had been through, what gave anyone the right, Rebecca included, to question Delaney s behavior. As even and as nonchalantly as she could, she said, She got scared last night. I m sure she s just trying to assign blame like we all do, but instead of something tangible or even likely like an adult would do, she s doing what she s best at, using her imagination. Patricia thought about this for a moment. Then, I m sure you re right, Rebecca. I just wanted you to know. A Ghost Story 83 I understand, she said, and she did understand, thankful for a friend like Patricia Webster. And I appreciate your concern. After a moment of awkward silence, Patricia said, We ll everything s cleaned up. I guess Michael and I should be going. You probably need some rest. I m giving you today and tomorrow as personal days, it won t count against your vacation time, Patricia stopped and waved away Rebecca s protests. I insist on it. Thank you, Rebecca said. I Delaney s scream cut her off in mid-sentence. It was a shriek of sheer terror and Rebecca burst from the kitchen, Patricia following close behind. Michael was on his way to the open front door. There was no sign of Delaney.

She s out there! Michael yelled as he passed through the door. By the time that Rebecca made it through the front door, Delaney had made it across the front yard and was closing on the road. Rebecca saw what her daughter was running to and yelled, Stop Delaney! Stop! The little girl paid no attention and kept pumping her small legs as they propelled her faster and faster. Delaney was running to someone; it looked like a man, who had laid his motorcycle, a big one, it looked like a Harley-Davidson, over on the road. The motorcycle was ten to fifteen feet farther down the road. The rider, facedown, wasn t stirring. Michael reached Delaney just as the child bent down to try to rouse the rider by tapping a shoulder. Rebecca kept running, she didn t know if Patricia was still behind her or not. The only thing that mattered was reaching Delaney. The yard had never seemed so impossibly big. Finally, she made it. Delaney was beating her fists against Michael s chest and yelling, Let me go! Let me go! Rebecca took her daughter, a look of sincere gratitude instantly recognizable across Michael s face. Instead of burying her head into her mother s chest and sobbing, Delaney beat her fists just as she d done with Michael. Let me go, let me go, Becky. Darling, stop it, let us see about him. Michael was already knelt down beside the rider, searching his neck for a pulse. He s alive, at least, he said. 84 Keith Latch

Delaney s teeth sank into Rebecca s arm like that of a piranha snagging lunch up and down the Amazon River. She howled in pain and Delaney dropped clear, ran to the rider, and with amazing strength, knocked Michael out of the way. Rebecca recovered quickly and dropped to her knees, pulling on both of Delaney s arms. Move, back, honey. He could be hurt bad. No! she screamed. He s okay. I know he is; he s got to be! Rebecca could not ever remember the little eight-year-old displaying so much vigor, such a degree of steel determination. It was if she was willing this person to be unharmed. Rebecca moved her daughter away as the man groaned she was close enough now to see that the rider was a man, the side of his face showing. He looked slightly familiar, vaguely so, if only by that small portion of his face that was revealed. He turned over and groaned more loudly. Are you okay? Patricia said from behind her. It was if Rebecca had temporarily lost her ability for speech. Y-yeah, he said, dragging the word out. Becky! It s him, the man from last night! Delaney screamed. Though it was impossible, Rebecca knew her daughter was right. *** Peyton Harper hadn t been sure that he had ever believed in God, in miracles, or in angels. Until now Now, there wasn t the shadow of a doubt.

The woman facing him was as good of evidence as Peyton could ever hope to find in all three. Haloed by the bright light of the sun, she was the most beautiful person he d ever laid eyes on. Her green eyes, deep as wells. She was almost too perfect. Maybe he d died and this was an angel welcoming him to the great beyond. Are you okay? a voice asked. It wasn t the angel talking to him. She kept preternaturally silent. Instead, the voice came from behind him. Surprising himself, he answered. His own voice sounded strange and weak. Y-yeah. A Ghost Story 85 Then he saw the little girl. Delaney. Wasn t that it? The girl from the wreck last night? He thought so, but right now, he felt too rattled to be sure of anything. He moved his head slightly and saw the four people surrounding him. Three adults, including the angel, and the child. The man, an older fellow with wild red hair, was bent down beside the angel, apparently surveying him for external injuries. A tall woman stood above them all. Dressed in tan slacks and a loose, airy blouse, she was looked to be in her late forties, but despite her head of full, white hair, which was pulled back, maintained a good measure of attractiveness. You think you can stand? the man asked. I-I m not sure, but only one way to find out, Peyton answered and despite the protests of the two women, the redheaded man helped him to his feet. His head felt fuzzy for a few seconds, and then cleared. Incredibly, he didn t think he was injured at all. Only his ribs bothered

him and they had never stopped doing so since the other night. What happened? The tall, white haired woman asked. I saw some , Peyton started the stopped. What had he saw? Did he really know? If he told these people what he d seen they d probably call for a straight jacket and a rubber room. Nevertheless, he had seen something, hadn t he? You saw what? the man asked. A deer, Peyton answered. I thought it was about to dart out in front of me. I tried swerving to miss it. Guess I swerved a little too much, he laughed. Then, My bike! Peyton broke gently away from the man s arm, which had helped support him, and started to the bike. Rebecca watched him go, and then looked down at Delaney. She was watching the man. A smile at least a mile wide was spread across her face. Michael helped the man raise the bike from the road. Rebecca, Patricia, and Delaney walked towards them. It s unbelievable, Michael said. I don t understand. I was going at least sixty when I swerved, the man said. What is it, Michael? Patricia asked. It s the bike, Pat, Michael said. There s not a scratch on her. But I, the man began then as if picking his words. I saw the metal scrape the asphalt. There were sparks. 86 Keith Latch Well, let s not stand here in the middle of the road and talk about it, Patricia said. Michael, let s help this young man get his motorbike

off the road. Oh, yes, of course. Michael gently eased the bike into neutral and he and Peyton pushed it gently off the road into Rebecca s drive. Oh, I m sorry. I must have lost my manners as well as my balance during that little slide, the rider said. My name s Peyton, Peyton Harper, he said to Michael and offered his hand. She was right! Rebecca thought. Delaney was right and I knew it! Rebecca hid her astonishment as best as she possibly could as introductions were made. When it was her turn, she boldly squared off with him and extended a hand. Hi. My name s Rebecca, Rebecca Kent, and I believe I owe you quite a lot of thanks, if Delaney here has her facts right. She was being much nicer than she had meant to be. True, she owed him a lot for possibly saving her life. Did that mean she had to flirt? Wasn t this the man that had become slack-jawed at her the other day at The Silver Spoon? Instead of answering her, Peyton looked down to Delaney and ruffled her hair. Then to Rebecca he said, In light of recent events, no thanks are necessary. But how about a cup of coffee, he smiled. At that moment, it seemed to her that Peyton Harper had a smile that could light up the dark side of the moon. Chapter 12 t took Rebecca Kent less than five minutes to understand that there was more than a smile to Peyton Harper. He was adorable; there was no denying that. Light brown hair like coffee with a generous helping of cream, dark brown puppy dog eyes, a

tall and thick, though well muscled, frame. He was like a big teddy bear. Yet, she could tell there was something much harsher than soft stuffing under this man s skin. He had an edge to him, a barely discernible aura of action and simmering aggression. When he smiled, as he had almost constantly done, all that was easily overlooked. Miss Kent, you make wonderful coffee, he said. Thank you. And it s Rebecca, I insist, she said. She saw Patricia shoot her a look. She was being overly friendly, she knew it, but she couldn t help herself. Patricia and Michael had obviously come to some kind of nonverbal agreement to stay as long as Peyton. It was kind, she thought, how they had so quickly taken them under their protective wing. She herself couldn t see how Peyton Harper could be a threat; he appeared so jovial, so high on life. They were in the living room. Rebecca and Patricia sat in overstuffed chairs while Michael and Peyton shared the large, matching sofa. With no shyness whatsoever, surprising to Rebecca, Delaney had plopped down between the two men and was silently enjoying their company. So, Peyton. Are you from Ivy Springs, or just visiting? Patricia asked. No, ma am. I m originally from Corinth, Peyton answered politely. My aunt and uncle have a summer house up here on the lake and I m borrowing it for a few weeks. Who s your uncle? Patricia asked quickly. She had now totally transformed from her role of protective Mother Hen to her Spanish

Inquisition faade. I 88 Keith Latch Uh, Mack Harper, ma am, Peyton answered, barely faltering. Mack, huh? Patricia asked. Met him a time or two. I know Sue much better. She s an exceptional educator. Thank you. I believe that s the best compliment I ve ever heard Patricia pay to anyone, Rebecca said to Peyton. Michael laughed; Patricia did not. I believe I ve heard your uncle s name. State policeman, isn t he? Michael asked. Yes, sir. He s a trooper. Is that what you do? Patricia asked. Excuse me? Is that what you do? Patricia repeated. Are you a policeman too? For the very first time, Rebecca saw Peyton falter completely and she couldn t bare it. That s enough of the twenty questions game, Patricia, she said and gave her friend a look that a blind man would have had no trouble in catching. Would anyone care for another cup of coffee? Peyton drained the last from his cup and stood. I should probably get going, he said and Rebecca felt her heart drop. I appreciate all of your help, he said to everyone. If I ever lay the bike over again, I hope it s around nice people like you all. Good meeting you, Pate, Michael said. He had an affectionate

way of shortening people s names. Rebecca had become Becky to him as well and Delaney was Dee. Peyton shook Michael s hand heartily and reached his hand out to Patricia. After only a moment s hesitation, she took and shook. Apparently, even Patricia was not invulnerable to the man s natural charm. Do you have to go, Mr. Harper? Delaney asked. Yes, ma am. I need to get home. But I appreciate your hospitality. He knelt down to her and extended his hand. She looked at it and then just like she d done Michael the night before, she jumped into his arms and squeezed him around the neck. Patricia and Michael weren t surprised, they d seen her similar behavior, but Rebecca couldn t believe it. Well, thank you, Delaney. I think that was the best hug I ve had in a real long time. A Ghost Story 89 Peyton stood and walked to Rebecca. Thanks for the coffee. Then he was gone. Rebecca heard the engine roar to life, heard it pick up speed on the road ahead, and then, finally, heard it fade in the distance. Seems like a nice guy, Michael said. Michael, every guy seems like a nice guy to you, don t they, Patricia said. Michael merely shrugged his shoulders. Rebecca said nothing, instead she was thinking of the man that had saved her life just the night before and the irony that fate would have him crash his motorcycle only feet from her front door step. Was it fate? On the other hand, was it something else?

*** Frank Delacorte was very pleased with himself. His job, as it was, was halfway over. He d set the necessary components into play. He would return tonight or tomorrow and wait the bastard out. Yep, he would be finished and done with this mess before too long and that would be very good with him. He wheeled his Crown Victoria cruiser into the parking lot of the Winchester County Sheriff s Office and parked in his reserved slot. He pulled himself from the car and slid his hand across the smooth, brown paint. At the edge of the hood, near the front of the car, painted in big black letters: Sheriff Dean Little. All of the marked vehicles proudly proclaimed Little as sheriff. One day, that would change. Frank couldn t wait. He was ready for the position and the power. True, Little allowed him to wield an incredible amount of power within the department, but Delacorte yearned for more, much more. He saw the top job in the sheriff s department as only a stepping-stone. With careful planning and exacting execution, he would be mayor. Wouldn t that be a hoot for old Dexter Scruggs? Of course, Scruggs would have to be dealt with, as would a few more that Frank could think of. They were people that knew too much about his affairs, his habits, about him, frankly. Evening, chief, someone said. Frank turned to see Deputy Kevin Nunley walking to his patrol car. Kevin, Frank said. He always called his subordinates by their given name. Frank felt it was good for them to believe he knew their names

and cared for their well-being. Heading out? 90 Keith Latch Yes, sir. I m pulling second-shift this rotation, he said. Every six months, what Nunley had referred to as a rotation was that deputies on patrol switched from first-, to second-, to third-shift. This had been Frank s idea and he believed it guarded against complacency. Besides their hours changing, their patrol routes alternated as well. If one deputy was ignoring something, perhaps the next wouldn t, or so the train of thought went. Despite his own behavior, Chief Deputy Frank Delacorte could not stomach a dirty cop. Watch your ass. It s a jungle out there, he called to Nunley. Don t I know it, Nunley responded before slamming shut the door of his car. Frank made his way in. He stopped and said hello to the receptionist/dispatcher, Megan Vickers. A pretty little thing but with a too-high opinion of herself. He met a few more people on his way back to his office, speaking to each one of them. A born politician he was. His office, a small and cramped room with one small window, was situated directly across the hall from that of the sheriff. The sheriff s door was closed, which more than likely meant that Little was out of the office. The man hardly closed his door when he was present and Frank couldn t remember whether his vehicle had been outside. Something about Dean Little made Frank nervous. He didn t know exactly what it was. Surely, Little had no way of knowing that Frank was working for Scruggs. If he did, Frank had no doubts that there would have been a confrontation. That s just the way the old man

operated. Straightforward and to the point. Frank deposited his hefty body behind his desk. Despite the small dimensions of his working area, Frank did his very best to keep the place neat and to have it appear respectable. He picked up his phone, dialed a number from memory, and waited for a response. Yeah? asked a too-familiar voice. This is Delacorte. Tell the boss man, the first stage is complete. Well! Good job, Frank. Me and Stacy can t wait to get our hands on you, Paula said. Frank hung up the phone. He still didn t understand why Scruggs allowed that whore to have so much responsibility. How could she be so trusted? A Ghost Story 91 Yep, when Frank was elected mayor, he d do a lot of things different. *** It was really too late in the day for a nap. A little rest did sound like a real good idea to Rebecca after Michael and Patricia had left. Delaney had apparently thought more of the idea. She d fallen asleep on the couch and had carried her to the bedroom Michael. At first, sleep had been elusive. Rebecca s mind was still reeling. Not only from her encounter with Peyton Harper, but also the sudden, complete change in Delaney. She was a good kid. No doubt about that. Nevertheless, she had always been a little withdrawn, a little shaky of people. It hadn t just

happened since her dad s death. Since infancy, Delaney had always been wary of strangers. Now, in the time it takes to say boo, she d bonded with two completely different and much-unknown people: Michael and Peyton. They both were incredibly friendly and showed nothing but absolute affection for Delaney, but when had that made a difference. Peyton. Between him and Delaney, she feared she wouldn t get moments sleep. Then, just as it always does, sleep came fast and unannounced. Devouring conscious thought and covering the world in a thick, black, velvet blanket. When she awoke, the sun was lowering. Deep red sunlight filtered through the drapes of her bedroom window. She was thirsty and stood from the bed. In her master bathroom, she filled a small paper cup with cool tap water. She drank it down and refilled it. Drank that one down. She was still a little groggy and could probably fall easily back to sleep. She thought she might check on Delaney before lying back down. She crept down the hallway, trying her best to be noiseless. If Delaney was sleeping, Rebecca didn t want to disturb her; she probably needed rest more than Rebecca did. Rebecca was stopped short. Delaney s bedroom door was cracked. From five feet away, Rebecca could hear the soft, low words. 92 Keith Latch Ghosts in the bone yard among the dead. Ghosts in the attic

over your head. Ghosts in the night Ghosts in the night Thoroughly freaked, Rebecca burst through the door. What she found was more unbelievable than those creepy words. Delaney, nestled under a thick comforter, was dead asleep, snoring lightly. Suddenly, Rebecca felt afraid. Very afraid. *** Delaney wasn t afraid at all, however, no, maybe a little nervous, maybe a tad bit jumpy, but definitely not afraid. It was dark in this dream that was the neatest, she thought, she knew she was dreaming not like the other times. They were in the woods, walking through thick underbrush. Elizabeth was close ahead. Strangely, Elizabeth hadn t said a word. Usually, she talked to Delaney in a calm, soothing voice. Delaney liked her a lot. Delaney didn t know much about ghosts, but the things she did know weren t good. Elizabeth wasn t like that at all. She was sweet and nice. She had told Delaney about Michael and about Peyton. She had said that they would save her. When Delaney had asked what she needed saving from, Elizabeth wouldn t tell her. The moonlight slithered through the leaves above like a silver serpent and made Elizabeth look strange. That wasn t nice, Delaney thought. You shouldn t think bad stuff about people. If Elizabeth was what she said she was and Delaney had no reason in the world to doubt her then she couldn t help it.

She turned. Delaney stopped in her tracks. We re almost there, Elizabeth said. It s spooky out here, Delaney answered. Are you scared? the ghost asked in her uniquely sublime voice. No. Not when you re with me. Nothing can happen to you in your dreams, Delaney. Do you believe that? Yes, she answered honestly. Good. We must keep moving. Stay close, the trail gets much worse before it gets better, but it won t be long now. A Ghost Story 93 Elizabeth disappeared behind the trunk of a huge pine. Though she believed Elizabeth when she had said nothing could happen in a dream, Delaney didn t care for the idea of becoming lost. Just as Elizabeth had said, the trail, if it could really be called that, thickened even more. Then, the trees, the bushes, and the vines parted like curtains. Soon they were on a huge cliff beside the lake. The moon was a big fat yellow ball hanging in a black sky. They were so close; Delaney thought she could almost reach out and touch it. Then she got worried. Elizabeth was crying. Delaney had never seen an adult cry before, not even Becky, not ever. Why did ghosts cry? What was there to cry about? Then she knew. Is this where it happened? Y know, where you became a a ghost? Delaney asked, suddenly not enjoying herself very

much. Elizabeth was crying loudly, and the sounds of the sobs made Delaney feel very sorry for her. She didn t want Elizabeth to be sad. Elizabeth was her friend. She didn t have many of those. Slowly, Elizabeth calmed down. She sniffed and wiped her wet hair from her eyes. By the full light of the moon, everything appeared bright and gray. In that, light Delaney thought that even as a ghost, Elizabeth was pretty. She probably looked like a princess before it happened. It being what ever caused her to be a ghost in the first place. Yes. My boyfriend, and me Jake, well, he was my fiance, were up here with each other. Do you know what fiance means? No, Delaney answered truthfully. We were supposed to be getting married soon. Oh, I see. Well, we drove up here to well, to have a look around. It was raining, storming badly. And we danced, danced in the rain. I like to dance, too, Delaney said. Elizabeth smiled. I did too, but I wasn t very good at it. Anyway, I got too close to the edge, and before I knew it, I fell. Elizabeth pointed to the nearby edge. Delaney stepped closer to see, but Elizabeth placed a hand on her shoulder, a very cold hand. Not too close, you might fall. 94 Keith Latch I thought you said nothing could happen in my dreams? Delaney asked. It s a long way down, and we have much to talk about.

Oh. Okay. That fall, that wasn t the worst part. Elizabeth paused. Delaney saw that she was having trouble going on. The little girl s own hand reached for, and took hers. After a squeeze from Delaney, Elizabeth continued. I was pregnant. I was so excited; I was having a baby of my own. Elizabeth looked down at Delaney, ruffled her hair, and said, But it never got to happen. I-I wish that I , It was then that Delaney started to shake. A not tremor because she was scared, not shivers as if she was cold. But actual shaking, like a rocking back and forth. What s happening? she asked Elizabeth. Don t go, Delaney. Not yet. What s going on? she asked again, her voice rising with her emotions. Don t Gooo! Elizabeth cried out, but Delaney was already too far away to hear. She was being lifted as she was being shaken. Pulled up into the big, black sky. Delaney, wake up. Wake up, baby, Becky was saying as Delaney opened her eyes. Thank goodness, she said when she that she was awake. Becky? Becky, why did you wake me up? Delaney asked in a very mature voice for an eight-year-old. You were talking in your sleep, honey. I thought you were having a nightmare.

No, Becky. It wasn t a nightmare. It was a good dream. Why did you have to wake me up? Delaney couldn t help it. Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes. *** You re still worried about Becky? he asked. Patricia sat in her office in the Ivy Springs City Library. She d neglected her work enough already and insisted over Michael s objections on going in for a few hours. Usually, library operation was A Ghost Story 95 not very exciting and routine. However, with Patricia being the district head her plate was most times full, and at times, overflowing. She not only monitored the inventory of the books, videos, bookson-tape, and audio books, but also insisted that the microfiche and the hard copy of all libraries selection of archived newspapers were kept meticulous, not too mention the accountability of numerous current periodicals. Also, a running log of overdue fines and fees, the coordination of adult literacy groups, children s reading groups, donation items, and benefit sales, and an ever changing roster of volunteer workers came across her desk more days than not. Mostly, her staff in this, and the other branches was most competent, some very high caliber organizers and managers, but everyone still loved to pass the buck. Patricia Webster was determined that the buck, however big and menacing, stopped with her. This determination was not born of fear of her supervisor in the capitol city of Jackson, just rather a sincere sense of pride in being able to handle the myriad problems that came at her in unyielding streams. Michael, however, could not quite understand how the life of a

librarian could stimulate her intellectually after her accomplishments. Still harder for him to understand was why she felt that she was needed so desperately at five o clock on a weekday. As always, he yielded to her and drove to her downtown house in his rented Mustang while Patricia went onto the library on State Street in her own car. Now, unable to find a messy catastrophe that she could singlehandedly unravel like Wonder Woman, Patricia had retreated to her office to call Michael. Yes, I am still worried, Michael, she answered. At least to some degree. Shouldn t I be? Now, Pat. I ve known you long enough to know better than to begin to tell you what or what not to worry about, he laughed. I d probably have better luck raising the Titanic with a pair of swim fins and a snorkel. What s your take on this Harper? Honestly. Like I said, and you made mention of, I believe, he s a nice enough guy, or seems so. We ve only just met him. You know Jeffery Dahmer s neighbors never had a bad thing to say about him before they found a supermarket of human organs in his Frigidaire. I thought it was a Whirlpool, Patricia interjected. 96 Keith Latch Hell, I can never keep up with appliance brands. You are going to be there when I get home? Even though it was an innocent enough question, it came out a little too needy for Patricia s taste. Without skipping a beat, Do you want me to be? Michael answered in the same tone reserved for twenty-something sweethearts

instead of decades-old friends. I was just asking because the cupboards are bare. I thought I could at least give you a meal for all your help. This sounded more like the tried and true Patricia. True to form, Michael rebounded as well. It probably is the least you could do. Seeing as how I went all out of my way for you. How about shrimp fettuccine and crme boulee with a nice chardonnay and perhaps a sweet wine to wash it down with? Mmmm, sounds mighty good. I love a beautiful woman with brains and astounding culinary ability. Patricia decided not to feed into the remark. I ll be there a little after seven. She hung up without an answer. It made her truly uncomfortable that Michael was becoming so cozy with her. Usually he was brash and tacky, and she believed that she preferred him that way. What was his angle? More importantly, didn t she feel just a tinge of attraction, down in the pit of her stomach? After all these years was it possible, was it probable? She didn t know. Nevertheless, she did know that her stomach was fluttering as if a whole community of butterflies had set up residence. Chapter 13 nstead of heading home after leaving Rebecca Kent s house, Peyton instead took Willow Lane until it met Highway 350 and rode the Harley to Highway 27 instead of into Ivy Springs. Within fifteen minutes, he passed from Winchester County, Mississippi into Alabama.

He passed a few houses and a couple of liquor stores. He pulled in at a mom-and-pop gas station and filled the tank of the bike, flirted with the not unattractive female cashier, and headed back out on the road. The day was fading and the sky becoming an awe-inspiring combination of salmon, purple, and crimson. Still he rode. The vibration of the engine against the seat had long ago numbed Peyton s underside, but he didn t care. He had his eye to the horizon and he didn t care to where that horizon took him only that it was somewhere other than where he was right then. Somewhere different, somewhere new. It wasn t long before he entered Sheffield, Alabama. He took a left and cruised his way into Muscle Shoals. He crossed the Wilson Damn into Florence and stopped at a decent looking steakhouse. The place wasn t full, and it wasn t empty. Just a comfortable family-oriented crowd enjoying their meals. After an hour-and-a-half jarring motorcycle ride, however, Peyton decided to hit the men s room instead of gawking at the people eating their food. The restroom was located nearby and Peyton entered a surprisingly clean lavatory smelling vaguely of a peach-scented air freshener. He noticed that besides him, the restroom was empty. He did his business at a urinal and zipped up. The soap dispenser spurted a citrus-smelling soap into his hands and he cupped them under the sink s spray and scrubbed them thoroughly.

I 98 Keith Latch When he looked in the mirror, he almost fell to the floor. It was the face of a woman.

He knew it was the woman that had been standing at the side of the road when the Wide Glide had fallen out from underneath him this afternoon. His senses were running a triple play with his brain. He looked behind him, but nothing was there. Shit, he murmured to himself. He turned back to the mirror expecting to see a frazzled image of him. She was still there. Her face, a bluish-white with dark, half-moon circles beneath her eyes. Her hair, stringy and dripping wet. She was young and if she didn t look so incredibly dreadful, she could have looked like a teenage girl at any high school in the country. She opened her mouth to speak, but Peyton didn t believe he wanted to her what this crazy apparition had to say. He twirled on the balls of his feet and thrust himself at the door. Just at that moment, an obese man with a buzz-cut and dressed like a Bible salesman had decided to enter the men s room. What in the world? he asked in a voice much too high pitched for his healthy frame. Sorry, Peyton said, but didn t hang around to see if his apology was accepted. He didn t stop until he reached the Harley, and only

long, enough to mount the machine, put on his helmet, and fire the bike to life. He pulled out onto the road without looking for oncoming traffic. He gassed the throttle and was a good ten miles away before his heart stopped beating against his chest like rock hammer. *** Your talents never cease to amaze me, my dear, Michael said after wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. Patricia had, with very little assistance from Michael, prepared the entire meal. She had selected a Californian chardonnay for the meal and he had drunk it without complaint. That was a true testament to his improved manners. Usually, wine and beer held not only little A Ghost Story 99 attraction for Michael O Riley, but were also objects of ridicule. He preferred much stouter concoctions for his thirst. The shrimp in the fettuccine tastes extremely fresh, where d you come across it? Michael asked. Patricia didn t answer, but only stared into her wine glass. Hello, Michael said rapping his knuckles on the table for effect. Earth to Pat, please come in. She looked up at him and to his utter astonishment; tears were streaming from her eyes. If anyone had thought that since hitting mid-life Michael O Riley s reaction time had suffered, they would have had a much different opinion when and if they d seen him spring from his chair and sprint the length of the long formal dining room towards Patricia.

Don t, Patricia protested, turning away from him. My God, Pat. What s the matter? He placed a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. Don t, Michael. Please don t. Tell me what s wrong. Please! Maybe I can help. This elicited a harsh laugh from Patricia. Help? How could you possibly? she demanded. The tone of her voice shocked Michael. He was not one to back down easily, but he knew the beginnings of fire in Patricia Webster when he saw it. Still, nothing could have prepared him for what came next. She turned back to face him. How could you help, Michael? It s you. You re the problem, she said. All these years I ve watched you swash-buckle from one woman to another like they were just another artifact on the bottom of the ocean, or perhaps not even that. Maybe they weren t even that important to you. You damned Irish bastard! You come to my house, to my home, after so much time and you flirt with me, as if I m fool enough to fall for your charms. And why? So I can wake up alone, with no idea where you went to or when, or even if, you plan to come back? Pat don t, he pleaded. You think I m just another ship passing in the night? You getting a little old for the wild women of the world? Thought you might get a few licks in while you were in town, was that it? Michael O Riley, the real-life Indiana Jones getting long in the tooth? How could you even 100 Keith Latch

begin to think I d be that easy? I know a lot about men. I ve learned all ever I needed to know from you, you limey asshole. I would I would never You know what? I think it s time you left. I m sure you can find a vacancy at a motel, or maybe even a nice little young thing at a bar. It s not that late yet. The room fell to a silence; even Patricia s ragged breathing sounded hushed against it. Hoping she was finished, Michael did the only thing he could. He kissed her. Softly at first, tender and gentle. When the kiss was through: You and I have made a lot of important discoveries, found things most people said were unfindable, explored this crazy, tragic, and beautiful world, done a lot of great things, Michael said, almost breathless from the kissing. He took her hands and pulled her up from her chair. She reacted like a zombie, she was his to control, and they both knew it. But what we re about to do is much more important. With that, Michael O Riley lifted Patricia Webster into his arms, mounted the stairs, and carried her to her bedroom. *** Dexter Scruggs pulled into the garage and killed the Yukon s engine. From the glove compartment, he withdrew a small bottle of Old Spice and dabbed a small amount around his neck. Not too much, that would be a sure sign, but just enough. Just enough to cover Vickie Jennings s perfume.

Not that he didn t like her scent on him. It was pleasant; a ridiculously expensive brand that he bought for her on one occasion or another. He just didn t want Margaret to smell it. Poor Margaret. She had not been the same since Derek s death. She had sort of fell into herself. Nothing much mattered to her. Dexter hated to admit it, but he probably didn t mean very much to her anymore, either. So, why did he continue to go to such lengths as carrying extra cologne in his truck, having his cell phone bill sent to his office, and a million other cover-ups? Because, despite it all, she was still his wife. He loved her. A Ghost Story 101 He took a quick glance in the mirror. He turned his face side to side and checked his hair, making sure it was slicked back in his usual fashion. That damn Vickie, he thought. He still remembered her touch, her mouth finding his sensitive spots, and his, finding her sweet ones. She was too young to be as experienced as Paula Colton, her sexual prowess nowhere near as sophisticated, but what Vickie lacked in experience and practiced skill, she more than made up in youth, beauty, and willingness. The very thought of her creamy white ass sliding across the sheets of the Ramada Inn caused a definite stir in him. If nonstop fucking were ever accepted as an Olympic Sport, the gal would definitely be a contender for a gold medal. Maybe with a little more time, she could even replace Paula as his go between himself and his associates that he preferred to not directly

associate. Unfortunately, Vickie didn t share Paula s drug habit. Vickie s only true vice besides extramarital sex she was in her second year of marriage to a factory worker that had no idea as to the scope of his wife s erotic appetite was her almost primal need for money. She craved cash as if it was food or drink, or cocaine. Moreover, Dexter had plenty to give her. She liked name brand perfume, designer clothes, and sparkling jewelry. No, she more than liked it; she hungered for it. As long as she behaved, Dexter would continue to give it to her, for a while. When she was ready, however, she would have to be taught discipline, Scruggs style. Dexter stepped out of the SUV, walked to the door leading from the garage into the house, and hesitated. He hated this. He hated to come home. It was silly and irrational, but that did change a thing. He inhaled deeply and plunged his key into the door lock, disengaged the mechanism and walked in. The kitchen was dark and silent. He found the living room much the same way. The television had been left on a low volume. Instead of taking the stairs up to his bedroom, he walked down the hallway to Margaret s room. The door was cracked and a slice of light could be seen. He almost knocked, but thought better of it. Damn it, it was his house, after all, wasn t it. 102 Keith Latch Mr. Scruggs? It was the voice of Greta Finds; apparently, she had heard his footsteps. Greta, a registered nurse, provided around-the-

clock care for Margaret. Dexter s wife had been diagnosed a month after Derek s death with bone cancer. The painful disease had quickly worsened, and Dexter couldn t help but wonder if it was because of the depression brought on by her son s untimely passing instead of the inadequacy of modern medicine. Not that it mattered much. The results were the same. Soon, his Margaret would be gone too. Dexter tolerated Greta and she did much the same. Neither had very much for the other, and that was understood. Still, they were civil, and on some occasions even polite. Dexter knew that Greta cared for Margaret very deeply; she had been the nurse s science teacher in high school and had taken the overweight, homely looking girl under a protective wing. It was a debt Greta believed that she could never repay. Too bad, she never blossomed, Dexter thought, it would have been nice to have a hottie around the house 24/7. Yes, it s me, Greta, he answered as he stepped into the room. This downstairs guest room had been converted to hold Margaret s hospital-bed, several intravenous trees, and monitoring equipment. Greta had small cot and personal items set up in a far corner. Presently, Greta sat in a straight-backed chair facing Margaret. Often, people asleep tended to look peaceful, maybe even serene. Not so with his wife. Instead, a twisted face showed the agony she felt even under heavy painkillers and the blanket of slumber. How has she been? he asked Greta. Not very good, I m afraid, sir, she answered. I had to call in

Doctor Matthews earlier toady; she was in a great deal of pain. Damn it! Why didn t you call me? he roared. Mr. Scruggs, I tried. You were out of the office and your cell was turned off. Dexter wanted to yell and to scream at her, but what she had said was true. He hadn t wanted any interruptions while he drilled that buttery, snow-white ass of Vickie s. Dexter willed himself calm again. What did he say? If she makes it another week, it will be a true miracle, she said solemnly. A Ghost Story 103 They ve said that before, he said. In truth, he believed it. She had gotten worse and worse. Death would have to be a relief to her. He didn t think he would take it too very well at all. They had been married many years, and he feared that he depended on her just being there for him more than he would realize until she was gone. Dex-ter, Margaret said weakly. Immediately, he went to her side. It s me. I m here, Margaret. Doc says I m going. Don t you even talk like that? You ve got plenty of life left in you. He didn t know whom he was trying to convince, her, or himself. I only want one thing, she said. Her voice was weakening with each word. It was now merely a whisper. Dexter had to bring his ear to her mouth. Anything, Margaret, anything, he said and he meant it. I want Delaney. I want my granddaughter, she said. Before I go,

I want to know that she s back where she belongs. I want her home Then she was asleep, her breathing heavy and rough. Dexter didn t even have to think about it. He would deliver the child to Margaret; one way or another, regardless of the consequences or ramifications even if it was the last thing that he would ever do. *** Dean Little had also just arrived home. The house, old and in need of a multitude of minor structural repairs, had been home to the Littles for thirty-two years. Dean was damned proud of it. A two-story, fourbedroom; it offered all the space that Dean and his wife, Nadine, would ever need. Dean had, back before being elected sheriff and still having that luxury that some called leisure time, constructed a workshop outback of the same washed brick that the house had been built. He d come in and, as was his custom, walked up to Nadine, who was fast at work shelling peas at the kitchen counter. Evenin dear, he said after the peck on the cheek. Regardless of time s unyielding march, Nadine was as beautiful to Dean as the day they d met. Perhaps it was love that had made him blind, perhaps it was just cataracts. It didn t matter. He loved her more and more each day. Their marriage had never been ideal; life with a police officer would not and could not ever be ideal. Still Nadine had 104 Keith Latch stuck with him through thick and thin. For that, he was eternally grateful. How was work today, Sheriff? Nadine asked, turning. Her hair, once a startling blonde had turned gray, but her eyes, a soft hazel, were as clear as the day of their vows.

Dean didn t answer but peered over her shoulder at the peas. Purple hulls? Yes, sir. Purple hull peas were Dean s favorites. He much preferred them to black-eyed peas. A little ketchup and a dab of Louisiana Hot Sauce and they were about the best thing he d ever eaten, besides a T-bone, of course with ketchup and hot sauce. I m starved, Dean said. What s for dinner? He noticed the pots and pans on the stove, all covered. The smell was tantalizing but he couldn t place it. Go on up and get that darned uniform off and you ll find out, Nadine said, teasing. Hey, I thought I was the sheriff around here, Dean said as he wrapped his arms lovingly around her. You might be the sheriff, Sheriff. But this here is my kitchen. She accepted his embrace. Alright, I m going to grab a quick shower, he said. He started away then stopped at the stove. He reached down for the lid of the pan cover. Ouch! He looked up at Nadine, a large wooden spoon in her hand. No cheating, she said then smiled. Yes, ma am. He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He had already started up the stairs before the object on the sofa caught his eye. He stared when he realized what it was. He swallowed once, and took light, almost silent steps toward it.

It was faux leather and lined in gold threading. A family photo album, the kind they hardly sell anymore. Now, with digital photos and picture CDs, photo albums were almost an antiquity. Years ago, Dean and Nadine had made countless photographs; Polaroids and 35mm. Family vacations, holidays, birthdays, picnics, and every other occasion beyond mention. Dean was not the kind of person that liked his picture taken. Nadine, despite her attractiveness, much preferred acting as photographer than as the photographed. A Ghost Story 105 Dean also recognized which album was lying open. He knew. Over the years, he had resisted its almost supernatural temptation. They had both, Nadine and he, made a pact that it should be preserved, but not viewed. The wounds still ran too deep. Now that it was so close, so open, he felt the pull that he had felt on so many occasions, on so many desperately, sickeningly lonely occasions. The loss of a child is a wound that could never heal. Dean had almost come to accept that. Almost. Oh, Elizabeth, he muttered. Before he realized it, he was holding the album in his hands. For such a significant thing, it wasn t as heavy as one would think. The year she died, he d held it in his hands many times. He had yet to open it. Not since the week after her death, had his vision touched the pictures inside. The pictures were of his daughter, Elizabeth, of times immeasurably happier. With little effort, Dean s old, arthritic fingers parted the covers. A

slight smell of must, and mild mildew escaped in a small wisp of air. His eyes fell on the picture of Elizabeth on a long ago Easter. She was perhaps eight, maybe a little older; for the life of him, Dean couldn t remember exactly. She was dressed in a delicate white dress with frilly lace running along its edges. She had both her mother s hair and hazel eyes. They had just left church, Dean could remember that much, anyway. They were outside in the backyard and Elizabeth had begged to hunt eggs before eating lunch, and with a rare display of affection for his daughter, Dean had allowed her to do so. That was the thing that haunted him the most. Dean had loved his little girl, no doubt of that, but he had had no experience with children, especially when it came to little girls. He reared her with equal doses discipline and responsibility. He only hoped that she knew before what happened that night that he loved her so very much. More than Nadine, more than himself, more than anything. If he only had it to do over again. But that was life, wasn t it, no second chances. Dean felt a searing hot tear leak from his eye and trace its way down his cheek. He was reaching to wipe it away when Nadine walked out of the kitchen and into the room. 106 Keith Latch Dean? I thought that was you I heard in . Her voice died as she saw the album in his hands. Her face turned grim. W-Where did you get that? she demanded. It was here on the sofa. I thought you d left it out.

She came to him swiftly, her face paling with each step. She looked down at the large brown book. Dean took the look on her face as amazement and he started getting confused. What Nadine was about to say, instead of clarifying anything for him, would only add, infinitely, to his confusion? I-I burned this, Dean! she shouted. He had not seen his wife like this in a very long time. Maybe not since the night, he d had to be the one to tell her that her only child had drowned, her body lost forever to the dark fathoms. I burned it, she repeated, but she was not shouting. It almost sounding like Nadine was pleading. On her birthday last year. She said nothing else. She fell to the floor at Dean s feet in an unabashed fit of sobbing. Dean s hands quivered, the album shook in his grip. He didn t feel like crying, however. No, he felt like screaming and if he couldn t get a grip on his fleeting sanity, he feared he just might. Chapter 14 t was crazy and what made it worse was that she knew it. It was almost ten o clock. Delaney was already up past her bedtime. For the moment Rebecca couldn t handle letting her go back to sleep. She herself didn t much like the thought of the dreams that were waiting for her on the dark side of consciousness. After waking Delaney from what Rebecca had thought had been a nightmare, she d brought the girl into her office. While Rebecca attempted to do some work that had been neglected for too long on a rock station s website, Delaney had started drawing again in her notepad. While Rebecca was installing links for some new release

albums and streaming audio samples to the top twenty, Kenny Chesney sang about Tiki bars. Currently, Delaney was infatuated with the country singer. At least she had been. Right now, she was as focused on the sheet of paper in front of her as Rebecca had ever seen her. Suddenly work didn t hold an inkling of appeal for Rebecca. She needed to get out of the house, and she felt that Delaney did as well. Hey, sugar. You want to go out? Rebecca asked. Delaney kept working with the crayon in her hand, paying Rebecca no attention. Rebecca got up from her chair at the desk, a very comfortable swivel, and went to Delaney. You wanna go see Peyton? she asked. Immediately, Delaney dropped the crayon. She turned to look at Rebecca. Really? she asked, smiling. *** Peyton had only just returned from his ride when, as he zapped a cold cup of coffee in the microwave, he heard a vehicle making its way I 108 Keith Latch up the gravel drive. The coffee temporarily forgotten, he made his way to the front of the house and saw a yellow taxicab pulling in. He was surprised, to say the very least, when not only Rebecca Kent but also Delaney, extracted themselves from the car. He saw Rebecca look around almost apprehensively, as if she were making a profound mistake. Taking that as his cue, he opened the door and stepped out on the front porch.

She saw him immediately. Giving a sly smile, she said, I hope you don t mind company. No. Not a bit, Peyton answered. In truth, he was still more shaken than he cared to admit about the mirror-thing. That s what he thought of it as: a mirror-thing. Perhaps nothing, more than the combination of frayed nerves and dirty glass, maybe something else. Whatever it was, it was now far away. Rebecca Kent, however, was right here. That was fine, very fine, in fact, with him. Come on in, he said waving them in. Delaney rushed towards him and was up the steps before her Rebecca had finished paying the driver. Peyton noticed that she was hugging a box of crayons and a sketchpad close to her. You like to draw? he asked. Yes, sir. Very much, she answered sweetly. Enough with that sir stuff okay. You make me feel old. I thought you were old, she giggled. Rebecca joined them on the porch. Haven t got our car back yet? he asked. The guy at the garage isn t very optimistic. Guess the old bug was on her last leg, anyway. Peyton ushered them in. The place was tidy, but that was in no part to due to him. He had not cleaned since he d been here. He was now feeling the first stirrings of nervousness. He was not that experienced in entertaining, especially when those to be entertained were a drop-dead gorgeous woman and an eight-year-old kid. I believe the television works. Though, I can t swear it, I haven t

tried it out yet, he said more to Delaney than to Rebecca. Not much for the boob tube? Rebecca asked. No, not here lately, he answered as he stepped over to it. He pressed the power button and was half-surprised to see a picture begin to appear. Delaney, like most kids, was immediately hypnotized by the A Ghost Story 109 glass teat and almost failed to grip the remote as Peyton located it and handed it to her. Thank you, she managed. Your welcome. Well, I think you ve earned you a friend for life, Rebecca said. Peyton laughed. Would you like something to drink? he asked, forcing himself into the role of good host. Coffee. If you have it. Sure, best in these parts. But it ll take a few minutes. Please, he gestured to the sofa. Have a seat. If it s all the same to you, I d like to help. Sure, he said. Then before leading the way into the kitchen, he flashed her that million-watt smile and suddenly she didn t feel so embarrassed about coming. There was something in that smile that said he was a decent guy, and that she had nothing to worry about now. As soon as they passed through the swinging door into the kitchen (out of reach of Delaney s hearing), she said, I hope its okay, she said, almost stammering. Okay?

Yeah. Us coming here. I just needed to be around an adult for a while, she said. Peyton scrutinized her, but only for a second. It s more than okay, he said seriously. But I m not too sure about the adult part. Peyton withdrew the coffee and a filter from the cupboard. Rebecca took it upon herself to fill the carafe. Cold water made better coffee; she had learned that from her innumerable shifts at the Silver Spoon. She handed the filled carafe to Peyton and he poured it into the back of the Mr. Coffee and switched it on. Would you like something to eat? No, thanks. The coffee will be fine. How are you feeling? he asked. Huh? From your accident. You re feeling alright? Oh, yes. A little stiff, especially in the neck, but other than that I m fine. What I m really proud of is that Delaney didn t get hurt. Yeah. Both of you were very lucky. How about you. Your crash? How are you feeling? 110 Keith Latch Remarkably, I feel fine. I don t know how, but I didn t get a scratch. I saw you favoring your right side earlier today. Peyton considered this for a moment. My ribs. Old injury. Flares up from time to time. They fell silent. They could hear cartoons from the television. Peyton grinned. SpongeBob SquarePants. Not my favorite.

I m more of a Daffy Duck fan myself. I was always a little partial to the Roadrunner. But Bugs Bunny was a close second, Peyton conceded. The coffee was brewing and for a while, they just enjoyed the aroma. Peyton had tilted his head back as if he was glad just to be here, which in fact, he was. Rebecca listened to the coffee drip with one ear and had the other trained towards the door just in case Delaney needed her. If they could have somehow read each other s thoughts they would have been incredibly astonished to know that they were both having relatively the same thought: This was just like sitting with an old friend. No words had to be said just for the sake of saying them and that there was really no other place either would rather be. *** Frank Delacorte slid behind the wheel of his cruiser at a few minutes to ten. He d left Devin playing his XBOX, Heather was out with God only knew, doing God only what. Cathy was watching one of those awful Lifetime movies that seemed to transform normal, everyday women into little more than zombies, at least until the commercial breaks. His wife had learned long ago to never ask where he was going when he left at such hours. Maybe she was just hoping he wouldn t come back. The night was warm, bordering on hot. For tonight s work, Frank had worn his uniform, something he rarely did anymore. The tan-andbrown suit was made of an incredibly uncomfortable polyester blend and was notorious for keeping you hot in the summer and cold in the

winter. Frank had even once brought the notion to the sheriff to change the uniforms, from this out-dated number to the more fashionable not to mention comfortable BDUs that many departments across the A Ghost Story 111 country had went. The BDUs, much like military field clothing, were much more comfortable and did not require the precision creases that the current shirts and trousers demanded. Little had not been swayed. That would be one of the first things that Delacorte planned to change. For the moment, he wasn t very interested. He only donned his uniform on very rare occasions a benefit of being chief deputy though Little wore his daily. Frank cranked up the a/c after starting the engine and turned the volume on his police-band radio down low. The Delacortes lived in Ivy Springs on Garrison Avenue, at one time an affluent street. Even tiny little havens such as Ivy Springs were not immune to urban decay. Most of the houses along Garrison were now rent houses and tenant and landlords both showed their utter contempt of renovation and maintenance; broken windows, chipping paint, disjointed or missing gutters were only a few of the easily-remedied blemishes that adorned the houses on either side of the street. Frank and one neighbor, Joe England, were the only two that appeared to take any pride in their homes, both immaculately kept-up with fresh cuts on the grass and a semblance of landscaping with shrubs and trees of good stock. But old Joe was talking about packing Ethel up and moving down to Clearwater. He d said he was too old for the humid summers of Mississippi. At least in Florida he d have the Gulf of Mexico.

Frank drove down Garrison, pulled onto Maple, a much-better street, and took it to Bass then onto the highway and out towards Willow Lake. He wasn t quite sure how the night was going to go. He had a plan, but he was wise enough to know that plans don t always go according to design. So, as a matter of precaution, he not only had his .38 service revolver, but also had a few items in the trunk that were a bit more powerful than the old six-shot Smith and Wesson. Frank didn t love much. Women, Jack Daniels, and NASCAR on Sunday were among his favorites, which was no secret. But the chief deputy had a deep-rooted affection for firearms, both small and those a bit larger. He was proficient with a number of different calibers; was as comfortable as a Sig-Sauer with a twelve-round clip as he was a singleshot Derringer. He liked rifles, shotguns, and even muzzleloaders. He wasn t much of a hunter, not having a taste for venison, rabbit, squirrel, or duck. But he did like to shoot and he was a constant solicitor of the 112 Keith Latch joint municipal-county firing range out on old Route #2. And he was a crack shot. After years at it, he d have to be. *** You have to leave so soon? Peyton asked. It s getting late. I should have had Delaney in bed hours ago. They d drunk the entire pot of coffee. At first their conversation had been stunted and unsure, but had slowly evolved into a comfortable, if not exuberant, exchange of words. Peyton, almost begrudgingly, had to admit he was taken with this woman. And if his instincts could be trusted, so she was with him. But he had to pace himself. They had had a nice time, but both had other things on their

mind now besides romance. Neither had said as much; they d kept the topics light and upbeat. But Peyton could tell that something was distracting, even bothering, her. Again, he hadn t pushed and she seemed relieved by that. She was beautiful; there was no denying that simple fact. But she was also so very much more. Beauty, intelligence, and personality were perhaps as rare a combination as the winning numbers on a lottery ticket, but those all-important attributes had found their home in Rebecca Kent. They stood from the kitchen table and, together, walked into the living room. Delaney was knocked out on the sofa, Cartoon Network playing on the television. Her sketchpad and small yellow box of crayons still held tightly against her. She must have been tired, Peyton said. Rebecca nodded. She s been through a lot in the last few days. Peyton wondered if this was Rebecca s invitation to him to ask what was really bothering her, what had actually brought her out from her home so late at night. You want to talk about it? he asked. Rebecca lowered her head as if in profound thought. Then, No. Not really. Can I use your phone? For a cab? Peyton asked. Yeah, it s just a couple of miles but I don t think either Delaney or I are too keen on walking the narrow lanes of the lake this time of night. A Ghost Story 113 Peyton scooped Delaney up into his arms, mindful of her pad and

colors. Come on, he said softly to Rebecca. You re going to need transportation for a few days and it just so happens I have a spare. No, Peyton, I couldn t. He looked into her eyes. Even at a distance of five or six feet, his brown eyes seemed to penetrate her. Please. It s the least I could do. She bit on her lower lip, but only barely. She wasn t keen on the idea of accepting anyone s help, especially someone she d only just met. Please, he repeated. Finally, If you re sure. Very sure, he said. Rebecca opened the door for him, he toted the small child to his Jeep, and as Rebecca opened the passenger door, he placed her in gently. He turned to Rebecca and fished the keys from his pocket. It s an automatic, runs good, and I even have satellite radio. Easy, she said. You might not get it back. He handed her the keys and their hands touched. Neither withdrew their hand; letting the touch last just a moment too long. It was now or never and Peyton knew it. So, throwing his raw nerves aside, he stepped close to her. She smelled vaguely, and all too invitingly, of lavender. At least a foot taller than her, he bent his head downward. Her lips were soft, moist, and welcoming to his. Her warm breath was laced with the smoky taste of chicory from the coffee. It lasted only a moment, but it was a very good moment. He doubted that he would ever forget it.

She pulled her mouth from his, but instead of moving away, she wrapped strong, slender arms around his waist. Her head went to his chest and he inhaled the scent of freshness from her hair. I m a little lost on this stuff, she said, almost stammering. Peyton, now with his arms around her as well, squeezed a little tighter. After half a heartbeat, he said, Don t feel like the Lone Ranger on that. Rebecca gingerly unwrapped herself from him and stepped away. It was a retreat, but a forced one. And it came just in time. Becky? Delaney asked in a sleepy, groggy voice. Buckle up, darling. Mr. Harper is letting us use his Jeep. It was then when she realized where she was. Hi, she said. 114 Keith Latch Peyton gave a small wave. Hey. Rebecca thought he looked just like the cat that swallowed the canary. Or the strange man caught with someone s mother. Then as fast as she d woken, she was back asleep. Peyton walked Rebecca to the driver s side and courteously opened the door for her. Oh, one sec, he said. He reached to where the passenger seat met the middle console and shuffled his hand around. Rebecca must ve noticed the look on his face. What s wrong? Nothing. Thought I left something out here. Your little black book, she said, but instantly regretted it. Sorry. Bad joke, huh? That s okay, Peyton said as he continued searching. Finally, he stopped, empty-handed.

Find it? she asked. No, but its no big deal. Utility bill, he said. He regretted lying, but he d lied about worse before. Be careful, he told her as she stepped up into the Jeep. She made show of softly closing the door. Thanks again, she said. Not a problem. A moment of prolonged silence. Can Can I give you a call tomorrow? He sounded like a junior high pansy and he knew it, but couldn t help it. Sure. I m in the book. You do remember my name, don t you? she teased. I had to write it down, but they say my Alzheimer s treatments are going well, he laughed. Bye, he said and patted her hand. He was really into this girl and he didn t want to appear too forward. She was hardly the one-night stand kind of chick, and probably not even a twokisser on the first date. And really, this wasn t even a real date was it? See ya, she said and put the Jeep in reverse. Peyton watched her as the taillights made it to the end of the drive then pull out onto Willow Lane. He was too busy thinking about what he was going to say when he called her tomorrow to notice a car passing the front of the driveway just a few moments later. Chapter 15 rank Delacorte was not technologically inclined. Fortunately, the device he d planted on Peyton Harper s Jeep Wrangler did not require a degree in either rocket science or quantum physics to

operate. He wasn t sure why Scruggs had insisted that he use it. Frank had a lot of experience at traffic stops. He had, after all, worked his way up from rookie to where he was now. A man didn t make it that far without learning a thing or two, that was for sure. Still, he was glad to have an alternative just in case he should need it. Having been prepared to stay the night in his cruiser at the curve in the road, he was glad that Harper bastard had decided to go for a moonlight drive. He picked up his mike and depressed the call switch. S.O. This Winchester Number Two. Making a ten-eighty-two on a midnight blue Jeep Wrangler. License plate: alpha, Charlie, alpha, five, two, five. A 10-82 was a suspicious vehicle. Ten-four, Winchester Two, the disembodied voice of Sandy Pratt, the Winchester County Sheriff s Office night dispatcher, answered. Frank hit a switch on the console and the light bar atop his cruiser flashed to life. Blue strobes painted the roadside trees in a macabre swirl. The Jeep, momentarily unaware, continued, then slowed, and pulled to the shoulder. Frank could hear the familiar shush of gravel as the tires hit. The holster on his Sam Browne belt was equipped with a safety latch that attached over the hammer of the revolver. He snapped it open more as an intimidation factor than as a precaution for his own safety. The light bar was also equipped with a set of spotlights that, combined, produced enough candlepower to make the dark night look like noon. He switched them on, their blaring brilliance reflecting on

the Jeep s chrome bumper. He grabbed the mike of his radio and switched on the p.a. option. F 116 Keith Latch This is the Winchester County Sheriff s Office. Please cut your engine, turn on your interior light, and place both hands on the steering wheel. This was the accepted protocol for the last two years. Previously, drivers were ordered out of their automobile, especially at night when the officer s view of the interior of the stopped vehicle was nonexistent or close to it. Then, out on Highway 45, a passing vehicle struck a motorist. Protocol for stopping vehicles had been changed immediately. Thankfully, the motorist had not been killed, only injured, and was enjoying life on the county s dime now. Frank waited. For a moment, nothing happened; and that moment stretched on for what seemed like a very long time. With his cruiser running, he wasn t able to hear the engine of the Jeep. But he allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction when the interior dome light switched on. Frank opened his door and stepped out. He pulled his duty belt up high. His work boots, Magnum Hi-Tecs, made wet slapping sounds on the macadam. In one hand, not his shooting hand, which was resting casually on the butt of the .38, he, had his Maglite flashlight and he switched it on and directed it into the cab of the Jeep. *** Peyton used the remote to switch off the television. Despite the

strong coffee, he was getting sleepy. He walked into the kitchen and rinsed the coffeepot and mugs out. He was turning the faucet off when he noticed the light on in the boathouse. Mack was still paying the utility bill and Peyton had made it a point to turn off all lights when not in use. He even remembered turning the lights off in the boathouse after putting the Wide Glide to rest for the night. Still, that didn t change the fact that they were on. The thought of vandals immediately entered his mind, more so than burglars. Wouldn t a thief try the house instead of a boathouse? It would make sense. But since he d been here these few days, not much that happened in these parts constituted good sense. A Ghost Story 117 Peyton went to the hallway closet, pulled out the trusty Mossberg, and racked it. The back door had a squeaky hinge he d noticed the other night so Peyton opted to use the front. A sodium vapor security light atop a thirty-foot pole usually lit the entranceway of the boathouse, but the bulb had shot. It must have only just happened; it was alight when he d parked the motorcycle. Now, the night was a tangible, substantial thing. Thick and oppressive. Peyton tightened his two-hand grip on the shotgun. As he approached, he noticed the windows of the building. They were fogged over. That made very little sense because the boathouse wasn t equipped with air-conditioning, only one large box fan for cooling and two

exhaust fans for ventilation. The padlock was still secured through its clasp on the door. The large garage door that secured the boat area was controlled by remote. There were no other doors and none of the windows was broken. Peyton didn t like any of those facts one damn bit. Deciding on a cautious approach opposed to a bold one, he stepped to a window on the side of the building. He attempted to peer in, but the fog wasn t fog; it was frost. And it wouldn t wipe away despite several tries. He heard a sound to the side and he whirled. He brought the shotgun up to bear. Nothing. He almost dismissed the sound until his eyes fell to the padlock on the ground. Peyton scanned the area; his eyes scurrying wildly like a paranoid drug dealer at the police officer s ball. He stooped down and inspected the Master lock. It was in about a dozen different fragments. Help her, the voice behind him said. He did a frantic about-face, almost dropping the Mossberg in the process. His finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger in a fraction of an instant. He aimed, more or less, at the direction of the voice. But when he looked, he saw Nothing. 118 Keith Latch

You must hurry, the same voice urged. It was hollow and solemn, and coming from the other side of the closed boathouse door. She s in great danger. With the butt of the shotgun pressed firmly against his shoulder, he approached the closed door. It swung slowly open. What Peyton saw made him drop the Mossberg to the ground and rethink everything he d ever believed about the world he lived in. *** Rebecca Kent wasn t alarmed at first. She d been pulled over before, albeit it had been a while. Maybe the Wrangler had a taillight or something out. Well she d be damned if she d pay the ticket. Hell, maybe she would. The loan of the Jeep had been a kind gesture on Peyton s part. Perhaps he was unaware of whatever it was that had precipitated this traffic stop. She was aware of the flashlight in the officer s hand as it bobbed up and down towards her. The officer tapped on the window with the flashlight. It made a sharp tapping sound and Rebecca pushed the button that caused the window to lower. What s the problem, officer? she asked. The beam of the handheld light, which had been directed into her face, suddenly went off. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. But when they did, she recognized Frank Delacorte. Evening, Chief, she said.

Rebecca Kent? Is that you? he asked. She didn t understand the look of surprise on his face, the she realized that he d probably called in the license plate number and it had come back to Peyton. Yeah, Chief. It s me. Is there something wrong? Frank thought and thought fast. Rebecca this vehicle has been reported stolen. He let his words hang in the air, festering. Stolen? Frank took a little too much pleasure in the astonishment in her voice. Are you sure? I m fraid so. I m going to have to ask you step out of the vehicle. A Ghost Story 119 This is ridiculous, Delacorte. My daughter s sleeping. I m sure this is just some big mix up. When Frank s eyes turned hard, the effect wasn t lost on Rebecca. At this moment, I m assuming you know nothing about this vehicle being stolen. He paused and leaned closer. Let s not make me change my mind. They heard the sound of the approaching car at the same time. Twin headlights appeared in Rebecca s side view mirror. Instead of veering to the far side of the road and passing, the vehicle pulled in behind Frank s car. Hold tight, he ordered Rebecca. With her heartbeat racing, she watched as the Chief Deputy of Winchester County walked away from her to the direction of the stopped automobile. Frank Delacorte was about as corrupt as they come. That much she

knew. But was there any truth in what he had said. She knew next to nothing about Peyton Harper. The Jeep could actually be stolen. But what was Frank doing out here. Wasn t traffic duty and patrol reserved for regular deputies? Frank wasn t known for rolling up his sleeves and helping out, unless there was glory or money to be had. When the man stepped out of the vehicle behind the cruiser, the situation turned from bad to desperate. Dexter Scruggs in the flesh. Now this was just too weird for her to swallow. Something was going on. Something that was probably very bad for both her and Delaney. Without thinking of the consequences, Rebecca turned the ignition and the Jeep groaned to life. She took a few precious seconds to secure her seatbelt. Thank God that Delaney was already safely harnessed. *** Dexter Scruggs didn t trust anyone, especially Frank Delacorte. You didn t get to be mayor of a town like Ivy Springs by delegating your authority. No, you wielded that authority, that power, with absolute prejudice. Sometimes you even had to get your hands dirty. Tonight s project was too important to delegate to anyone, especially Frank Delacorte. 120 Keith Latch Dexter had long ago developed the habit of listening in on the police radio traffic. He had a top-of-the-line communications unit installed in his Yukon, billing it to the city as a necessity in the event of a city-wide emergency. He d come up Willow Lane from the other direction. He d stopped at Rebecca Kent s to take Delaney by choice or

by force; he was prepared for either. When Rebecca wasn t there, he d decided to wait for Frank to make his move on Harper. But something was wrong. Frank was walking towards him, leaving the bastard behind the wheel. When Frank had recognized him and saw that his window was down, he more saw, his lips form the words Rebecca Kent and her daughter than hear them his engine was still running as well as the air-conditioner, it was a very hot night. At the sound of his Rebecca s name and more importantly his granddaughter s, Dexter had bounded from the truck. His feet had barely touched the ground when the Jeep fired to life. Stop her, damn it, Frank. Stop her, he yelled at the officer. Frank started to pull his gun from his holster. Not with that shitfor-brains. Use the kill switch! Frank pulled a small black box, rectangular in shape, from his pocket. He aimed it at the Jeep and depressed a button. Nothing happened. Then it did. *** At the sight of the mayor s face, a thousand-and-one scenarios flooded Rebecca s mind like an avalanche. Not a single one of those crushing thoughts were good not a single one. She slammed her foot down hard on the accelerator and her head was mashed back into the headrest. She noticed the digital read-out on the CD player blink first, then the console light. The engine sputtered

like an old man s cough and then everything died. The engine was dead, the lights were dead, and the interior of the Jeep was as black as a moonless night. What s happening, Becky? It was Delaney and she was wideawake. A Ghost Story 121 Some bad people, sugar, Rebecca said. Real bad people, she thought. We may have to run, can you do that? Rebecca asked. She tried to stay calm, but it wasn t a good fit at the moment. Run? What s going on? Delaney asked. Rebecca didn t answer; she was too busy fumbling with the child s seatbelt. Then, when she had Delaney free, she began working on the mechanism of her own belt. It snapped open and she took Delaney into one arm. With the other she opened the driver s side door and jumped out onto the road and was met with the business end of Frank Delacorte s gun. Even more terrible, however, was the look on Dexter Scruggs s face when he stepped out from behind the chief deputy and, of course, the words he said. Should ve listened to me, Rebecca. The other day in the hospital. You should ve listened. Scruggs s face was placid, calm. What is the meaning of this, Dexter? The mayor and chief deputy out harassing women and children? That ll read real well in the Gazette, won t it? Dexter s face remained nonplussed. Give me the girl. She belongs with me anyway. He stepped close to them. From a far corner of her soul, the one where things of lunacy seem

quite lucid, Rebecca found a bit of rebellious courage. She spat in Dexter s face. You bitch! A hard backhand from Dexter took Rebecca to the ground, still she held Delaney. Before she could stand back up, however, the little girl was wrenched away from her grasp. Two gunshots thundered into the sky. Stay down! Frank barked. Shoot her, Dexter ordered Frank in an almost serene-sounding tone. He now held Delaney. His arms were up under her arms, a hand over her mouth. Her eyes, Rebecca thought, there as wide as the world with fear. What? Frank blurted. Even in her sheer terror, Rebecca could see that Frank Delacorte wasn t prepared to go that far, to step that far across the line, to descend from the from his already shaking precipice of lawfulness into deep outlaw territory. I said shoot her. Damn it, Frank! If you don t you won t live to see daybreak. Dexter s face was turning red now, and though she 122 Keith Latch couldn t see it, she knew that the chief deputy was turning yellow inside in the wake of Dexter s anger. Frank Delacorte looked at Dexter Scruggs. Both men were of comparable size; both were very big men. Frank, though, had his gun and that should have weighed the scale in his favor. But Rebecca saw that it did not. She saw fear in him. Just as definite and harming as the fear in her and in Delaney. Jesus H. Christ, Frank. I thought you had some balls on you, Dexter taunted. I guess I was wrong.

My God, Dexter. Do you think you can get away with this? Rebecca pleaded. I know I will, you little cunt. I know I will. And she believed him. The whole thing didn t even seem real not even the gun pointing down at her. But it was real. Very real. This was Dexter Scruggs s territory. The man s power didn t end at the city limits, no, but extended just about, as far as he wanted. He was a ruthless, amoral, evil man. And he was a powerful man. Rebecca had never once doubted that. She tried to ignore it, true, but she had never denied it. Somehow, Delaney managed to work the mayor s hand from her mouth. Becky, help me! she begged. Please, mommy! Then she was silenced by Dexter s thick hand once again. Mommy? Delaney had not called her by that name in a very long time. But instead of rejoicing at the fact, Rebecca saw it as a pernicious sign of how very real the situation was, how utterly dire. You motherfuckers! she screamed at them. Frank brought his heavy-booted foot down on her head. Everything went black for a moment. She held precariously to consciousness, though and managed to open her eyes. Her vision was strange like that old U2 video Mysterious Ways, wavery. Everything shifted in fluid fashion. But she held on for a miracle, one that she knew wouldn t happen. Then it did.

She heard the growl of a motorcycle far off. It was approaching. A Ghost Story 123 Take care of her, Dexter said. With Delaney still clutched tightly to him, he went to his truck and threw the girl roughly inside. Dexter cut the Yukon to the far side of the road and then he was gone. With Delaney inside! Rebecca looked into the eyes of Frank Delacorte and she knew. Knew he was going to pull the trigger and end her life. Please don t, she begged. He steadied the revolver and pulled back the hammer, sighting her up. She could hear the motorcycle in the distance, but it was still too far away. I m sorry, Frank Delacorte said. Rebecca didn t know whether he was or he wasn t. But she decided to do her very best to make him sorry before he took life. A fraction of a second before the trigger was pulled; she bolted. *** Sheriff Dean Little sat on his front porch sipping from a bottle of Crown Royal. Officially meaning as far as his wife knew he had given up drinking many years ago. Nowadays, liquor was only kept for medicinal purposes. To people as old school as the Littles, whiskey could cure everything from the common cold to constipation. To say that he was drinking the Crown Royal tonight for medicinal purposes tonight would be stretching the truth almost to its breaking

point. Sheriff Little was sick, there was no denying that, but it wasn t his body that was ailing, but his heart. Not the one that had had bypass surgery back in 92 or a stint implanted four years ago, but the heart that loved, hated, and mourned. Nadine had cried herself to sleep in their upstairs bedroom. Dean wished he could ve done the same. But no tears would come, only a sickening sense of loss. He couldn t for the life of him imagine how that photo album had materialized in the living room. Nadine had said that she d burned it, and Nadine may be getting on up in the years, but she wasn t senile. Dean was sure there was an explanation, however. But right now with half the bottle of Crown emptied into him he really didn t give a flying piss. 124 Keith Latch What he cared about was Elizabeth, and her being gone. He was wise enough to know that the alcohol he consumed was not conducive to good thinking, but he cared little. What in the world was there to think about? That his wife was carried off to sleep in a sea of her own tears, or that his precious Elizabeth had drowned in Willow Lake, had fallen from a high cliff while out with the Sanders boy doing who knew what. Or that he had not been the father he should have been. Once upon a time, he had blamed his inability to be a father on the short amount of time he had had with Elizabeth. But she was almost eighteen when she well, passed. If you couldn t get it right in eighteen years, could you ever? Funny, though, how those years seem to have passed in the blink of an eye. Not the ha-ha kind of funny, but

the stomach-churning kind of way. If Dean had been allowed to continue along this train of thought he might have ended up in a very bad place, one much worse than where he was right now. Fortunately, inside, the phone began to ring. It took two rings to get Dean s attention. Instinctively, he checked his wristwatch. 12:16 a.m. He got up from the wooden rocker he d been sitting in and, with bottle in hand, walked indoors. He hoped the ringing wouldn t disturb Nadine. God knows she needed rest. Little, here, Dean said into the phone when he picked it up. Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. It was the voice of Sandy Pratt, the nightshift dispatch officer. But there s been a report of gunshots on Willow Lane, up at the lake. Okay. You send someone up there? Dean asked. Yes, sir. Winchester Seven is en route. Winchester Seven was Kevin Nunley. Nunley didn t go ten-seven at midnight? No, sir. Winchester Ten was supposed to relieve him but his wife went into labor about an hour ago. Okay, Pratt. Keep me posted. Little wasn t quite sure why Pratt had called. Gunshots weren t that uncommon in that area, even at night. Could have been someone shooting stray dogs, or something to that effect. But then he got his answer. Sheriff? Pratt asked almost shyly. Yeah? A Ghost Story 125

Well, the thing is, sir. That s the general location of Winchester 2. He was conducting a traffic stop on a suspicious vehicle and well he s not answering any of my radio calls. Dean s internal computer began booting up at this news. What the hell was Delacorte doing patrolling this time of night, without Dean knowing a thing about it? Did he give a plate number? Who was the vehicle registered to? The phone was a cordless and Dean used the freedom to mount the stairs and enter what he called his leisure room. This was where he kept all his equipment: uniforms, guns, and ammo. Yes, sir, he did. The vehicle, a 2002 Jeep Wrangler came back to a Peyton Harper of Corinth, Ms, Alcorn County. My, God, Dean muttered. Sir? Sandy asked. Show me ten-eight, en route to Willow Lane. This meant to place him in the official log to be back on-duty and on his way to the scene. Little ended the call before getting Sandy s response. Holy mother, what in the hell am I walking into? he asked the still and silent room. But if the room knew, it wasn t telling. *** Rebecca had shot straight up like hammer against Frank s stomach, burying her shoulder deep into the chief deputy s gut. She had succeeded in getting to the far side of the Jeep before Frank fired his revolver. The smell of gunpowder was thick and heavy in the air.

Her heart was in her throat and it was as sharp as ragged steel. Come on, Frank said. Maybe we can do this another way. Go to hell, Frank, Rebecca answered. She was crouched low at the Jeep, her eyes on her predator s ankles and feet that she could see on the other side of the Jeep. The growl of the motorcycle was almost upon them. Surely, Frank wasn t crazy enough to fire on a passing motorist. But who could say. Glass erupted above her head, cascading down like a pelting rain. He d shot out the window to distract her. And it had worked. She dropped down and placed her arms over her as a shield, and by the time she realized what he was doing it was too late. Frank Delacorte was 126 Keith Latch standing at the front right side of the Jeep, his revolver pointed at Rebecca s chest. Y know, he said. I was going to make it easy on you. He licked his lips crudely. But now I think I m going to have a little fun with you before the worms get their turn. He was as close as three feet to her and all her options were closed now. It had been a valiant effort, but a vain one. A puff of dust erupted on Frank s right shoulder, accompanied by a violent clap of thunder, and then he was on the ground. The .38 fell away, and he grabbed at his shoulder. It was then she noticed that the motorcycle had arrived and Peyton Harper sat on the growling beast as welcome a sight to Rebecca as any knight in shining armor had ever been to any princess of the Medieval times. They took her, she managed over the roar of the engine.

I know. He held out his hand to her. And we re going to get her back. A million questions arose. How did he know? He had guns strapped around his waist. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, and a gray-and-black shotgun on a makeshift harness on the motorcycle itself. How could he know what was happening? How? And damn it, why hadn t he been two minutes earlier. She gripped his hand tightly and he helped her straddle the seat of the Harley-Davidson. We have to get her back, she said into his ear to be heard over the engine. We will, he said and then gunned the throttle and they shot off through the night; just two people against impossible odds, but with a noble cause. Chapter 16 exter Scruggs pressed the END button on his cell phone and placed it in its holder attached to the console. The fuel indicator was showing a little over three-quarters of a tank. It was more than plenty. Nervousness, like a slimy, cold thing, was beginning to seep into his pores, mingling into his blood. He just might have gone too far this night. But there wasn t much to be done about it now. The machine had been set into motion. The gears were turning in their predetermined grooves; their teeth moving together like the guts of a well-made German timepiece.

He turned the radio back up and listened along as Huey Lewis sang about the power of love. In the passenger seat, Delaney sat as rigid as a statue. All doors and windows in the Yukon featured a child safety option that allowed the driver to lock them so that they could only be operated by the driver. He d hate to see the girl take a dive into the asphalt. Little fear of that, the little girl was in a near-comatose state. Delaney, he said, softly. There s absolutely nothing to be scared of. I m taking you to see your grandmother. Aren t you excited? He caressed her soft blonde hair, but she failed to answer. As the Huey Lewis song ended, he switched off the radio and switched on the police band. He listened intently, seeing if he could catch anything about his recent exploits. There wasn t a thing. He was quietly relieved. Why did you tell that man to shoot my mommy? the girl asked. Straight to the point, aren t you? Dexter laughed. He wasn t surprised to see the child failed to find humor in his words. So, in a more serious tone, he said, Rebecca Kent ain t worthy to be a parent to a child of my blood. Derek Scruggs was your father, and my son. He made a mistake, falling into bed with your mother. A mistake I plan to D128 Keith Latch rectify. No matter how that lunatic you call mommy tries to sugarcoat it, she drove him to kill himself. You know that don t you. You re lying! Delaney screamed. My father was murdered! He loved me and Becky.

I see she s poisoned you, just as she poisoned my son. Delaney fought the tears she could feel forming in the corners of her eyes and began to sing. Ghosts-in-the-ni-ight, ghosts-in-the-niight. What the hell is that you re singing? Dexter demanded. The girl just kept on. But her singing was better than crying or fighting him he reckoned. He turned the radio back on and adjusted the volume enough to drown out the girl s voice. *** The wind washed over Rebecca Kent s face as Peyton maneuvered the motorcycle through the streets of Ivy Springs. She only gave a passing concern that they would attract any attention. Peyton was suited up like a commando and she knew her own face was one of stark raving madness. Rebecca still had many unanswered questions. But they weren t what were on the forefront of her thoughts. Her entire mind screamed for Delaney. And if Peyton Harper could help get her back, well, why did it matter that he had come from nowhere just in the nick of time to save her life, that he had shot maybe killed, maybe only wounded the chief deputy, that he had accepted his own lot in this so selflessly. He had to know, just as Rebecca knew, that danger waited this side of dawn, maybe for one of them, maybe for both. But it took only one look on his stone face to see such things as life and death were beyond meaning to him now. He was a man with a cause; she could see that. And she thanked God for it.

The mayor s house was on Piccadilly Avenue. Affluent families with plantation-style mansions filled the wide, newly paved street. Large, robust maples lined either side of the postcard avenue. Peyton cut the engine and they coasted along, noiselessly, to the drive of the Scruggs s residence. It was a huge antebellum structure: high white walls, huge, substantial columns. A large chandelier served as a porch A Ghost Story 129 light. A matching garage was connected to the side of the house. The door was down. Only a few lights could be seen through large, curtained windows. You stay here, Peyton said. Like hell, Rebecca blurted. He dismounted the bike and turned to look at her. His big brown eyes, the ones she once thought cute and sincere, were stern, even hard. This isn t going to be easy, Rebecca. I d rather not have to watch out for you as well as myself, he said. She knew that he was being more than simply chauvinistic. She was nowhere as near as experienced in something like this as he was. But did even police training cover situations like this? Surely not. You can t go in there alone. I m not going to be alone, he said. What? Rebecca asked, suddenly very confused. Look, he said very delicately. There s really no time to explain, not that I d even expect you to believe me, but I ll tell you. I will. I promise you that. But not now. With that, he sprinted away. A tall wrought iron fence protected the perimeter of the house.

Peyton scaled it easily and dropped, without a sound to the other side. He held a shotgun in his hands and he moved from the cover of one shadow to another, much like the soldiers she d seen on TV in a dozen different war movies. The night was warm and the humidity had risen. The sky, which had been without a moon, was now without stars. Dark, rolling clouds had moved in and it looked to Rebecca that they were here to stay for a while. She was feeling useless, a feeling she was not prepared to accept considering the circumstances. It was her daughter that Peyton was quite possibly risking his life for, not his own child. With three quick, catlike steps, she moved to the fence. Well, she thought, here goes everything. She jumped up. *** Dormant instincts were returning. Slowly, but steadily, adrenaline entered his bloodstream. His breathing was incredibly measured and 130 Keith Latch controlled. The darkness of the lawn was a blessing and he used it to his advantage. He decided to go in through the front. He made this decision not because he was a straightforward kind of guy which he was but because it would be unexpected. Though armed to the teeth, he was still only one man, against an enemy that seemed to have pretty much the entire county under his thumb. There was no telling how many men the mayor had employed to keep people like Peyton away.

That was, of course, assuming that Dexter Scruggs had even planned for the likelihood of intrusion. Perhaps he was so audacious that he thought he could get away with kidnapping and attempted murder scot-free. Maybe he did, Peyton was sure there were skeletons in Scruggs s closet as terrible as the events of tonight. But that didn t make him stupid, no, not by a long shot. He was a thug and a criminal, but that did not make him automatically unintelligent. To the contrary, most criminals in Scruggs s league were very bright. With that in mind, Peyton proceeded carefully, very carefully. He mounted the deep front porch from the side. With his back to the wall, shotgun held at ready, he slowly eased his way to the door. On a window near the door, he noticed alarm system wiring. He would more than likely trigger the system when he entered. That, in effect, would not only alert anyone inside, but also presumably summon the authorities. Peyton could almost visualize himself being led away in cuffs, as the mayor looked on, laughing. So, he did just as anyone else would do in his predicament, he thought. He pivoted in front of the door and used the butt of the Mossberg to strike the door. It took three forceful strikes to separate the door from its facing. Peyton heard the telltale beep of the intrusion system as he squatted and thrust himself through the open door. The beep of the alarm ceased and was instantly replaced by a blaring siren. Several moments later, the phone began to ring. Lamps were aglow; still, the house was dim. He canvassed the

bottom floor in thirty seconds, finding no one. He saw the room with the hospital bed but thought little of it. The siren was silenced, filling the house with a preternatural quiet. He headed from the hallway to the living room ready to mount the stairs when he saw Rebecca. A Ghost Story 131 He was about to open his mouth to admonish her for entering the house when he saw the man slightly behind and slightly to the side. He also saw the gun that was held on her. A Glock nine-millimeter. It was pressed firmly into her neck, right below the right ear. Drop it, the man said. Imaginative, Peyton thought. He was scruffy looking; faded blue jeans and a tattered sleeveless flannel shirt. He wore a mesh cap that advertised some brand of chewing tobacco or another (or what Peyton s grandfather had called chawing backer ) and his face was unshaven. But he looked like he knew his way around a gun. Peyton could tell by the way that he held it. His grip was firm, but not too tight. It was leveled just right, straight, and even. It was a grip of respect, not fear, on the weapon he wielded. *** Bennie Monroe was a ten-year veteran of the Ivy Springs Police Department. He d been on his own nine of those ten years and all of them had been on patrol. Despite his wife s harking, he d developed the policeman s stereotypical taste for donuts, not to mention other fresh pastries. His favorite was, by far, Krispy Kremes. He had just pulled his patrol car, an asthmatic 1991 Crown Victoria, with a lot of dents and just as many dings, into the parking lot of the

Roger Dodger, an all-night convenience store that happened to have a shelf of the freshest Krispy Kreme products this side of Memphis, Tennessee the closest franchise store. He pulled up to the door; no parking spot needed for Ivy Springs s finest, no sir, no how. As he was attempting to dislodge his considerable girth from behind the steering wheel, the unimaginable happened. PD to PD Fourteen. His police band squawked. Shit, Bennie Monroe muttered under his breath. He plucked his mike from its holder and spoke into it. PD Fourteen to PD, go ahead. Got a ten-forty-two for ya, Fourteen, the dispatch officer said. A 10-42 was a crime in progress. The county and municipal departments had their separate dispatch officers and the police department s, a vested officer by the name of Howard Glick, was nowhere as nice or friendly as Sandy Pratt was. Especially to Bennie Monroe. Actually, 132 Keith Latch there was a lot of contempt for Bennie on the force. Most of his colleagues agreed that he was getting fat on the city s dime and had balls the size of a gnat. I m ten-thirty-nine, PD, Bennie answered, reminding Glick that he was on a meal break. Disregard your ten-thirty-nine, PD Fourteen, proceed with tenforty-two, Officer Glick instructed. Bennie waited for a smart-mouth remark about how it wouldn t hurt for him to skip a few meals, but, almost mercifully, it didn t come. Be advised the address is Eight, Piccadilly Avenue. Alarm activated, negative contact established. Bennie tried to direct himself to the address in his mind, but before

he was able to do so, the radio squawked again. PD Fourteen be advised that s the mayor s residence. Bennie swallowed hard. Backup is en route forthwith. Officer Benjamin Monroe slammed his door shut and started the car s engine. Taking his time, he switched on his lights and siren. Carefully, coolly, and causally, he backed the car up and placing it in drive, pulled out on the street. He was in no hurry. As a police officer, he may lack many things, but the one thing he didn t lack was an almost unnatural calm in a crisis. He may not be thought of as the bravest among his peers, but he was one of the best shots on the force, and he rarely thought twice about pulling the trigger if need be. Hell, it was the mayor s place. Maybe if he shot him a burglar, he d get a promotion, something that was long overdue. Maybe even a desk job. One could only hope. With that appetizing prospect in mind, Bennie eased down on the accelerator and left his precious Krispy Kremes far behind. *** I said, Drop it! the redneck hoodlum shouted. Peyton saw the look of absolute terror in Rebecca s green eyes. They cried out for help. For him to help her. Okay, okay. Cool it, Peyton said. Slowly, he knelt down and placed the Mossberg on the hardwood floor. He was frantically weighing his options; however, they weren t very plentiful. Now what I want to know why s you and this here lady snooping around the good mayor s place? A Ghost Story 133

Your good mayor is a kidnapper. But I suspect you already know that, Peyton said. Rebecca s lip was trembling. It was painfully obviously that she was trying desperately not to lose whatever small measure of control that she still clung. All s I know is I m holding you until the police arrive. You s two is breaking and entering. That s of course lessen you get a little jumpy and try me. No one s gonna try you. Okay? Peyton said. He heard the sirens in the distance. They would be here soon. It would be a helluva lot harder getting away from the police then it was to get away from this hick, though neither would be what you d consider easy. Then, an amazing thing happened. Twice in the same night, Peyton turned cold. Not normal cold, like a cool breeze. It was more like stepping into a deep freezer. He felt himself shiver, and then noticed that both Rebecca and the hoodlum were doing the same. Shit almighty, its getting cold, the ruffian said. It was much colder than the boathouse had been earlier. Peyton had been holding his hands up to his chest, palms outward in a submissive gesture. Now, slowly, he moved his right hand downward, toward this side. I don t believe your taking me serious, partner, the man with the gun said and brought his Glock away from Rebecca to aim at Peyton. Easy, man, easy, Peyton was saying. Too bad, dude. Shouldn t have tried to run, he smiled. His smile

was offensive in itself. The sick lips curled to reveal black and broken teeth surely as sharp as ravens claws. A smile not even a mother could love. Rebecca understood immediately what he meant and knew that a bullet was about to exit the black barrel of the gun and enter into Peyton Harper, the man that was risking his life for her and Delaney. She whirled and by the sheer act of surprise, knocked the Glock from his hand. The heavy weapon fell against the wooden floor and slid away. Instantly, before the hick could react appropriately, Peyton lunged forward. A left jab to the cheek knocked the man s filthy hat from his head. A right uppercut broke teeth. Just as he was about to go down, he 134 Keith Latch threw a wild haymaker in the direction of Peyton s head. It missed the head completely, but unfortunately struck the side of Peyton s neck. Peyton stumbled backward, only a few steps. It was all the time his aggressor needed. He came at Peyton in a mad rush, and sacked him in something resembling a bad football tackle. They both struck the ground with force enough to knock the wind out of their bodies. The man straddled Peyton, his hands were around Peyton s neck, and they were tightening like a vise. Bypassing the handgun, Rebecca ran to the Mossberg, picked it up, and rested the muzzle at the man s temple. He laughed. Peyton was starting to turn purple and this bastard was laughing. I don t think I d be laughing if I were you, asshole, Rebecca said.

She herself was amazed at the viciousness in her voice. You forgot to cock it you stupid cunt. He let go of Peyton s neck long enough to snatch the Mossberg from her grasp. The weapon was torn away with such force that Rebecca almost fell over the two of them. Like this, he said and using one hand, he racked the weapon. The sound was like death to Rebecca, but still she wouldn t turn and run. Later, however, she would think back and wished that she d have at least turned her head. From a side holster on his waist, Peyton pulled a Sig-Sauer P226, Navy model. He pulled the thumb-tab hammer back, placed it to the man s chin and then poof, half the man s face was gone. The gunshot was like a thunderclap in the enclosed house. Rebecca fell to her knees. *** Officer Bennie Monroe pulled his cruiser to the gate of Eight, Piccadilly Avenue, stepped out, and began walking toward the gate just as he heard the gunshot. He stopped short. He was the first officer to arrive and he could only just hear the sirens of the units en route to his location. Bennie made note of the Harley Davidson parked nearby. Fucking longhairs, he said. In his experience, all bikers were criminals, and just about all criminals had long hair. It was just an unpleasant fact. A Ghost Story 135 He leaned back into the squad car, having to place an arm in the seat to support him. He grabbed the mike of the police band. He d already radioed in and alerted dispatch that he was on the scene. The

alarm had been silenced, however, and he took the opportune silence to warn the home invaders by way of his car s public address system. He switched it on and spoke deeply (or as deeply as his voice would allow). This is the Ivy Springs Police Department. We have you surrounded. Additional law enforcement units are also on their way. I highly advise you to exit the dwelling by way of the front door, with hands up, and with any and all weapons highly visible. Bennie waited. Nothing stirred, either within the house or without. Bennie Monroe placed the webbing between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand on the butt of his Smith and Wesson .38caliber six-shot revolver. He cranked his hand down onto the cool steel and faux wood side plates. He brought his hand closed and worked the weapon from its holster, the stiff leather crackling as he did so. Last chance, he said in a whisper. *** Oh, my God! she said, then slapping her hands over her mouth. Peyton couldn t tell if she was praying or trying to keep herself from vomiting. Peyton threw the corpse off him and wiped the bloody debris from his face as best he could. What happened? Rebecca demanded. What just happened? It was then they heard the police on the loudspeaker outside. We gotta go, Peyton said. He rose and grabbed the Mossberg. Rebecca, however, was still

kneeling on the ground staring at the ruin face of the man that had held a gun to her head. Rebecca. We have to haul ass. Now! Rebecca Kent looked up to him. Peyton was taken aback by the cold, icy stare of her piercing eyes. Her face was stolid. She slowly stood. Peyton felt no more fear, no more terror radiating from her. Only anger. Pure, unadulterated, uncut, complete anger. 136 Keith Latch I think we need to split this joint, she said and walked past him to the back of the house. Peyton still amazed at the transformation that he had witnessed, followed, not sparing a second to glance at the man he had just killed. Chapter 17 elaney had long ago fallen silent. She had sung her song, but help had not come. The man driving, her so-called grandfather, terrified her, but she didn t want him to know it. Was this the danger that Elizabeth had tried to warn her about? It had to be. But where was she now? When she needed her the most, probably the most she would probably need anybody. Delaney didn t know where she was. Outside the window it was dark, impossibly so. It was scary. She did her best not to cry. Three times her lips had begun to quiver and three times; she had used her hands to keep them still. She hated it when he touched her hair. It made her hair feel dirty and when he spoke to her, she felt sick and slimy inside. Like the time she d fell in the lake at the shallow part. Where the bottom, rocks, and stuff were covered with that green slime. Algae. Wasn t that what

Becky had called it. Except it felt like her insides were full of algae, not just on the outside. She had taken a long, long bubble bath to get clean from that. She wondered if there were enough bubbles in the world to make her feel clean after this man s touch. She thought of Becky. She missed Becky badly. Would she ever see her again? She had to pee and she had told him. He had only said that they were almost there. Wherever there was. She didn t ask; she didn t want to talk to him anymore than she had to. He probably wouldn t have told her anyway. She emptied her bladder on the truck seat. The Yukon stopped and Delaney watched her grandfather take the big truck out of gear. He reached for her and she struggled away. Now, now. Stop that. Your old grandpa isn t going to hurt ya. Not a bit. D138 Keith Latch His words were kind, but his voice wasn t. She could tell the difference between the two. Grandpa grabbed her around her waist and pulled her from the truck. They were in the woods, deep in the woods. She saw the lake close by, could hear its gentle lapping at the shore. We re almost there, he said. Delaney closed her eyes. She began to sing again, but this time only in her head. ***

Rebecca had led Peyton out the back of the house and through the backyard. It was as dark back there as it had been in the front lawn and they easily made their way through it. The mayor s property edged up against a shallow tree line that ran into the property of several other homes. They scaled the iron fence and made their way several streets over. They could still hear sirens, but Peyton also realized they were traveling away a good distance and at a good pace. Still, they were on foot, and he didn t know where they were going. Even if they could lift a car, he had no idea where to find Scruggs. Rebecca, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped between a garage and a hedgerow. Tell me, she said. Tell you what? What s going on? Last time I checked we were trying to find your daughter. Have you forgotten? It was dark and he could barely make out her face, though she was within reach of him. He knew she was serious and he knew what she meant. No, Peyton the other. How did you know we were in trouble? And what happened in the house, she paused. Peyton heard her take a deep breath. Why did it get so frigging cold? Look, Rebecca. We really don t have time for this. Yes, we do. We ll make time. I really don t see how that this will help us find

Tell me. Okay and I m being completely honest with you Go on. Earlier tonight, before you came over, I took a ride on the Harley up to Florence. For a good steak, I guess, I didn t really know why at the time, but looking back it seems like as good as reason as any. He wasn t rambling, but he could see that Rebecca thought he was. Anyway, he continued. I found a nice little steakhouse right off the highway. Well I parked and went on in. Food smelled very good, but I needed to use the men s room and wash my hands too. That s when I saw her. In the mirror. Saw who, Peyton? At first I didn t know. Just a face. Scared the shit out of me! So, I left, still hungry, and came home. I thought I was cracking up a little. No, that s wrong. I thought I was cracking up a whole lot. Anyway, that s about when you and Delaney pulled up. And talking with you, I just sorta forgot about it. That wasn t true, he had only let it fall from the front of his mind, but that wasn t important right now. Then, just a few minutes after you left, I noticed the light on in the boathouse it doubles as garage and that s where I had parked my bike. Anyway, I was sure I had switched off the light. I was sure of it! So, I grabbed this shotgun, he made a gesture with the gray-andblack Mossberg in his hands. And I went to check it out. When I got out there, the big security light was out. It hadn t been earlier. I m sure of that. The windows were frosted over. It s the middle of summer, Rebecca. Ninety-seven-in-the- shade kind of weather. The shed doesn t A Ghost Story 139

have anything better than a big box fan to stir the air. But, I ll be damned; there was ice on the windows. Thick ice. I tried to scrape it off, using my hand y see, but it was thick, like the ice up north gets. Rebecca looked pensive, she had, after all, asked for this. She nibbled at her bottom lip. In another time or at another place, Peyton would have thought it was cute, but right now, he only thought it meant that she was having doubts. Not that he blamed her, however. He decided to swallow what pride he had left, and finish. At first the door was locked. Secured by a padlock, then all of a sudden it wasn t. And And what, Peyton? Rebecca asked. He looked at her, into her green eyes. Was she getting ready to call in the men in white suits? Was she, at this very moment, deciding that Peyton Harper was nothing but a stark raving loony tune? 140 Keith Latch Maybe, but he d already come this far. Hadn t he. Yes. He had. She was inside. The pause was pregnant, but not only pregnant, pregnant with twins. Then, Was her name Elizabeth? Peyton blinked quickly. H-How did you know? he asked. I know her. She reached out and touched Peyton s shoulder. That s not really true. It may not even be her. But I think its Elizabeth Little, the sheriff s daughter. *** Peyton just then remembered that Sheriff Little had had a daughter.

It was only discussed in hushed tones. They haven t been the same since and Such a tragedy kind of tones and then Peyton

remembered the story barely. Twenty years ago, Elizabeth Little had been parking with her boyfriend up at Willow Lake, a big overlook, with a nasty drop-off. Somehow, God only knew, she d come too close to the edge. They never found the body. A long and exhaustive search had been conducted, of course, but still no body. There might have been more, but Peyton couldn t remember it. At any rate, he d overheard it by accident. Mack and Sue had been visiting with his parents back when his father had still been alive, almost fifteen years ago now it would have been. Peyton s father and Mack were doing what Peyton mother is referred to only as hittin the forgettin juice on the back deck as Sue and Peyton s mother drank coffee in the den. It was late and Peyton was supposed to have been asleep. Instead, the thrill of eavesdropping on the conversation of adults hittin the forgettin juice was just too much of a temptation to pass up. The window of his room, on the second floor of their house, was right above the inclined roof of the deck. It was possible, if he was careful enough and no one on the deck was particularly attentive, to climb through the window and edge close enough to the overhang to hear, surprisingly well, what was being said below. The talk had been boring at first, mostly shoptalk about life in the uniform, some jokes, all boring. A Ghost Story 141

Then, He s a good man, that fella. It was the voice of Peyton's father. I couldn t imagine losing a child. Wouldn t want to imagine it. They say his wife, Nadine; I believe her name is, is taking it pretty bad. Doctor gave her some pills, but they ain t helping. That was Mack. Mack and Peyton s father had both been corporals in the highway patrol. Mack was assigned to Winchester County and Peyton s father assigned to Alcorn. Peyton remembered that Sheriff Little had been a police officer for many years before being elected sheriff. Most officers knew each other well in those days; much like an extended family. Too bad it s not like that anymore, he thought sourly. Y know, it d be hard to believe she was really gone without a corpse, Peyton s father had said. Maybe, Mack had said. When you waited up all night in your bed, your covers pulled up tight waiting for her to come home ev ry night, and she didn t come, y might just start to believe it. Yeah, Mack. I guess you just might. *** How do you know? Peyton asked. I m not sure that I do know. It s just that well Delaney s been a little strange lately. She s always been withdrawn, shy. I used to think it was because her father had passed on, but I m not so sure of that anymore. It s as if she s special, not like retarded or anything, y know. Just sensitive to things.

Sensitive? Like how? What do you mean? Ghosts, Rebecca said. It was her turn to tell a few things. They re a lot like radio waves, or signals. Humans, on the other hand, are like radios. Some of us receive better, however, and are able to tune in these signals. Sometimes, when we have our antennae pointed just right and the atmospheric conditions are just so, we catch vague sounds, but dismiss them, or try to explain them away. Sometimes, in very rare cases, like Delaney, I believe, humans are like state of the art receivers, like the satellite radio in your Jeep, for instance. And sometimes a certain spirit, like Elizabeth, has a very strong signal. Like 142 Keith Latch the Sirius or XM, radio satellites. And when they meet up, its not just noise, it s really music. Peyton looked at this woman, almost unable to speak almost. Where did you find out about this this ghost as radio waves stuff? I Googled it. It s as good as theory as any, isn t it? I guess so. Do you believe it? Rebecca considered this shortly. I don t think it matters whether I believe it or not. It s happening. Okay. So I guess this means you don t think I m off my rocker? All I can say, Peyton, is that if you are, you re not by yourself. She smiled at him, or at least he thought she did. Just then a patrol car eased by, its side-mounted spotlight searching the shadows. They re canvassing the area. It was the mayor s house, after all. This whole area will probably be swarming with uniforms in the not-

too-distant future. We re really going to get her back, aren t we? Rebecca asked. Peyton couldn t decide whether she was asking him or trying to tell herself. Yes. We are. Then, we re going to need some help, she said and started moving with her body crouched low. Where are we going? Follow me, she said. He did. Chapter 18

he roar of the outboard engine was like a swarm of killer bees, or that was how Delaney would ve explained it, if there had been anyone to listen. They were in a small boat and they were heading way out into the lake. On different occasions, Delaney had been on a boat with Becky on this very same water. She d always felt safe with her, though. She didn t feel safe with Grandfather. She had thought of swimming away. Back on the pier, he d let her walk on her own, only holding her by the arm. She had considered making a break for it then, but the water was dark, much darker than she could have ever remembered seeing it. It was the kind of dark that hid monsters, real monsters. Maybe her grandfather was a monster, too. Nevertheless, right now, he wasn t hurting her. He wasn t nice and he probably had had Becky shot. But he could still be better than what was in the water. Couldn t

he? Sea serpents (well, lake serpents, anyway), piranhas, man-eating alligators, anything could be in the water. Though she was frightened scared through and through, really, she still wasn t being hurt. She was at the back of the boat, Grandfather in the middle at the steering wheel. The important thing was she was almost ten feet away from him. The farther away she was from him, the less slimy she felt on the inside. She sat on the cushioned seat of the boat, hands gripping tightly to the side. She looked into the deep dark water. She didn t think anything would jump out at her, but when she looked ahead, the wind stung her eyes. When she looked up at the cloudy sky, she felt dizzy, and when she looked back at him, she felt slimy, so she just looked down. A spot in the water began to lighten, almost brighten. It wasn t just in one spot. The small circle of light followed beside them. Delaney felt the air cool, turn almost cold, and she knew what was happening. T 144 Keith Latch She looked up quickly at Grandfather. He was almost shivering, but he continued to look straight ahead. She couldn t see anything in front of them but the dark, but she supposed he knew where they were going. He was a grown-up, after all. A bad man, but still a grown-up. Delaney turned her attention back to the water. Instead of a bright ball in the water, Elizabeth now stood there. Her feet barely skimming the water as she kept pace with the boat. She was turned to face Delaney. Don t be scared, she said, but her lips did not move. Delaney

could hear her, but it was only inside her head. Mind talk. Delaney spoke back in her mind. What s he going to do to me? Never mind that. Help is coming. Can t we do Grandfather like we did the Peeping Tom? No, dear. That boy was just that, a boy. Mean and evil, but still just a boy. At least for now, you ll have to wait. What about Becky? Is she dead? Delaney asked, almost afraid of the answer. Her eyes were getting wet but not due to the wind. All I can say is that help is coming. What about Becky! Delaney screamed inside her head. But it was too late. Elizabeth was gone. Delaney felt more alone at that moment than she had ever been before. In the distance, there were lights and she saw the traces of an island. *** It took almost five minutes for Patricia Webster to answer the door. Dressed in a long white velvet robe, Rebecca thought she was about the best sight she d seen all night. My God, Rebecca. What s happened, Patricia said as she recognized the disheveled appearance of her friend. Her eyes, however, hardened when she recognized Peyton. Before she could ask any more questions, a voice called from the head of the stirs. Pat. Who is it? It s Rebecca Kent and the Harper boy, she said. Can we come in? Rebecca asked.

For a second, she thought Patricia would say no. Then she softened, slightly. Of, course, she said and ushered them in. A Ghost Story 145 Delaney s been kidnapped, Rebecca blurted barely passing over the threshold before doing so. Michael O Riley flew down the stairs. He was dressed in only a pair of lightweight cotton sleep pants. What did you say, Becky? Delaney. She s been kidnapped. Oh my God, Patricia said. She started away, towards the phone. Have you called the cops yet? No. And we won t, Peyton said. What are you talking about? Michael asked. Rebecca? Patricia asked. We need to talk, Rebecca, answered. Both Patricia and Michael stepped towards her, both as confused as each could possibly be. Just as she d hoped, both wore looks of genuine, heartfelt concern. Dexter Scruggs. He s taken her, Rebecca said. The mayor? Michael asked incredulously. Patricia turned her head to Michael and said simply. The bastard is Rebecca s father-in-law. Or was. The news fell hard but Michael took it well. Why would he abduct his own grandchild? I don t know, Rebecca said. But he s crazy. He almost had me shot by Frank Delacorte and if it hadn t been for Peyton I wouldn t be standing here right now.

For perhaps the very first time, Patricia Webster looked at Peyton, really looked at him. It looked to Rebecca that her friend s preconceived notions of him were melting away under the heat of recent events. Where are they? Michael asked. We ve already been to his house and met one of his finest friends, but they weren t there. Rebecca. Do you know where he might be? Patricia asked. I believe so. Margaret wasn t at the house. She s bad off these days, I hear. She wouldn t be able to travel far. I m willing to bet he s at his house on Goose Island. Goose Island? Michael and Peyton spurted in unison. It s a small island right smack dab in the middle of Willow Lake. I ve never heard of it, Peyton said and he hadn t. 146 Keith Latch Willow Lake is a big lake, with tributaries leading all the way out of the state. Besides, it s not something Scruggs advertises. A lot of bad, not too mention highly illegal, festivities go on there. The police, Rebecca. What about them? The Chief Deputy tried to put several bullets in me, Patricia. The Chief of Police is in Scruggs pocket. Who can we call? The state police, the feds, Michael said. Rebecca turned on him as if he was a dog snipping at her heels. I am not going to risk my daughter s life by trusting the wrong people. Then she turned back to Michael and Patricia. Will you help? For a moment, the house was as silent as a graveyard at midnight.

Then Michael turned to Patricia. You still have my stuff in the basement? Of course, she said. Good. You and Becky put on a pot of coffee. Peyton and I will be downstairs. Rebecca realized they both wore wide smiles on their faces, as if they shared some secret, but hilarious joke. Michael touched Rebecca s cheek with a rough, but powerful hand. We ll be glad to help you, dear girl. Then to Patricia, Make sure that coffee s strong. Patricia led Rebecca from the foyer into the kitchen, but just as they were walking away, she heard Michael say. I think you and I need to get to know one another, real good and real fast. *** This pier was much like the one they had just left, except for the fact that it was well hidden in a small cove and two very big, very unfriendly looking men were waiting for them as Grandfather tossed one of them the rope to the tie up the boat. Out we go, kid, Grandfather said. He lifted her up by grabbing underneath her arms, he handed her to a man that smelled like old bologna. He was big. His black hair, what little of it there was, was oily and slick. Hi ya, little gurl. My name s Daryl. What s yours? His breath stank worse than he did; it was like road kill cooked too long in the oven. A Ghost Story 147 Delaney didn t answer him. Even if she had wanted to, she was too

busy holding her breath. The other man, taller than this one, but much skinnier, finished tying up the boat and helped Grandfather up onto the pier. Is she inside? he asked the skinny man. Yeah, her nurse is with her. Gave us a bunch of shit at first, she did. But I made her see it our way? he smiled. In front of Margaret? Grandfather yelled. The tall man was taken aback and when he spoke, his voice was much different. No, of course, not. We were real discreet. You d better have been. Grandfather took Delaney from the big, stinky man and she was almost relieved. Grandfather may be a very bad man, but at least he didn t smell like bologna or dead animals. Grandfather carried her across the pier and to a concrete walkway that led uphill. Delaney saw a large house when the reached the end of the walkway. It was made like a cabin, but she d never seen a cabin this size before. They all passed through a gate in a fence that was topped by barbwire and another man stood there. Delaney couldn t help but notice that he was holding a long gun in his hands. Mr. Scruggs, the man said. Grandfather only nodded his head as he and Delaney stepped past. Do you know who I m taking you to see? Grandfather asked. Delaney didn t answer. It s rude not to answer when someone asks you a question, Delaney, he said. Didn t you know that?

Delaney still held her tongue. Grandfather turned her around, roughly, in his arms and brought her close to his face, which was turned red with purple blotches. Listen to me, you little bitch! he spat. You gonna learn you some manners, and gonna learn em fast, do you hear me? Delaney felt a lot of mixed emotions, but the most exuberant was terror. Angry grown-ups always scared her. Grown-ups were capable of some very bad things. Delaney had watched Dick James on Action News 3 long enough to know that. Grandfather looked just about as angry as a man could be. Yes, sir. I hear you, she said lowly. Good. 148 Keith Latch Now, I m taking you to see your grandmother Margaret. Do you remember her? Yeah. Yes. I think so. It s really a shame that your mother kept you from us Delaney. A real shame. I think you would have been happy with us. Don t y think? Delaney didn t respond. Grandfather tightened his hands around Delaney s sides. The grip hurt her and she moaned involuntarily. I had so hoped you were a fast learner, child, he said. Delaney closed her eyes tight as Grandfather raised his hand high, preparing to strike. *** Dean Little blinked his headlights as he pulled up to the scene. He d

heard enough over the police band to get more than a little worried. On his walkie-talkie, he d heard Deputy Nunley had arrived before Dean had been able to get to his vehicle. Just as he d sat down behind the wheel and turned the ignition, he d heard Deputy Nunley, in a remarkably calm voice, alert the dispatcher that there was an officer down and had called for the deployment of emergency medical services. By the time that Dean had arrived, two other deputies, Glisson and Byers, had arrived on-scene as well as Constable Jerry Pritchard. Dean stepped down from his truck and quickly made his way to where Nunley was kneeling over Delacorte. He still breathing? Nunley looked up, visibly relieved to see the sheriff, and said, Yes, sir. Just barely. Lost a lot of blood. Most likely in shock. What happened? Little asked. Looks like a large caliber round from a handgun. This was Constable Pritchard. To either help out the sheriff s department or just to satisfy his own curiosity which was legendary in these parts, only equaled by how fast he was able to spread both validated facts and unsubstantiated rumors Pritchard had been deputized by Little many years ago. As a constable elected in the state of Mississippi, he had limited official powers to serve processes. As a deputized constable, Pritchard held the powers of arrest just as any deputy did, but being A Ghost Story 149 freely elected by the people, he didn t answer to anyone officially. Unofficially, he most often times yielded to Little. At times, the

constable could be aggravating and had on more than one occasion infuriated Little to the point of cursing in public something he rarely did. Nevertheless, Pritchard, despite his many faults, had a wealth of experience in what he called common sense forensics. He was good at judging how and when a crime had occurred, and being something of a gun nut, knew the capabilities of many of the less well-known makes and models. Bullet come out? Little asked. Pritchard spit dark brown tobacco juice on the dark macadam. Yep. Passed right through his shoulder. Damn. We ll never find it in those trees, Little remarked. Nope. May not, Pritchard said. Good thing, I guess, that I found this. Pritchard held up a casing for the sheriff to see. Little took the proffered casing and glanced at it in the beam of nearby headlights. He had to squint, his vision not being what it sued to be. Forty-caliber? Yep. Bad gun. Surely is. But at least ole Frank here got a few shots off of his own. The chief fired his weapon? Yep. Three spent cartridges in his revolver. Dean looked around at both the Jeep and Delacorte s cruiser. Dispatch said the Jeep s registered to a Peyton Harper, boss. This was Byers talking, a career deputy with a good record.

The sheriff said nothing, only continued to look around. He paused at the imploded windows of the Jeep. Then closer at the shoe imprints on the passenger side. The loose dirt-and-gravel shoulder had captured the shoeprints almost perfectly. It was a small foot. Did the chief call in saying whether or not Harper was driving or if he had passengers? Not that I know of, Sheriff, Byers answered. Just then, the ambulance they d been hearing for the last five minutes rounded the curve and slowed, easing into the jam of cars and trucks. 150 Keith Latch Little walked over to Nunley and tapped his shoulder. Pros are here now, son. Let them have it. Nunley looked exhausted and the sheriff had very little doubt that he d done ever thing possible to help. Nunley spoke shortly with the paramedics and then stepped off to the side. Jerry, the sheriff called. Yeah, Sheriff? You help out my boys, here. Me and Nunley are going to check something out. Sure. You going to call his wife? Take care of that for me, will you, Little said. The constable was saying something else but Little had already stepped up in the truck and slammed the door. Nunley looked at his vehicle then to Little s truck. Dean motioned the young man towards him. Nunley opened the door. What about my

cruiser? Keys in it? Yes, sir. Somebody ll move it when they need to. Kevin Nunley climbed up into the truck and eased the door shut. You ain t gonna hurt this old truck, deputy. Yes, sir. Little started the engine, reversed, and headed towards the lake. Sir, Nunley began. Where re we heading? The lake, Little said simply. A few moments passed without elaboration. We re in pursuit of Peyton Harper? Nope. We are, as you put it deputy, in pursuit of Dexter Scruggs? Nunley swallowed hard. The mayor, sir? Yep. Then why are we going to the lake? His house was invaded, fortunately, for him, he wasn t there. You know where he is then? Yep. Nunley fell silent, wondering how a man named Peyton Harper shooting Chief Deputy Frank Delacorte had sparked the sheriff s pursuit of the mayor of Ivy Springs. Chapter 19

o call the items in this basement stuff was like calling a thermonuclear device a firecracker. At the foot of the steps,

they d encountered a wall with a brushed steel door resembling the entrance to a bank vault. Michael keyed in a code on a keypad and the door hissed slowly open. Rows and rows of assorted rifles, shotguns, pistols, semi-automatic guns, weaponry of every discernible shape and size, filled the space. One section was entirely devoted to antique weaponry. A pair of dueling pistols sat next to a highly polished musket. A wall display of Japanese samurai swords hung above the velvet-lined display of a battle-ax. I m guessing you were a Boy Scout. You d guess wrong, but I do believe in their philosophy. I believe you take being prepared to a whole new level. Does that mean you like my collection? Michael O Riley asked. He seemed to take more than a little satisfaction out of the look of awe on Peyton s face. I travel a lot. I m what you would call a collector of all things unique. Patricia is kind enough to give a permanent home to my collection. You were a state trooper, right? Yeah. For a while. Peyton didn t elaborate, and Michael didn t expect him too. You know how to operate anything bigger than a service revolver? My piece was P226 Sig-Sauer Navy Model, forty-cal, Peyton said with just a little satisfaction of his own. I wasn t a just a patrol officer, Mr. O Riley. I was a munitions expert with the state s emergency task

force. I may not be on kissing terms with some of your collectibles but I might be able to hold their hand. T 152 Keith Latch Michael s smiled beamed. Peyton. I think we just might not get our asses blown off tonight. He slapped a hand down on Peyton s shoulder. That s the general hope, isn t it? Yeah. Anyway, since we ve got your familiarity with weaponry out of the way, we need to discuss how to get on the island. I was afraid that was going to come up. My guess is that that bastard will have look-outs and not the trigger-shy type. Probably some real rough characters. They d be able to spot an approaching water craft by the time we got to within a mile of Goose Island. Okay, I m with you so far. But what do you propose? Michael stepped to the far wall of the basement. Another brushed steel door was set into the wall. Michael keyed in a code on a keypad. Again, the door hissed open slowly. Michael stepped through with Peyton quickly following him. This room was smaller than the outer, but unlike its bigger brother, this room held no weapons. It was filled with diving gear. Peyton looked around, astonished. This room was much better stocked than any dive shop he d ever been in, the only one being in Cancun, Mexico next to a tourist bar that served an extraordinary margarita. Can you swim well?

Fair. You ever dive? Now, that s something I have absolutely no experience in. Unless, of course, snorkeling counts. Michael laughed. I m afraid not. But there s actually very little to it, especially at the depths we should be dealing with. We can make it with one tank a piece, easy. We re going to swim all the way to Goose Island from the shore? No. It would take too long and by the time we got there, we wouldn t be worth very much if anything. We re going to use that. He pointed to a large plastic container. A box? Peyton asked incredulously. Michael laughed again. Well, inside the box there s an inflatable raft complete with expandable oars. The pump can be operated by my car s cigarette lighter. Takes maybe five minutes to inflate. So we just sneak in, grab the girl, and take off, huh? A Ghost Story 153 Sounds simple don t it. Yeah, too simple, he said. Got another plan? No. Not off the top of my head. Well, then. There you have it. Yeah, Peyton thought, there you have it. My God, Patricia. It was Rebecca s voice coming from the outer room. Peyton and Michael stepped out of the dive shop into the gun shop.

Those were my sentiments, exactly, Peyton said. Rebecca s eyes took in everything and Peyton wondered if he had been as star-struck as she was now. Probably. These are the GPS coordinates for Goose Island, Patricia said handing Michael a computer printout. That s fine, but where s the coffee? Michael asked. *** Michael and Peyton selected weapons they were comfortable handling. Peyton chose a Glock 26, nine-millimeter, from Michael s arsenal along with a fine selection of ammunition to accompany his own Sig P226 and two knives. One, a spring-loaded pocket knife with a partially serrated 3 and 3/8 blade, the other, a Smith and Wesson survival model with a five-and-a-half inch blade with one blood line groove on each side of the tip. Both were sharp enough to shave with. Michael selected a Kimber 1911 chambered in a .45 ACP. Small and light, he told Peyton gripping it was like shaking hands with an old friend. To supplement the Kimber, Michael also picked a Sig Sauer, but his choice was the P239, tooled for nine-millimeter rounds. Michael opted for a full-size Ka-Bar survival knife instead of two smaller pieces as Peyton had done. In addition to the weapons, Michael grabbed two headlamps from a cabinet and tested the batteries. Satisfied, he placed one of each on two separate, ever-growing piles. He began pushing one pile into a black waterproof backpack. He handed one to Peyton who began doing the same. 154 Keith Latch

They dressed in wetsuits. Black and blue for Peyton. Plain black for Michael. Peyton found his a tight fit, but didn t complain. They both stuffed black suits into their bags for use once they left the water. Starting to feel like a hero? More like a condemned man walking to the gallows on his own. Better than being forced, isn t it. Yeah. It sure is. Peyton grinned. Later in the night, when things started to get damned rough, it would be that simple expression that Michael would remember most about Peyton Harper. *** The sign above the building read: Jake s Marina. That was about the only thing that Kevin Nunley could see that would give you the idea that this dilapidated old barn was anything more than a run down structure from many years ago. Kevin liked being on the water and most of his high school weekends had been spent with friends on Willow Lake. A boat, a cooler, and many beers, with girlfriends thrown in. It was a little funny; Kevin could more clearly remember all the different brands of beer he d consumed on those hot, sunny days than he could the girlfriends he d taken with him. Guess that went a long way to showing how teenagers priorities are a little bent when it came to relationships with the fairer sex. Kevin s dad as well as most of his friend s fathers had had their own boats. Jake s Marina wasn t a name he thought he remembered, and he was certain he d never laid eyes on it before now. The marina looked more suited for tractors and hay haulers than

boat and personal watercraft. Kevin caught himself looking to the back of the building. There was no pier, no boat slips. Just pines and the occasional oak, as far as he could tell. The place didn t even set on the lake. I know it doesn t look like much, deputy. It s really not. But this fella has a few good boats and the best part is; he can keep his mouth shut about things. Kevin wondered what kind of things the sheriff was talking of. Oh, yeah. We re in hot pursuit of the mayor! Get ready, Kev, for the end of your very brief career in law enforcement. That wasn t fair was it? Sheriff Little was the best sheriff this county had ever seen. If he was A Ghost Story 155 looking for a bigwig politician while one of his very own men lay bleeding on the side of a country road, there had to be a hell of a reason. Didn t there? Shit. I sure hope so. Come on. We re burning moonlight, the sheriff said and exited the truck. Kevin followed suit. The night was pitch black and thunderheads were gathering in the sky. Already sheet lightning could be seen in the distance. There was no moon; therefore no moonlight to waste. However, he wasn t about to call Sheriff Little on this discrepancy. They walked to the side of the barn-shaped building. On closer inspection, Kevin realized that it wasn t just built in the form of a barn; it was a barn. He smelled the sweet aroma of hay and it brought back

memories of a childhood working at the Nelson farm the Nelson s being the closest neighbors of the Nunley family. It had been a shit job, but the pay did allow an eleven-year-old Kevin to purchase just about every new comic book that the Rex-All down in Ivy Springs stocked on its shelves, not to mention the Saturday matinees and at the Minolta theatre with just enough left over sometimes for popcorn and a Coke. Kevin also remembered another scent, one much less pleasant. His nose searched for it, found it, and his stomach almost revolted. There, underneath the saccharine aroma of hay, was the stink of ancient, decaying animal waste; horse hockey, pig shit. Subtle and quiet, but noxious just the same. Now, no one could like those smells. Tolerate maybe but never like. This Jake guy gonna be here? Yep. He lives in a single-wide trailer in the back, the sheriff said. As they continued around the marina, Kevin first saw the bay window end of an old Fleetwood CrownPointe, then the entirety of the trailer, looking like a white cracker box. Rust had begun eating away at the tin siding of the manufactured home. In some places it was a thick blemish, in others vague strip traces caused no doubt by rain sluicing down from the flat roof. In the yard of the Fleetwood (if that s what one would dare to call it) amongst the weeds were spare boating parts, outboard engines, rusty and jagged propeller blades, etc. 156 Keith Latch Three cinder blocks served as doorsteps. Sheriff Little stepped up onto the first step and knocked sharply on the thin, unsubstantial door.

Inside, the TV was on and Kevin could hear it, but not well enough to know what the occupant of the trailer was watching. He glanced down at his Timex. It was a quarter of one. Prime-time programming had ended quite a few hours ago. They waited for what seemed an hour, but couldn t have been longer than a minute or so. Little knocked again. This time the volume of the television inside was lowered. Footsteps sounded on the hollow flooring inside like booming explosions. Who s it? a voice called from inside. Jake. It s Dean Little. I need to talk to you. About what? Open the door and I ll tell you. What if I just tell you to go to Hell? Sheriff Little grunted. I m serious, Jake. This is official business and if you fail to cooperate I ll cite you and haul you in. You think I give a shit? The man behind the door laughed. You really think I give a shit what you do to me? I suppose not. But let me tell you why you should, Little said, his voice rising a few decibels. He wasn t angry, not yet anyway. He just wanted to make sure that he was heard. Kevin looked on, not saying a word, but thinking plenty. Dexter Scruggs has finally crossed the line. He s in a bad way and if I can get you out here to loan me a boat, well, my deputy and me are gonna ride on out to his little fortress on Goose Island and take care of bidness. Now tell me this, son. Who do you hate more, me or him?

Kevin didn t know what to make of any of this. Apparently, the sheriff and this Jake character knew each other damn well. He d never seen, heard of, or much less, thought possible, that any man, woman, or child, would disrespect Little like this man was currently doing. True, not every one liked Dean Little, that was to be expected. He was, after all, an officer of the law and on that point alone, a person s likeability was bound to suffer. Nevertheless, most everyone respected him, or was wise enough to fake it. Now that s a close call there, sheriff, the voice said. It was almost snarling. A real close call. Now, damn it, Jake. You open this door and open it now! A Ghost Story 157 Fuck off! the voice responded. Kevin Nunley could almost feel his eyes bulging from their sockets. This would be something to tell Jill about all right. Hell, this was one for the history books. Then Sheriff Little surprised Nunley on a whole other level. Please, the sheriff said. He spoke low and cool, but audibly. I need your help. And so do a lot of other people. The man behind the door didn t laugh, didn t snarl, and didn t snicker. Perhaps this was as earth shattering to him whoever he was as it was to Deputy Kevin Nunley. For a long moment, there was nothing. No words were spoken. Only the sound of rumbling thunder in the distance like God had just rolled a perfect strike in Heaven s grandest bowling alley. Then, from inside, there were voices, as in conversation; only that

the man s voice was the only one audible. Damn fruitcake, Kevin thought. Crazy bastard s carrying on a conversation with himself and completely ignoring us. The turn of the doorknob was as unexpected as it was sudden. The door opened outwards and the sheriff had to step down from the cinderblock step to avoid being hit with it. Kevin Nunley looked up at the man that had opened. Framed in the dim golden light of some unseen lamp, he looked as big as giant. Wide shoulders, thick neck, and huge arms with remarkably large hands attached to them. Deputy Nunley, the sheriff said. Meet Jake Sanders. The man that should have been my son-in-law. *** The room was dark, lit only by one small lamp and half a dozen odd machines with strange beeping lights and wires running from them like something in a bad science fiction movie. A fat, unhappy-looking woman in a cotton pants suit sat to the far side of the bed. She looked as nervous and as jiggly as Delaney felt. Delaney stood at the door, scared to enter, but equally afraid not to. Grandfather held her stiffly by the neck and he had already demonstrated his ability to inflict pain. Her cheek still stung sharply from his palm. She didn t want it again, but it might just be worth it to avoid the horrors of this room. 158 Keith Latch Delaney could barely make out someone in the bed. Mostly, she saw a frail form underneath a white sheet, a thin, rail body. By a far stretch of her imagination, Delaney conceived it must be a woman. The

woman s hair was gray, but not shiny silver like that of Mrs. Hill s. This hair looked like the head of a dirty old mop. Her chest rose, but just barely as she took in rasping breath after rasping breath. D-Dexter, the woman with the old mop head hair called. Grandfather released Delaney instantly and went to the bedside. She thought about running. But where would she run? To the water? She couldn t swim back to the shore. She wasn t exactly sure how far away it was, but it was much too far to swim. That was for sure. She couldn t operate a boat. Oh, sure. It looked easy, but that didn t necessarily make it so. Driving looked easy too, didn t it. Becky had held her in her lap while Delaney had steered once. Just steered. She hadn t even had to work the pedals and that had had ended badly; by Delaney sideswiping the Volkswagen with their very own mailbox. Besides, there were men all over the place. Men with guns. If Grandfather had been as evil as to have Becky shot, would he even think twice about an eight-year-old? Probably not. Plus, there were so many of them, too. Delaney counted at least ten men. Did they all work for Grandfather? Were they all mean men? Delaney just couldn t believe that there was that many mean people in the whole world. Where are we? the woman asked. She tried to raise her head, but after a moment of struggle, she settled back onto the pillow. We re somewhere safe, Margaret. Somewhere very safe. The fat woman made a sound like she was spitting out a popcorn kernel. Grandfather turned to her and with voice that caused Delaney to break

out in goose pimples said, Shut your motherfucking mouth, you nasty dyke. Dexter, don t be mean to Greta. She s a nice girl, Margaret said weakly. Where was Elizabeth? Why wasn t she her. Hadn t she said help was coming? Where was it? Had Elizabeth lied? Surely not, hopefully not. Delaney didn t know how much more of Grandfather she could take. Next time it might not just be a slap to the cheek. Grandfather took one of the woman s bony arms. It had wires and tubes running into it from bags on a metal stand. Delaney thought that A Ghost Story 159 it must feel very bad to have that much stuff sticking into you. Grandfather rubbed her arm gently. I m sorry Margaret. It s just that I m so excited. I ve got you a visitor. Ain t that nice? A visitor, Dexter? Is it her? Is it really her? Yes, it is, dear. Delaney has come to see you. Grandfather, still holding the woman s skeletal arm turned to Delaney. Come here child. Come see your grandmother. Delaney s head began to swim and her legs felt like big bricks. Her heart fluttered in her chest and then all she knew was darkness. She didn t even feel the hard, cold floor as her head banged harshly against it. Chapter 20 ichael was wearing a faded flannel logger s shirt and loose khakis over his wetsuit. He was driving the Mustang and Patricia sat beside him, dressed in a long gown and with a wet washcloth over her face. The backseat was empty, save for two

inconspicuous black backpacks covered with a blanket. The trunk, however, was full. Michael wondered if the good folks at Ford Motor Company back in the sixties had designed the trunk with the thought of harboring fugitives. He didn t want to leave Rebecca and Peyton back there too long. If Peyton stiffened up too much from the cramped space, it d be pure D hell to swim the required distance to Goose Island. Perhaps they were being overly cautious, perhaps not. With the mayor s house being broken into and Peyton s vehicle being at the scene of an officer s shooting there was bound to be plenty of fuzz on the streets. Both Michael and Patricia had so far avoided being implicated in any of the goings on around the city or the county simply by the fact that they hadn t been involved. Until now. Perhaps by morning he and his lover may be at the top of all the wanted fugitives lists. Remarkably, however, Michael gave little thought to that. He d been in worse situations before and had come out smelling like a truckload of roses. Actually, he was almost looking forward to what was soon to come, though he seriously doubted he would have told anyone else that. What was really gnawing at him was Patricia. Not only that after over half their lives they d finally found love in each other s arms, that was just a small part of it. What really bothered him was that for the very first time in his entire life he d been content after the lovemaking was finally through. The sex had been great, no qualms about that, but

he d had great sex before. He wasn t bragging to himself, just stating a M A Ghost Story 161 fact. Hell, the odds were in his favor in that department. He d slept with enough women there were bound to be some great moments, some very bad ones, too, lest he forget. However, no matter how good (or how bad for that matter) the lovemaking had been, when it was over, he was ready to go. Always. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn t. Sometimes he d come back, most times he didn t. Nevertheless, he d always wanted to go. Like a thief in the night, wasn t that how it went. It was an instinctual urge to flee from the woman he had lain with. It s what Patricia had called his Houdini syndrome. To disappear into thin air after the deed was done. He hadn t been embarrassed by this, in truth; he even warmed to it after awhile. But not tonight. Not even the tingling of the Houdini syndrome. That scared him. Was he getting too old? Was he losing his edge? Was he in love? Was he ready to be put to pasture? Did he have what it took to play hero one more time? He didn t know. For the very time that he remembered, he feared the future. All his life he d viewed what was to come as a deep ocean of possibilities and countless adventures. Nevertheless, was that ocean to be the death of him; was the water turning treacherous? Would the

waves of that to come lash him and beat and leave him unconscious, unable to do anything but sink to the fathomless bottom and die? He pulled out onto Highway 350 and it took only a few miles before their collective fears were realized. A group of flashing lights lay straight ahead, blocking the road. This, however, was the only route to Willow Lake without circling out for at least an hour. Time had become a too precious commodity. Patricia seized his right hand and squeezed three times. I-LoveYou. I only hope I live long enough to tell her the same, Michael thought as he braked next to the State Trooper working his flashlight like a member of the ground crew on a runway preparing to receive an airliner. * * * 162 Keith Latch The trunk was hot, humid, and cramped. The suspension in the Mustang might ve been adequate in you were riding in a seat but not if you were unfortunate enough to be secreted away especially if there were two of you in the lowest rear section of the car. Peyton had to brace himself constantly to avoid a surprise jar from a patch of uneven road. Still, if you had to be cramped into the trunk of an old car, right above the muffler and rear axle, you could find much worse company that Rebecca Kent. He could smell her. Not just the sweat from the night s heat, but her. It was a clean smell, a fresh scent, like the very aroma that fabric softener companies had been trying for years to synthesize, but still came up short. If Peyton had been a poetic man, which he wasn t, he

would have said that the very air of her was like a pristine springtime with the blessing of angels in each delicate blossom. But he was not poetic, and instead of analyzing, much less romanticizing, the moment, he chose to simply savor it. Why are you doing this? Rebecca asked. He had hoped to avoid the subject. You get straight to the point don t you? Might as well. But you didn t answer my question. Helping people is what I do. Okay, but why help me? You hardly even know me and Scruggs is a very serious man. Are you trying to make me change my mind? No, she said. He realized how incredibly close they actually were. Close enough to (kiss) touch. I am just really curious. There s a good reason. There has to be. I she hesitated slightly, just wanted to know.

Peyton immediately decided to give her a line of bullshit, but before he could conjure up a good lie, his mouth began moving and words were coming out. A long time ago, I guess I was about Delaney s age, I was asleep in my bedroom. It was a school night and my parents were very big on the early bird gets the worm and early to bed, early to rise business. I think that s why I still have trouble sleeping past seven a.m. Anyway. Something woke me up. I wasn t sure then and I m not sure, now what it was exactly. When I woke I could hear muffled

voices from my parents bedroom, but they weren t loud enough to A Ghost Story 163 wake someone up. It s just like I was meant to wake up. Y know. I look at the clock. I used to have this cool Darth Vader alarm clock. It was almost one o clock in the morning. Well, I ve always been a little too nosy for my own good, so I got up to see why my parents were up talking so late. I crept really quietly. Back then, I always used to sleep with my door cracked. Anyway, it was easy getting out in the hallway. My parents room was just down the hall from mine, same side of the wall so I didn t worry about them seeing me as long as I was careful. When I made it as close as I dared to go, a couple feet from their half-open door, I heard my father crying. Now for a little boy, at least in my house, that was a big deal. I d always thought of my dad as a rock. I was just sure he could take on Superman and Batman both, at least in a fair fight. I d never heard him upset, much less crying. I felt awful. It was my mom, my dad, and me and even though close-knit families aren t all the rave anymore, and probably weren t the thing then, we were tight. I didn t get sad, though. I got angry. Very, very angry. I listened for a while to see if I could find out why he was crying. Maybe it was because he was arguing with my mother. But it didn t sound like it. Actually she was consoling him, it sounded like. But I had more than I could stand. I went back to my bed and wrapped up tight, but I couldn t sleep. I just kept thinking about my father just bawling like a baby. I came up with a million reasons, but in the end, none made much sense even to a kid.

Peyton felt Rebecca place her hand on his arm. It s okay, you don t Peyton kept on. The next morning I went off to school like nothing had happened, tired as hell. Not before noticing my mother s eyes, though. They were red and bloodshot and I knew I wasn t the only one that had missed sleep that night. My father never came out of the bedroom. So off I go. I catch the bus and try to forget it. Only I can t. It was as if the more I tried to push the sound of my father crying away, the more vivid it became. But I found out what it had been all about. Before the end of the school day was over with, too. Mrs. Shumaker, my teacher, had what she called teacher s pets. Each student had to be a teacher s pet for a week. She went all the way down the roster and when she was 164 Keith Latch finished with the last name, she just started over. Well, what this teacher s pet did was get to sit in a desk right next to the teacher s desk and also got to help her run a few small errands. Like helping her pass out papers, or picking them up for her. All the boys called the teacher s pets an apple polisher, even though they knew their turn would soon come. Another one of the tasks of the teacher s pet or apple polisher was to accompany Mrs. Shumaker to the teacher s lounge. That was where she ran off her copies for the class. It was neat to get to walk with a teacher and not be in trouble. I always liked being a teacher s pet. That particular day when we walked in, Mrs. Shumaker and I, the teacher s lounge was full. I mean crammed tight. It seemed if

every teacher in the grammar school was in the there and they were all talking excitedly, as if they were competing for airtime or something. Mrs. Shumaker immediately forgot about me and joined in. I listened in long enough to catch what was being said. There had been a murder last night. It was the fifth one in the area in the last month. The first four, however, had been adults. The last one, though, was a seventh-grader named Carrie Henderson. She had been found both sexually assaulted and beaten almost beyond recognition. Oh, my God, Rebecca said. I found out that the state police had been given the case. Seems the local boys were out of their breadth. Anyway, the investigator in charge was Anthony Harper Your father? The one and the same. Damnedest thing was, though, he found the perp, or the killer. Found the sonofabitch less than an hour after he d finished with Carrie Henderson. Turned out to be a bus driver at the school. He d gotten comfortable by getting away with four murders, thought he d go for the gold and get him some young thing. Turns out the Henderson girl not only rode his bus, but was also the last stop in the afternoons. What happened to him? Rebecca asked enthralled. My father blew him away. Put five rounds in him. Turns out he didn t want to be taken into custody. So your father was upset that he found him too late or that he killed a man?

Probably a bit of both. I never got around to asking him and he died a few years ago. A heart attack. I know he was angry with himself A Ghost Story 165 for not being just a little bit better, just a little bit faster. Who wouldn t? But even though that man was a monster, I think taking a human life, no matter how sick, how deranged, affected him deeply. So that s why you became a cop. To keep that from happening? That sounds like a simple question. And the answer is yes, but only partly. Of course, I wanted to keep people like that from doing stuff like that to other people, to do just as my father had done and did for a long time after that. But there was another reason, too. A selfish one. I never wanted to be a victim. I wanted to be strong, never weak. To be able to defend myself against people like the bus driver. There s no shame in that. Yes, there is. No matter how tough, how bad you are, Rebecca, you can always be a victim. You re talking about why you re not a cop anymore? In a way. I resigned from the Mississippi Highway Patrol a few months ago. I d always wanted to be a Deputy United States Marshal. They have exceptionally high criteria and a rough screening process. But with my service record and a few words from the right people, including my Uncle Mack, I got my foot in the door. Everything went great, at least for a while. But soon, I attracted the attention of one of the brass, that s what we call the bosses. His name, which I ll never forget, was Deputy Marshal Howard Kincaid. Nothing more than a pencil pusher, really, but still a marshal. Anyway, he liked to bust the

balls of the trainees. Probably because he lacked a set of his own. One day, I was heading to the cafeteria right after a class on professional ethics and this Kincaid fellow stopped me and right then and there pulled a uniform inspection. I don t have a problem with that. You must be neat in appearance and your uniform, not much besides a tee shirt and sweatpants, had to be impeccable. During the inspection, while I m standing at attention, he asks me if I was Anthony Harper s son. I said I was. I saw this sick grin start to grow on his face. He starts sniffing the air, as if he smelled something, only that something he smells is me. He ordered me to his office. I m trying not to rock the boat and I do know how to follow orders, so I went. When we got to the bastard s office, he started telling me what kind of man I had for a father, or at least his opinion. He said my father was a chicken shit play cop that found his badge in the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. Well, that pissed me off, but I 166 Keith Latch knew how things worked, or thought I did. I held my temper, but to this day, I don t know how. But, he kept on. He said he and my father used to work the same district on the highway patrol, said my father wasn t anything but an ass-kissing lapdog and that if it wasn t for his brother, Mack, he d never made it past his rookie year. Holy shit, Peyton. How did you take it? Her grip on his arm tightened. I turned and started to walk out of the office. I d rather have received a write up for walking away than one for opening my mouth. But before I could even take the first step, he said something I could let

him get away with. What was it? Peyton closed his eyes. In his mind, he was back in Kincaid s office. There was still time to change things, even if he d had a choice; there really was no choice. He said that if he had all the money that my father took in bribes over the years, he d retire to a private island and fuck the local gals until his heart exploded. Peyton paused. He could see it happening all over again. When he finally did speak, he didn t recognize his own voice. I just went crazy. You hit him? More than once. I m pretty sure I broke his nose, knocked out a few teeth, and hopefully shattered a few ribs. They escorted me off the premises before I could do anymore. Threatened to bring charges, but I think that s been swept under the rug. But I won t be going back. You could appeal that, or maybe go back to the troopers. It s over and I m done. That s why I have to do this. Even if it is the last thing that I do. Don t you see? You re doing this for your father? No. For Delaney and for Carrie Henderson. He meant it. If he had to sacrifice himself for the kid, he would do it. When her lips touched his, he was shocked beyond action. He accepted the warmth of her and lost himself in her embrace. They broke away too soon. The car was coming to a stop. We can t be there already, Rebecca said.

Just hope to God your friends are good actors, he said. If not, there would be no saving Delaney Kent or repaying Carrie Henderson. A Ghost Story 167 *** Good evening, officer, Michael said as he rolled down his window. By Michael s count, there were two county officers and a state trooper at the roadblock. By sheer bad luck, Michael had drawn the trooper. What s going on? Just a routine check, sir. License and proof of insurance. The trooper was playing the beam of his flashlight inside the car, first on Michael, then Patricia, and then the empty backseat. His settled his other arm on the top of the car. He leaned in close and Michael could smell the too-sweet stink of Skoal on his breath. As for seeing the man, the light was too bright, and too directly pointed at Michael s face, for that. Michael fished for his wallet. What s the problem officer? No problem. Oh. Michael handed the man his Alabama driver s license and a paper insurance card. Routine, my ass, Michael thought, but wisely, did not voice. Where you headin this time of night? the trooper asked as he skimmed over the documents. My friend here, Michael said, indicating Patricia, has come down with some kinda damn bug, I figured I d get her checked on while she could still ride. Hospital s the other way buddy.

It was. Nevertheless, Michael O Riley, didn t even flinch, much less hesitate. Yeah, Magnolia is. Unfortunately, I like my friend here. I don t think I d drop my worst enemy at that little Band-aid station in Ivy Springs, if you know what I mean. No, we re heading on up to the Florence. The trooper gave a quick laugh. The nauseating stench of Skoal plumed through the car like a puff of poisonous gas. I hear ya, buddy. I hear ya. The trooper spat. Michael heard the splash as it hit the asphalt. Stomach virus? the trooper asked. Either that or food poisoning. Either way, it ain t nice. As if on cue, Patricia slapped the hand towel from her face and pulled an opened paper sack from the floorboard. She retched and 168 Keith Latch retched and Michael almost got sick himself when he heard the sick, slapping sound of the vomit on the bottom of the sack. Uh-uh. Ya ll be careful now, The trooper said. Michael felt relief flood over him like spray from a warm shower. Thank you, officer. Casually, he rolled the window up and began to release the brake. The car inched away from the line of cop cars. Michael almost jumped out of his skin when the trooper tapped on the window glass. He braked and rolled down the window. Your license and insurance card, the trooper said. Thank you, officer, Michael said. For a moment it looked like Patricia was going to say something as well, then at the last moment, she began vomiting into the bag.

Better hurry, buddy, the trooper said. Yeah. I d better, Michael said. Chapter 21

he sound was like pennies dropping into a wishing well, one deep and ancient. Plunk. Plunk. Gradually the sound grew louder, stronger, closer. The sound changed from a Plunk to a booming sound. Delaney was adrift in an absolute darkness. Cold and lonesome, but a million times better than the reality she d escaped. But like all good things, her exile in this alternate dimension, this safe zone was ending. She was being brought back to her own world. Only when her eyes fluttered open and she saw Grandfather over her, his open hand slapping against her head, did she understand that the sounds that had extracted her from the relative safety of an unknown abyss into terrible reality was the thud of him striking her face. Wake up. Wake up, he was whispering, almost frantically. Wake up you little rude bitch. Wake up. Delaney opened her mouth to say something anything, just to keep Grandfather from hitting her, but words would not come. Only a thin, feeble clicking sound escaped her. It must ve been enough. Grandfather stayed his hand. Roughly, he grabbed her by a shoulder and brought her to her feet. Her knees felt like Jell-O and the base of her skull ached. Still, she clung to consciousness like a drowning man to a life preserver. Is she okay, Dexter? the woman in the bed asked. Her voice was urgent and alarmed, much stronger than it had been previously.

Yeah. Sure she is. Just a little shy is all. Without the least bit of help from her, Grandfather moved Delaney from her position at the doorway into the room and over to the bed. From this close, Delaney couldn t help but get a good look at the woman in the bed. Delaney, Grandfather said. Meet your grandmother. Delaney looked at the old woman. She was without a doubt the oldest woman she d ever seen in real life, or even on TV, for that matter. Her skin was blotchy but thin. Wrinkles, unimaginably T 170 Keith Latch profound, were etched into her face as if carved by a magically sharp knife. Beneath the white, almost blaring, shell of her face, Delaney could see bright blue veins running amok. They looked not unlike rivers on a map of the United States that Delaney had seen in one of Becky s National Geographics. Except there were probably more ugly blue lines in this woman s face than all the rivers in the world. Nevertheless, like all children, Delaney quickly adapted to the horrible sight of this old, sickly woman. Unlike most adults, she quickly focused on the most exceptional feature: her eyes. They were still sharp and alive, seemingly unaffected by her illness. Most importantly, however, they looked like kind eyes to Delaney. She knew in her heart, though how she knew she wouldn t ever know that this woman wasn t like Grandfather. She was a nice woman. Quickly, almost instantly, Delaney understood that to survive long enough for help to come she must gain favor with this woman, her Grandmother, in order to spare herself from any of Grandfather s ill-meaning plans.

Hello, she said simply. She nibbled on her bottom lip, as she d seen Becky do on numerous occasions, and watched as her Grandmother began to smile. Yes, she smiled, but not with her mouth, but with her eyes. Delaney, Grandmother said as if the name were alien to her. It s so nice to finally meet you. Delaney, deciding she wasn t quite hungry enough to eat her lip, at least not yet, willed her teeth to stop biting, with the bravery that an eight-year-old shouldn t have to possess, reached out, and grasped one of her Grandmother s own. It s nice to meet you too, Grandma. This time Grandmother did smile with her mouth. Her lips were pale and her skin hung loosely at the ends, but it was miles away better than Grandfather s face. You re very polite, little lady. I bet you re going to grow up to be quite a woman. Water began to stand in the corners of her eyes. For a moment, Delaney didn t understand. Then she did. Grandmother was very sick, and very old. She probably wouldn t live much longer. The thought made Delaney sad too. You have pretty eyes, Delaney said. Why, thank you, Delaney. Grandmother seemed to take some comfort out of this. A Ghost Story 171 I must be very scary to you. I m so very sorry that you had to see me like this I just wanted to see you before I-I freely now. Delaney, unsure of how to proceed looked at Grandfather. His face, however, looked as if it were carved of stone. She couldn t tell what he She was crying

was thinking. She tightened her grip on the sharp hand of her grandmother and said. I don t think you re scary. I really don t. I got the flu last year and I was scared to look in the mirror at myself. I think that you re a lot sicker than the flu and you are still pretty. Delaney felt Grandfather touch her shoulder, but gently. She looked to him and his face was no longer stone, instead, he looked very sad. Thank you, Grandmother said. Despite whatever differences I ve had with your mother, I believe she has raised you very, very well. She must be very proud of you. That was too much for her. At the mention of Becky, Delaney fell apart like house of cards in hard gale. Her hand slipped from Grandmother and she curled both into hard fists. She looked at her Grandfather and she could feel the heat deep down within her, beginning to burn, beginning to consume her. He killed her! she shouted. Grandfather immediately grabbed at her, but this time Delaney was too fast for him. She stepped from his reach and screamed again. Killed? What is she talking about, Dexter? She s crazy, Margaret. Mixed up. She s confused. You killed Becky and you re gonna kill me. Delaney s scream was on the verge of becoming a wail. Dexter. Dexter. Tell me you didn t, Grandmother begged Grandfather. It happened quickly. A hand was slammed over Delaney s mouth,

killing her screams. A strong arm wrapped around her waist. She was lifted and carried from the room. Grandfather moved quickly through the dark hall. A man was coming up from behind. For a very short instant, Delaney thought he meant to help her, but she quickly recognized him as one of Grandfather s mean men. Open it, Eddie! Grandfather screamed to him. Delaney heard a door being opened then she was flung roughly through the air. She 172 Keith Latch stopped when her body collided with a wall. It hurt badly, but she didn t make a sound. She was lying flat on the floor and raised her head to look at the door. Grandfather stood just beyond the doorway. His face was flushed red and he was pointing at her. You little cocksucking cunt! You ve just slit your own throat! If Delaney had ever thought she d experienced fear, real fear, she d been mistaken. Her entire body began to tremble. She knew about the earthquakes out in California. That s what it felt like, an earthquake, but this was a Delaneyquake. All of a sudden, she couldn t breath, not at all. She opened her mouth and worked her lungs, but she was suffocating. It felt like her stomach was doing the wah-tootsie. She barely heard a woman calling. Mr. Scruggs. Hurry. Come quick. Grandfather stared for a second longer, but Delaney could no longer see him. Her vision was murky as if she were looking through water. She heard the door slam and she knew she was alone. For now. She curled into a ball on the floor. Her chest was heaving and she thought

her heart was about to explode. Slowly, she regained the ability to breathe, but by then the room was cold enough that when she exhaled her breath was nothing but an icy vapor. *** The first tendrils of exhaustion had finally begun to tickle at Peyton s mind. He d been awake almost seventeen hours, and he hadn t eaten in over half that time. Fatigue was an enemy that demanded reckoning. He hoped his nice little dip in Willow Lake would reawaken his slumbering senses. If they made it that far. They d stopped only once, and then just briefly. Only that it hadn t felt so brief as it was happening. It had actually seemed like enough time to read and then write a postgraduate thesis on War and Peace. It had been a long time since Peyton had felt relief, as he d felt when the car began to move again. He was about to say something to Rebecca when the car again came to a stop. Guess we re here, she said. A Ghost Story 173 That or either we re in a police impound yard somewhere. Thank you. For what? Don t be like that. It s hard enough for me to say once. Your welcome. But surely, this entitles me to at least one date. Just like a man. To think with his little head. Actually. I was thinking about my stomach. I m betting that you re

a better cook than either me or the chef at Le Silver Spoon. Rebecca laughed and Peyton could tell it was only slightly forced. Under the circumstances, it was an excellent response. We ll talk about it when you get back. Why procrastinate? A women s prerogative. And think of it as an incentive. Fair enough. The trunk opened and their conversation ceased. Hope you two are having a good time, Michael O Riley said. Peyton and Rebecca pulled themselves from the trunk of the Mustang. Peyton found he had a catch in his get-along and held his leg up and began working his knee. What s the matter? Michael asked. Getting old? I m on my way, that s for sure. Peyton looked around. They were parked in the middle of the woods. The ground was gravelly, however. It was some kind of road. He followed the small, narrow lane with his eyes and saw that it led to a drop-off. Past the drop off was Willow Lake. Wordlessly, he and Michael began pulling the bags out of the backseat. The absence sound wasn t only deafening; it was saddening. There was very little doubt that every single one of them; Rebecca, Michael, Patricia had things they wanted to say. Just like Peyton, however, they were unsure of how to articulate anything helpful. This was a time for great speeches and strengthening words.

No one parted his or her lips in speech. Peyton and Michael unloaded the car. Patricia and Rebecca looked on as if they were watching strangers in an odd act of some mysterious, indefinable purpose. On the other hand, maybe they were just taking their last looks. (Maybe?) 174 Keith Latch I want you two to stay in the car while we re gone. Be ready to peel rubber if you have to. Michael said and Peyton only hoped he looked as confident as Michael sounded. We re not leaving. And I am not being obdurate, only sagacious. Woman, talking to you is like being surrounded by two guys with the last names of Webster and Roget. But, while I appreciate your fervor in the matter of our continued existence due to this inauspicious circumstance, Michael paused, looked to Peyton and winked. The fact of the matter does remain that if the shit gets bad enough for you to tell something s wrong all the way back here, things will be really fucked up on the island. Y know? Rebecca covered her face with her hands. I don t know what I m doing. I can t ask you two to do this. It s suicide! And we all damn well know it! She began to sob maddeningly. Rebecca, Peyton said. I can t speak for anyone else and I wouldn t try if I could. You needed help and now so does Delaney. I think it would be much more of a death for me not to go. Peyton turned and, with his bag in hand, began walking down to the lakeside. Michael cleared his throat. I may not be as poetic as my young

friend there, but I feel the same way. So you girls sit back, relax, and wait for the fireworks. He turned and started towards the water. Michael, Patricia said. He turned and held his hand up to her. He didn t say a word, only flashed a much older, but no less mesmerizing, smile like the same one she d witnessed the first time they d met and countless times since. It was a smile that said, Don t worry about me. I may not know what the Hell I m getting into, but I m not worried. So you shouldn t be either. Then he, too, was gone. Thunder rumbled from the sky above. *** She s gone, Mr. Scruggs! For heavens, sake she s gone! Dexter could feel Greta pulling on him, but he was much stronger than the nurse was and all her effort wasn t enough to distract him. Then before she became too much of a hindrance, Eddie, one of Dexter s security men, pulled her from him and silenced her in some A Ghost Story 175 form or fashion or another. That wasn t what was important. No, that wasn t important at all. What was important was Margaret Hazel Scruggs. His wife of many troubled, but unforgettable, years. Margaret was the mother of his child, the queen of his castle. He knew she was gone. Nevertheless, that knowledge did very little next to nothing in fact in the way of stopping his efforts of resuscitation. He interlocked his fingers, one hand over the other. He locked his elbows. He found that spot on her chest and began pumping.

He could hear the ribs crack and the bones crack. Margaret s body was nothing but a shell. He knew that, he just couldn t believe it. Please! Just a little longer. Please. I want to tell you that nothing I ve ever done was meant to hurt you. Just tell me you love me one more time. Please! Margaret was gone. The light that had burned for so very long, the light that the cancer had only dimmed, though never extinguished, was finally dark. Her eyes now looked like little more than marbles. They belonged somewhere else, a playground, and a group of kids surrounding them, shooting them. They didn t belong here, not anymore. Dexter felt it descending upon him. A curtain of the bleakest night, of the unfathomable depths of the universe. He was alone. Now and forever. The house was filled with people and he was as lonely as the sole resident of Pluto was. Strange, it seemed at first. Then it didn t. It made a type of perfect, if not righteous, sense. There was more than mere loneliness, no matter how profound it was. Oh, yes, there was something more. With a steady hand, he swooped over Margaret s face, closing her eyelids. Behind him, Eddie stood with a gun in Greta s ear. Apparently, both Eddie and Greta saw something different in Dexter. It was possible. The feeling was so strong that he felt it had changed his very essence.

You okay, boss? Eddie asked, rather timidly. Dexter didn t answer. He felt his new self. It felt comforting in a way. He was still all alone. He knew that. The pure anger that grew deep in his soul was more than fair compensation. Much more. 176 Keith Latch Greta. I don t think we ll need you anymore. Dexter pulled his own gun from the waistband of his pants. He disengaged the safety and cocked it. Before Greta could mutter a single plea, Dexter, as if by magic, made her face disappear. *** Through pure willpower, Delaney was able to breathe again. Her eyes, stinging and wet, focused on the room. It contained only a wooden chair and a closet. However, the wall, the same wall she d been thrown into, held a window and hope flooded her. The temperature in the room continued to drop. The very air in front of Delaney began to shimmer. In seconds, the sparkling became a form, then a person, then Elizabeth. Delaney ran to her and wrapped her arms tightly around her. She was wet and she was cold, but that didn t matter. All that mattered was that she was here. You ve got to help me, Elizabeth, you ve got to. Elizabeth placed a finger, blue and shriveled, to Delaney s lips. We must be very quiet, she whispered. Something bad has happened and there s no time to waste. Delaney was about to ask what could be worse then what had already happened. Then she knew. Grandmother had died. She looked

into Elizabeth s dark eyes. She s dead? The ghost only nodded her head. Okay. How do I get out of here? The window. Open it and , The gunshot tore through the subdued quiet of the room like a locomotive in a nightmare. Delaney was very much on the verge of total shutdown. Too many horrors were gushing across her way too fast. Children are a marvel of resiliency, their perceptions of reality not yet having been tainted and thus narrowed by what the adults called the real world. Still, children are only mortal beings. Their minds may have the elasticity of the ultimate rubber band, but even that elasticity is subject to the rules of physics and to the laws of nature. Delaney s first real glance into this hateful side of life was changing her, jading her in ways she couldn t even begin to understand. With each new, insufferable event of this night, her blood cooled. Anymore A Ghost Story 177 and she believed she would be just as cold, just as pale, and just as dead as Elizabeth. Delaney, Elizabeth said. She didn t answer. Her eyes had focused on some distant, unseen place and she stared off into it. She couldn t feel the cold flesh of the ghost s hand as it touched, then caressed her cheek. She couldn t feel the white-hot tear streaming down that very same cheek. She couldn t see the tear, very similar to her own, began its trek down Elizabeth s face. You can t lose hope, Delaney. If you do, there s no point in

surviving. Because that s all you ll ever do survive. Do you understand? From a very secret place, one so well concealed she herself hadn t known of it until now, Delaney answered. Yes. I think I do. Good, Elizabeth said. Now listen carefully. Chapter 22

he water wasn t as cold as Peyton thought that it would be. It wasn t like a hot bath, but neither was the temperature low enough to risk hypothermia. It was dark. Very dark. So dark that the waterproof light on Michael s head which had been as strong as a spotlight out of the water was now only a weak hint at actual light and that was from only seven or eight feet away. His own light seemed just as insubstantial. Perpetual darkness was something that Peyton Harper had never pondered until now. The crash course back in Patricia Webster s basement had gone smoothly enough. Michael covered the operation of the buoyancy compensators, the air tanks, and breathing regulators, plus how to clear the facemask if an excess amount of water managed its way in despite the top-of-the-line seal. Michael had even discussed the scissor-like way that you were supposed to kick your legs in order to propel yourself because regular swimming with four propellants, two arms and two legs just didn t cut it with all the weight that you had to carry. He d mentioned very little about how dark it would be. Perhaps that was for the best. Peyton Harper hadn t been afraid of the dark for a

very long time, if, in fact, he ever had been; but darkness above the water and its brother underneath the surface were two very different animals. After the last few hours, old fears such as darkness and things that go bump in the night, while childish and supremely adolescent were resurfacing with all the vigor of a Viagra salesman at co-ed nursing home. Considering the extenuating circumstances, however, Peyton thought he was doing relatively well. He was keeping pace with Michael O Riley, though that might have had more to do with Michael than with Peyton. Peyton was sure that O Riley was holding back to avoid becoming separated. T A Ghost Story 179 He felt the water surrounding him and the lake life as it parted in his wake. Here, he felt the scrape of a fin. There, he felt the tickle of a mouth, probing for dinner. He was suddenly very grateful for the wetsuit that he was wearing. He only hoped Willow Lake had not become filled with debris and refuse. If a two-by-four with a couple of rusted nails was directly ahead of him, Peyton wasn t sure he d be able to maneuver in time, if even saw it at all. He d hoped that they would surface sporadically. They were only twenty feet down, but to Peyton it felt like a thousand. Unfortunately, among Michael s countless gizmos and collectibles , he d selected a GPS-enabled wristwatch; Peyton couldn t even believe that such a thing existed, that had made going up for your bearings as oldfashioned as iron lungs. At one point, he d thought he d lost Michael. He d been right.

However, Michael hadn t lost him. It took a few moments (moments Peyton thought would never pass) for Michael to make his way to Peyton and for the novice diver to get his own internal bearing set back right. Just when it seemed that his legs had turned to lead and that the air in his tank had soured to the point of being poisonous, he d seen Michael s light start an ascent. Slowly. According to the plan, Peyton would wait for Michael to come back and get him after he d ensured (literally) that the coast was clear. During those few minutes, Peyton did a dangerous and foolhardy thing. He questioned his actions. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. He even considered swimming back. Hell, he could make it back on his own. Couldn t he? He could, but he wouldn t. Even if he removed himself clandestinely from the water and left this place, this town, this county, this state, even this country, the shame would leave with him, an uninvited traveling companion. He would be an embarrassment to himself. It was then that he realized something very important. There was no shame in failing, perhaps death or imprisonment, but certainly no shame in it. There was plenty of it in not trying, maybe more than he would be able to stand. When Michael s light began its descent back down to him, he was ready. For what, he didn t know, but he was ready. 180 Keith Latch ***

I ll be double-dipped in shit! Sheriff Dean Little said as the first drops of rain began to fall. The engine had died a horrible death a full five minutes ago and so far, Deputy Nunley had no luck in reviving the asthmatic contraption. Dean had already scoured the boat for oars it was a Coast Guard requirement to have them on all small craft but had come up empty. That sonofabitch Jake would have a lot to answer for when he got back to the shore; that was for sure. Sheriff, Nunley said. Yeah? I think I found the problem. Dean looked back at his deputy. He d removed the gas cap from the tank and was peering down into it. The man filled it up for us while we watched, Little said as if that changed everything. I d hate to suggest that the fella is anything but honest. There could have been a leak, I guess. But the tank is right here and the fuel line is only about a foot long and I don t see any sign of a puncture. So, Jake, you wanna play this late in the game. Well, son, you might have won the battle, but the war, well, it ain t quite over with yet. Goose Island was within sight, but only just barely. The current had taken them away from it, so the distance was increasing. The rain had really begun to fall now. Dean looked out of the lake s surface. The raindrops were bombarding the rippling black lake like tiny, invisible bombs from a World War II aircraft, before there were such things as

Scuds and guided missiles. That s when he saw it. Just a glance. A speck of pale light through rain-choked darkness and then only for an instant. He strained his eyeballs, almost popping them out of their sockets, trying to find it again. He almost dismissed it to both old age and nerves when he saw light again. This time not one small beam, but two. Tiny pinpricks against the inky landscape of Goose Island. Then darkness again. I think we need to find a way to that island, deputy, and might quick like. A Ghost Story 181 *** He didn t think of himself as the mayor anymore. Nor even as a citizen. He was now a murderer, clearly and concisely, like the cut of a master surgeon. That was what he had become. He was not blind to the fact that he had much more than merely dabbled in the arena of the underground crime for most of his life, and he had sanctioned the slaughter of human beings before. Three, his own son included. However, he had never before pulled the trigger himself. Dexter Scruggs knew he would never return to Ivy Springs. Too much had gone out of control for that. His entire life had unraveled in the space of mere hours. He accepted this begrudgingly. But he accepted it, nonetheless. Small towns could (would?) only hide so much.

He wiped splattered blood from his face with a wrinkled and stained handkerchief. It was monogrammed, DS, a gift from Margaret many years ago. His study was warm, too warm. The walls were lined in cedar and the furnishings looked as if they had been swiped from a hunting lodge, albeit a very upscale one. Leather volumes that he d never read lined customized bookshelves. Leather wing chairs faced an antique desk with a green felt topper; a generously supplied bar. That s where he headed to a small glass tumbler. Two ice cubes and Jack Daniels Black Label three inches of it. The first inch burned. By the second his throat was numb, and by the third so was his stomach. He refilled the glass carefully with the same amount as the first. This time it went down like ice water. Someone knocked at the door. Come. Sir, the uh, nurse, has been taken care of, Eddie said. Good. Prepare to get every one off the island. Make sure we have enough fuel to make our way well into Alabama. Unquestioning, Eddie replied. Already being done, sir. Very good, Eddie. Alan and Darryl, where are they? Almost all his sentries had foolishly responded when he had shot Greta, a very unfortunate thing. Back guarding the pier. 182 Keith Latch Good. Okay, then. I ll head back down. It would be his last words.

Oh, Eddie, Dexter said. Eddie stepped forward. Dexter placed not one, but two rounds into Eddie s chest. He might be new to murder, but he was getting much better at it. His gun now boasted a silencer. He had taken two lives in less than one half hour. That was good. He was not suffering from some sort of guilt shock. That was very good. He was now prepared. Prepared to kill the murderer of his wife now. Delaney. He knew it would be hard killing a child, especially when he was pretty much virginal when it came to killing. Perhaps one more drink, he would have very little difficulty. He could have had it done. Sure, no problem. Plenty of men around that would do it. But with what little mind that he still retained, Dexter was very sure he would enjoy it. *** Lightning scratched across the sky. Thunder pealed like great cannons in the nearby cosmos. Rain, sharp and biting, fell like whitehot needles. It was a wonderfully fucked up summer night. Darryl had a raincoat, Alan didn t. Alan had a cap, Darryl didn t. Holy hellfire, Alan. I like the pay and all, but I m getting soaked. Stop your bitchin; at least you ain t standing here in a tee shirt. Well, Hell. Excuse me for listening to the weather. I knew you hadn t read it in the paper, Alan said. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Darryl turned to his skinny friend. Nothing. Forget about it.

To Hell with you, man. Just cause I ain t got my GED like you, don t mean I m stupid. You re right. Forget I said it. Alan hoisted his gun up in his hand. You threatening me, man? You re paranoid, Alan I tell you what , He never got the chance to finish, nor did Darryl have the opportunity to ask him to do so. Both, simultaneously, were knocked A Ghost Story 183 unconscious by stiff blows to their neck. The Hollywood move worked pretty well, actually. It did require a little practice, of course. Both Peyton and Michael had had their share, though under different circumstances. If this is the best he s got, we should be back in time to catch Good Morning America, Michael said. Let s tie them up; their weapons can keep the fish company. Allow me, Peyton said. These two are old friends of mine. Darryl and Alan were secured in breakneck speed. Instead of taking the uphill path, Peyton went to the left and Michael to the right. *** Delaney wished that she could fly, like Elizabeth. Up here, it wasn t the thunder, not the lightning, and not even the rain, it was the wind. It blew hard and wild. Elizabeth was here. Without her, there had been no way she d had the courage to keep her balance. The cabin was at least three stories high. Delaney didn t have either the knowledge or inclination to convert that height into feet. She knew it was too high to

fall, that was enough. The howl of the wind was too monstrous to talk over so to communicate with Elizabeth Delaney had to use mind talk. Can t you carry me down? Down is nowhere to be right now. I promise you that. Can t you take me home? Please, can t you? Oh, Delaney. I wish that I could, but I can t. Don t you care? You know that I do. Or I wouldn t be here right now. Then just go. You re not helping me. You re not my friend. I thought you were, but you re not! Leave me alone. It took Delaney all of half a second to regret what she d said. To Elizabeth s credit, however, it didn t take her nearly as long to understand that it was only fear and anger, not Delaney, saying those things. Am I going to die? No. Elizabeth pointed to a chimney. They made their way to it and beneath it; Delaney was shielded from the worst of the rain and wind. I can t save you Delaney. But I can help, like I ve been doing. 184 Keith Latch There are people coming to save you. Real, live people. But like you, they re going to need help probably a lot of it. So, I have to go to them. I won t be gone very long. But you hold on here, and hold on tight, okay. The chimney was brick and hard, but Delaney clasped her hands tightly to it. Almost sinking the tips into the hardness.

You promise you ll come back? I promise. Delaney didn t feel like an eight-year-old anymore. She felt five and as Elizabeth turned to shimmering sparkles, she began bawling like a newborn. *** The gun was a Walther PPK and it felt great in his hand. He would need only one shot. One clean, perfect shot. As Dexter walked from his study to the room that his granddaughter was in, he thought of all the places that he could shoot her. He could make it extremely painful and excruciatingly long. The Walther was chambered for a nine millimeter and it was a rough round, but delivered to the kneecap, for instance, death would come, especially to a child, but it wouldn t come fast enough for her. It would give her time to face the pain head on and consider the man that had delivered such torment to her. That would be nice. Or maybe blow her fucking arm off. Same effect. Or maybe shove the barrel up her little bald twat. It would be mercifully quick, but her body would more than likely explode as if she d swallowed a live grenade. He would like that too. In the end, he decided a bullet between the eyes would be sufficient. After all, he wasn t a monster. Was he? He reached the door and stopped. Delaney, he called. She didn t answer. Not that he expected her to. I m sorry about before, I think we should talk about it. He smiled;

he really was an evil bastard wasn t he. I m going to open the door, dear. Make sure you re decent. He cackled; he couldn t help himself. A Ghost Story 185 The Walther was behind his back, hidden as well as he cared it to be. He pushed the door open slowly, deliberately as if trying to revolutionize the way it should be done. The empty room caused a pain in his chest and for a second he thought he was going into cardiac arrest. Then he remembered the closet. He stepped to it. His feet slapped the wooden floor. He wasn t as dramatic with the closet door; he was quickly tiring of this game. The closet, except for a few heavy coats, was empty. As he was slamming the door, he felt the rain on his face courtesy of the open window. Chapter 23 he gate had one guard and there were no cameras for as well as they could tell. They rushed him at exactly the same time. Peyton was going for the man s neck, Michael for his weapon. Both came from the shadows. When the alarm sounded, they were ten feet away. It might have as well have been a mile. The guard jerked his head up at the sound and then side-to-side. He found Michael and raised his gun. The shot was deafening. Out of the corner of his eye, Peyton saw Michael fall to the ground. Peyton s piece was already up, but he was too late and he knew it. He saw the muzzle flash from the guard s gun and did his best to dodge, but the human body was never meant to race a bullet. His eyes closed.

The bullet never came. Peyton opened his eyes. Elizabeth stood between him and the guard with the assault rifle. Or, at least where the guard had been. The rifle lay on the ground; Peyton caught a glimpse of the man as he ran towards the woods like cat with its tail afire. She was facing him. Peyton wanted to say thank you, but when you re faced with an apparition, a literal ghost in the night, words that you want to say never find their way. In fact, he could say nothing. Fortunately, the spirit spoke. She s on the roof. A thin, blue finger pointed to the house s chimney. She s safe for now. Then she was gone. He remembered Michael. The Irishman s face was contorted into a mask of pain when Peyton reached him. Peyton pulled him gently to his feet. Did I just see what I think I saw? Instead of answering him, Peyton asked if he was okay. T A Ghost Story 187 Yeah, I guess. But I think we should have just shot the asshole from the woods. That probably would ve worked out better. At least we had the Kevlar. Michael rubbed his chest and grunted. I still think I m going to bruise. Let s go. Delaney s on the roof.

How do you know? Peyton gave the older man a look. Never mind. *** Dean Little and Deputy Kevin Nunley were soaked through and through. If Dean had ever been wetter, he certainly couldn t remember it. They boat had floated further and further backwards. Goose Island was now only a darker blotch on the dark horizon. At Dean s best estimation, they should drift back to the shore in a few more hours. That s if the current didn t change on them, which, of course, it probably would. Let s just call for help, Sheriff, Kevin Nunley said. Both wore walkie-talkies and though they were in the middle of nowhere the mobile repeater in Dean s truck would bounce their waves off to a series of towers that would eventually beam it to dispatch. Dean didn t even consider that an option. It wasn t the embarrassment of being up Shit Creek without a paddle, which they basically were, but to involve other officers in what he had to admit was a half-baked scenario (and he was being very generous to himself in that appraisal) would probably end his days in office, not that that mattered. What mattered was he had to get to the island while there was still time. Why he felt such urgency wasn t clear to him, only that he felt it. Let s give it just a little while longer. The deputy nodded his acceptance of the order. I know you think

I ve lost my marbles, Kevin. But I wouldn t have you out here without a dang good reason. I know that, Sheriff. I must tell ya, though, I wish you d let me in on your secret. 188 Keith Latch I don t think that s a real good idea, but believe you me, as soon as we get back to the office you ll get the transfer to the morning shift you were wanting. Dean waited for his deputy s response, but it was if the kid hadn t heard him. He was staring blankly out over Dean. Didn t you hear me, deputy? Slowly, almost if he wasn t even meaning to, Deputy Nunley raised his hand and pointed. Dean turned around quickly. He blinked his eyes and then rubbed them roughly. He couldn t begin to believe what he was seeing. Is that what I think it is? Nunley asked. It sure looks like it. Well, I ll be damned, Nunley said. A weak smile appeared on his face. Maybe, but not yet, Little said. The small, inflatable raft floated slowly towards them as if directed by some unseen hand. *** There were two men on the front porch. If they d become complacent tonight, the one shot from the assault rifle and the alarm had ruined that. They were milling around excitedly. They looked stupid enough to

be very dangerous. Not one time, however, did they attempt to leave the porch. What s this bastard got; his own frigging army? Michael asked. Sure looks that way. Peyton had to admit that it did. Two at the pier, one at the gate and two on the porch, odds are against these being the last. Don t think about the odds. Huh? A friend of mine, gambles in Las Vegas a lot, does pretty well. Actually, he does very well. He says that s the secret to it all. Don t ever think about the odds. Just roll. I hate to break it to you Peyton, but this ain t Vegas. Thank God for that. So. What s the plan? We rush them? Didn t work too well last time. Got anything in your bag of tricks? A Ghost Story 189 Thought you d never ask. Michael pilfered through his bag, brought out a long black gun a dart gun. Peyton was relieved. So far, they had managed to avoid shooting anyone. He had no doubt that he would be able to do so when the time came; he just wasn t very excited by the idea. Can you reload in time? If one guard took a knockout dark, the other would be instantly alerted. That s the beauty of this bad ass right here. Holds four shots. A little slower than a semi-automatic but not enough so you d notice. Good.

One problem, though. Isn t there always. What is it? Peyton asked. The round I took. Hurt my arm. Kevlar or not, I m afraid that my aim may not be true. Michael loaded the dart gun and passed it to Peyton. It felt good in his hands. Though it was nowhere as substantial as his Sig, but hefty nonetheless. The grips were a high-grade plastic and the frame was blued. The sights were standard. Works best if you get them near them in the neck, but the thigh is a close second. The distance was a hundred feet. It was not an easy shot in the best of conditions, especially with it being Peyton s first time to shoot the thing. Nevertheless, it wasn t going to get any better and the both of them knew it. Don t think about the odds. Yeah, right. Might be easy to do when you re only gambling with money instead of life. Moreover, not just your own life, but quite a few more. The wind was a gale and the rain lashed at his eyes. Peyton slowed his breathing. Slow in, easy out. He gripped the gun firmly, but not tightly. His index finger rested against the trigger guard. With his right eye, he focused on the far man. He cupped his shooting hand and gun in his left hand, a cup-andsaucer grip. He rose slowly, pressing his back into the high stone wall. The dart hit the neck of the far guard. He staggered, but not for long. Falling to the floor of the porch roughly, he attracted the attention of the other guard. Just as Peyton had hoped, the second man turned away from him and walked over to his fallen comrade.

The second dart went wild. The second man must have seen it; he twirled around bringing his weapon up. 190 Keith Latch The third dart caught him mid-thigh. The dart s poison took longer to affect this man. Not a lot longer, but long enough for him to stumble his way to the wall and flip a switch. The second man fell to the ground. Light, blaring, and bold, filled the night. Floodlights positioned strategically around the house were brought to life. It was as bright as mid-day. I don t think this is good news, Michael said. Let s get a move , Peyton was cut off by the explosion in his leg. A searing pain flared through his bones, his muscles, and his sinew, even his blood. He looked down just in time to see the ground come flying toward him. *** Michael O Riley saw Peyton take a bullet in the leg. He saw blood, skin, and God only knew what else fly away at the moment of impact; like a miniature volcanic eruption. He saw the kid because that s all he really was, a kid; might be a big fella, with a lot of muscle and a lot more heart, but he was still just a kid crash to ground like a ton of bricks. Instinctively, Michael reached down for him. It probably wasn t the thing to do while bullets were flying, to stop, and check on the fallen. They probably taught combat soldiers to do exactly the opposite. In this case, it probably saved Michael s life.

Just as he bent down, he felt the round pass above him. If you had ever told Mike O Riley that you could feel a bullet pass you by still not be hit, he d have called you a goddamned liar. But, by hell, he did feel it, or at least the super-heated air that the high-velocity projectile created. He fell backwards. The ground, though wet and muddy, didn t give an inch to his back and the air was knocked from him. A million thoughts overtook him, the chief of those being how in the hell he was going to get out of this mess. He brought his gun up to bare. A man in a second floor window. He yanked the trigger countless times, hoping, he was at least getting close. No combat soldier was he. A Ghost Story 191 There was no way of getting Peyton out of here. The kid was unconscious. He probably weighed twice as much as Michael. In addition, there wasn t even a guarantee that he could get himself out of here. There s always time to come back, he told himself. He must have believed that to be so, or he never could have brought himself to leave the kid. Michael rolled, planted one hand in the grass, and used it to boost himself up. His legs were moving well before they even touched the ground. He was numb. He felt nothing. Not the rain, not the wind. Not even the sensation of his feet barraging across the wet, slippery grass. He d lost his bag, but didn t realize it. His gun was still clenched in

an iron first, though he had no idea of it being so. Michael O Riley felt like some dumb jackass that couldn t swim but had fell off into the deep end of a swimming pool because he d been walking to close to a slippery edge. He passed the gate, then the exact position that he d been knocked down, then off into the woods. Limbs, branches, briars slapped at his face, tore at his flesh. He kept running. The ground was sloping. The wet, slick leaves were like glass and the terrain was treacherous. The rock he tripped over was dark and jagged. He never saw, just felt, the snap as his anklebone separated into numerous different pieces, like a shattered ceramic lamp. He did see, just as Peyton must ve, the ground rushing him. He raised his arms to protect his face and head, but he fell too fast and then all he knew was darkness. The small branch, sharp and pointed, sliced through his right eye, through his brain, and broke through the skull at the back of his head. Thankfully, the pain didn t last long. Chapter 24 espite the heat that the summer storm stirred, Delaney Kent was chilled to the bone. She was also wet and weary. Her tears no longer ran hot, though they still ran. In fact, her eyes were sore from the crying. No, not just sore, but throbbing. She could feel each beat of her heart in them. At least it was still beating. She d heard another gunshot, maybe two. At least what she thought

had been a gunshot. With the thunder, it was hard to tell; they sounded so very alike. She hadn t moved. Hadn t dared to. She was hugging the rough brick chimney and would rather have her arms fall off than to consider relaxing her hold. She felt the change in the air and then Elizabeth was there. You need to get in and get out. Her voice was no longer calm, no longer serene. I thought help was coming. What s happened? Elizabeth considered her. She bent down low, very close. You re going to have to save yourself, Delaney. Okay? You re going to have to leave this place yourself. No! she shouted. I can t, Elizabeth. I can t. You must! Elizabeth s shout startled her. She had never heard her friend shout, least of all not at her. However, it didn t matter. Nothing really mattered anymore. She d already decided that, hadn t she? Grandfather no longer mattered, Elizabeth no longer mattered, and Delaney s own life no longer mattered. She was tired and she was spent. She couldn t see directly to the ground because of the downward angle, but she could see it out in the distance. The lawn was well lit, then the fence, the woods through which Grandfather had brought her. It all didn t amount to a thing in the end. D A Ghost Story 193 She could just let go. Release her arms from the chimney. She

might have to give herself a little nudge, but that was all. Then it would all be over with, that s what mattered. All that mattered. Delaney. Delaney, Elizabeth said. Elizabeth touched her cheek. Her fingers, though, were no longer cold. They felt warm, almost alive and then Delaney realized it was because of her own profound coldness. Wasn t it? I want you to look over there, child, Elizabeth said. Delaney didn t look. Look! The shout startled Delaney back into a shallow sanity. Elizabeth had removed her hand from her face and was now pointing. Out of the lighted lawn, over the fence, over the trees and even the water. Your mother is out there. She s waiting. Waiting for you. Every single breath that she takes is for you to be all right. Can you imagine wanting someone so much and knowing they didn t care if they ever made it back? Delaney s lower lip began to tremble. Can you? N-No. Her arms were like limp noodles but somehow she found the strength to revitalize her grip on the brick. Why, wouldn t you tell me if she was alive? Why did you keep it a secret? I had to know she was safe first. That was all Elizabeth could say. Apparently, just being a ghost didn t entitle you to knowing everything about everything. Delaney looked at her. She looked scared. Nothing else that could happen to her; she had already died. She was afraid for Delaney. Sudden realization hit her young mind. There would

be no way to know if Delaney would be a ghost if she died. She may never see her mother again; she may be lost on the Other Side. How do I get down? Delaney asked. Follow me. Everyone in the house is very busy right now. *** Peyton woke with a start. That wakefulness brought with it a cacophony of pain. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for his attention and he gave it, willingly or not. He opened his mouth to scream, but found he couldn t. Not because he couldn t open his mouth. Oh, no sir ee. It was already open. The 194 Keith Latch business end of a very big semi-automatic was rammed between his teeth. It tasted of oil and cold, hard steel. His scream was nothing more than a garbled resonance. The man holding the gun in his mouth was Dexter Scruggs. He was wearing a wide shit-eating grin. His eyes were glazed and sweat poured from him. His hair was no longer slick and combed, but wiry and frayed. He looked like a man that had stepped out of himself and didn t plan to return. Nice to see you re awake. It would have been sad for me to kill you without you seeing my face. Again, Peyton tried to speak and again he was met with the same mumbled gag. Cat got your tongue, friend? Dexter laughed like a very old, very sick man. Peyton forced himself to look around. Four other men were present.

All gun toting. They looked as if they were cut from the same cloth as all the others. Where was Michael? Was he already dead or had he managed to escape? Was this everyone, he wondered? Not that it mattered. Five against one were shitty odds, especially when you had a fucking gun shoved down your gullet. Jerry. Jerry Siler. That had been the man he d told Michael about. The Vegas Gambler. Well, fuck Jerry, and fuck not thinking about the odds. This wasn t Vegas and this sure the hell wasn t blackjack. My little daughter-in-law must have one Cadillac pussy to convince you and your friend to risk your life for a kid. My grandkid! She s a looker that s for sure, Peyton. Mind If I call you Peyton, friend. Didn t think so. Yep, ole Rebecca must have some kind of magic snatch. Funny, though, she didn t show her pretty dick sucking face. Always wanted to kill me a federal marshal. Oh, I m sorry, friend, a former federal marshal. Surprise erupted like a geyser on Peyton s face. That s right. Dexter used a free hand to pull a piece of paper from his back pocket. In one snap of his wrist, it unfolded. Peyton knew what it was even before he saw the official Marshals Service seal across the top. That is if you can still call an ex-state trooper that got his sorry ass kicked out of the academy a marshal. Bad luck on your A Ghost Story 195 part. If you hadn t got kicked out you probably wouldn t be dying in about five seconds. Dexter pulled the hammer back on the gun. Sure hope it was worth

it. *** Delaney crept in through the very same window that she d left. Rainwater dripped off her and plopped onto the wooden floor. With Elizabeth at her side she made her was cautiously to the door. She placed a hand on it and gingerly twisted the knob. She couldn t remember if the door had creaked or not. There was nothing she could do about it even if it did. For once, something went her way. The door opened as easily and as soundlessly as if it had just received a good squirt of oil. The hallway, dark and narrow, led two different ways. To the left was not only the room she had met her grandmother in, but also to the stairwell Grandfather had used to bring her up. She didn t know where the other direction led, its end hidden in a swath of shadow. Elizabeth went to the right and Delaney began to follow, and then stopped. Grandfather was talking, and he was downstairs. She listened. She could tell it was his voice, but not what he was saying. A strange sound followed Grandfather s words. Something terrible and frightful. Something tugged at her. She looked to Elizabeth. Her friend was shaking her head, beckoning her to follow, but she couldn t. Something even stranger than a ghost of a long-dead teenage girl was beckoning her in the other direction. Don t. It was Elizabeth and she spoke in mind talk.

I have to, Delaney answered in the same fashion. No. You don t. The important thing is you. You must escape. That sound, that s someone in trouble, isn t it. That someone s gonna get hurt, aren t they? Delaney asked. She didn t need a reply. Elizabeth s mournful eyes told it all. Who is it? It s not Becky. I know that, so who is it? Elizabeth slowly approached Delaney, and then knelt down to one knee. My precious little thing. She stroked Delaney s cheek. Your 196 Keith Latch heart is much too big. The person downstairs came to help you. Now, you can leave on your own. Everyone is distracted; you can walk right out of this place. Survive. Delaney said, though weakly. Yes, yes, Elizabeth trumpeted. But if I leave, then I m not any better than a murderer myself. I d be killing whoever it is, whoever came to save me. Elizabeth lowered her head and began to shake it. It looked to Delaney as if her friend was trying to shake off a bad dream. Then, she looked back at Delaney. Her eyes were deep, powerful. You re awfully grown up for a kid, you know that? Will you help me? Yes. But I want you to make a stop first. Delaney followed Elizabeth to the right, down into the shadows. Elizabeth stopped at a door. The door was open and she was glad of that. Her luck was not going strong enough to chance another squeaky hinge. She passed silently into the room.

She recognized the room as some kind of office, but one more like Patricia s than her mother s. The body on the floor should ve bothered her. Should ve but didn t. Maybe she had changed so much and so soon, that death and its ugliness no longer held its former decadent sway over her. The gun was lying beside the dead man s hand. She reached for it and hefted it into her own hand. It was heavy. A lot heavier than she thought it would be. How do I use it? she asked Elizabeth. Are you sure you want to know. Delaney s silence answered for her. Elizabeth told her. Together they made their way soundlessly back down the hall. Despite her newfound resolve, Delaney hesitated at the door of her grandmother s room. There s nothing for you in there. I promise. Not now, not before. Delaney nodded solemnly and started moving again. Grandfather s voice was louder now, more distinct. She heard the name Peyton and recognized it as once. Her heart leapt with a strange, almost foreign emotion, and later she would realize it was joy. The stairway was open below, meeting the hallway in an opening the size of a large door. Delaney peeked around to see Grandfather with A Ghost Story 197 his gun his Peyton s mouth. Peyton looked bad, very bad. His head was bleeding, as was his nose and mouth. The fabric of one pants legs looked dark, very dark, then she saw the darkness for what it was. Blood.

Are you ready? Elizabeth asked. Delaney closed her eyes, opened them, and breathed deeply. She nodded her head two times. *** Defeat, total and complete had actually crossed Peyton s mind as they d left Rebecca and Patricia behind. It had been fleeting, though, and oh so faint. Now it shone like a bright neon sign. It blocked out everything. Everything except the coolness he could now feel in the air. It was subtle but unmistakable. Thank God in Heaven! Holy shit. It was one of the men other than Dexter, but Peyton couldn t tell which one. The hammer was still cocked and Dexter s eyes were still linked with his own, but he got ready nonetheless. Fuck me, man. I m out of here. At that statement, Dexter turned around and his reaction was just as Peyton had hoped, no, of which he had dreamed. The gun went limp against his teeth. Peyton bent his feet up, using the tips of his toes pushed him backward, and the same time twisted. He had not even considered whether he had been tied to the chair. A split-second after he d freed his mouth from the gun barrel he felt his body fly from the chair. When he hit the ground, he rolled and rolled. He saw Elizabeth hovering in the air. He saw only three of the five

men remained, Dexter included. The he heard the gunshot. The man closest to him had apparently been hit; his gun fell from his hand. With lightning speed, speed with which his agonized body wailed against, he caught it. Dexter turned on his heels, but Peyton was faster. Peyton s round struck Scruggs in the middle of the gut. He didn t fall; he turned and 198 Keith Latch ran. Another shot and another (the last?) of Dexter s men fell to the ground. The shots had been coming from up high, and Peyton looked in that direction. Delaney Kent stood atop the stairs with a gun much too big for her hands. Her face was a study in lunacy. Peyton wanted to rest, to sleep. However, that was impossible. The two injured men were likely just that; injured. Dexter Scruggs was still running loose and Michael was missing in action. His vision was blurring and what little strength that he had was seeping away. He could hear the little girl s voice and it was as sweet as a lullaby. *** It is done. You re safe now. Does that mean you have to go now? Delaney knew that it did, but she had to ask anyway. Yes, I m afraid it does. Delaney crunched up her face and was about to do what Becky had referred to once as tuning up to cry. Don t be sad. You have a whole life ahead of you now and that s

why I came in the first place. That s not fair. Delaney said. After tonight, she knew life wasn t fair, if she hadn t already known it. But that s the rules, sweetheart. But I will be watching you and I want you to always no that. You may not be able to see me anymore, but I ll be right there with you, every step of the way. Delaney hugged Elizabeth tightly, almost submerging herself in her wet clothing. She smelled the lake and the wind, and the sadness. Elizabeth wasn t cold anymore, though, but warm, almost hot to the touch. She felt good against Delaney. Then Elizabeth was gone and Delaney knew she would never be back. Chapter 25 eyton. Peyton, Delaney called and she was suddenly right there with him. Are you okay? he asked, his voice weak and failing. She was crying and crying hard. I thought he was going to shoot you. Me too, sweetheart, me too. Delaney helped him to his feet. He briefly considered searching the house for Scruggs, but leaving this place was the top priority now. Relying much more on the little girl than he liked, the two of them made their way to the front door. When they opened it, they saw that the rain had slackened, but the wind and lightning were as ferocious as ever. I want to see Becky, Delaney said as they stepped down on the

grass from the porch. Believe me kiddo, so do I. Peyton s eyes darted to the left and to the right. He couldn t actually believe he was walking out of the house alive. He had almost known as he sat there in that chair with a gun in his mouth that he was going to die. It was a good thing that he hadn t shit his pants. That would ve made for a very uncomfortable walk back to the pier. He thought he could easily live the rest of his life without seeing Dexter Scruggs face again or hearing the sound of his voice. Unfortunately, that just wouldn t be so. Where you think you going, friend? Dexter. He was right behind them. Peyton stopped and gripped Delaney s shoulder, but didn t turn to face him. Your friend still around? No. She s gone, she said. Okay. I said, where do you think you re going, friend. P 200 Keith Latch Not the same place as you, Scruggs, a voice called out. Peyton searched for its source. Sheriff Dean Little was walking through the gate, Kevin Nunley barely two steps behind him. Both had their side arms drawn. Very noble, Sheriff. But I believe we have us a crossfire, Scruggs said. Peyton knew he was right. Neither Little nor Nunley had a clear shot at Scruggs. Nor did Scruggs have a clear shot at Little or Nunley.

He did, however, have a pristinely clear shot at both him and Delaney. Could he throw Delaney out of the way in time? It was possible, but not probable. The slightest movement and Dexter would open fire; there was little doubt of that. He could shield her. Drop to his knees and place himself between her and Scruggs. There s no way out for you, Mayor, Little said. Do I look like somebody that gives a flying fuck? I don t think so. Blood still flowed from his stomach. Peyton considered it a miracle that he was still standing. Delaney, Scruggs said. I ll see you in Hell. Peyton fell to his knees knocking Delaney free and clear just as the gunshot resounded through his ears. He waited for pain that never came. Dexter Scruggs was on the ground, his mouth agape in a wide O. His gun now safely freed from his murdering hand. Peyton saw a man step from the side of the house. He was a big man, much larger than Peyton. A man shouldn t talk like that around a little girl. My God, Jake, the sheriff said. Where did you how ? The big man said nothing. He walked over to Peyton and Delaney. Peyton braced himself for anything; he didn t know this man and so far, strangers around here were not to be trusted. But something kind was evident in the man s face. To Delaney, he said, Don t worry, a friend sent me, and winked.

*** Deputy Kevin Nunley volunteered to stay and secure the area as Sheriff Little used Dexter Scruggs s boat to transport Jake, Peyton, and Delaney back to the main land. Michael O Riley s body had been A Ghost Story 201 found in a cursory inspection of the island. Peyton mourned the man, as if they d known one another for years. Given the chance, Peyton knew he would have had a good friend in the man. He wondered how he would tell Patricia. Jake was looking to the still dark horizon. Dean Little appeared to be using every bit of his concentration to steer the boat against the wild waves that the banshee wind was creating. Mercifully, the lightening and biting rain was gone. Delaney was snuggled up close and tight to Peyton. His leg still hurt like a sonofabitch, but he felt good. Real good. The little girl had managed an ink pen and small tablet from the sheriff. Once again, she was displaying the uncanny resilience of a child. She was drawing and for a long while, Peyton didn t look. Then he did. It was a drawing of three figures. Two tall, one short. One had long hair; Peyton took that to be Rebecca. The short one he knew to be Delaney. He figured on the third for a minute. Despite the crudeness of the depiction, he recognized himself. Delaney was in the middle, Peyton and Rebecca to either side. They were all holding hands. It was then that he knew that life, always, was a gift. A gift with which you must guard jealously and aggressively. And never, ever take for granted. Epilogue

nd so it ended as it had begun. On a dark and stormy night. Finished. Her soul felt cleansed, for now. She reveled in that place where her fear had lived, felt the empty void. It would return, but for now, it was gone. She looked at the faces of those around her. Patricia, Jake Sanders, Dean and Nadine Little, and Peyton. Delaney was asleep inside, as she always was when these sessions were being held. Everyone around the fire had known how the story began and how it ended. It had been told on several occasions. Telling the story seemed to, in some small, but important, way help each of them to cope with everything that came after. Patricia was another person now. She had admitted to Rebecca that she had truly loved Michael O Riley for many, many years. She had never told him that, not in so many words. Now, she would never get the chance to. Jake Sanders had just as much baggage as anyone else around the campfire, though he was dealing with his in his own, private ways. Dean and Nadine had found some peace in that, though their daughter was gone, she had saved the life, and ultimately the soul, of a wonderful child. Peyton had moved to Willow Lake. For good, Rebecca hoped. They would probably be engaged soon, though they didn t talk about it very often. They were happy when they were around each other, and who didn t like to be happy? And Delaney.

Delaney had been changed. How could she not have been? Rebecca believed it was a change for the better. She still drew and colored in her books and notepads, but she smiled more than she ever had. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. A 204 Keith Latch The story wasn t just another campfire tale, but it had been told around this blessedly warm fire with the best friends anyone could ever ask for. No one moved; no one stirred. The fire was strong and its flames licked up into the cold night air. Patricia cleared her throat. It started on a dark and stormy night Keith Latch read Dean Koontz s The Voice of the Night when he was

twelve years old. Thus began his lifelong love affair with things that go bump in the night. A Ghost Story is his first novel. Visit him on the web at www.keithlatch.com. Contact him at keith@keithlatch.com. Join his e-newsletter, Campfire Tales, at subscribe@keithlatch.com.