Ghostwriter (33 page)
No, no. Don’t, Dennis. Don’t do this. This is a memory. This is what you gave her. This stands for something more, for something
deep.
But he cursed at himself and his weak, sorry, sappy soul.
Dennis stood up and found the matches and this time was very careful and deliberate, guarding the match until it lit and caught
the edge of the photograph.
And then it burned, flickering in flames, the color bleeding away, the edges turning to black lifeless ash.
He left it there. Scattered in the wind.
And back in the car he cried and cried and cried.
But nobody saw.
If there was a God above—if—then why would he take her? She was the stronger of the two, the cog behind the wheels, the one
that gave so much to so many others. She believed in God while he didn’t. If her faith was real, then why did that faith end
up biting her?
I don’t and will never, ever, ever understand.
In the car his body shivered, but he wasn’t cold. His hands shook, but he wasn’t nervous. He was sad. Bitterly, angrily, spitefully
sad.
And the tears were different. They were desperate, vicious. Stored up for too long, tears gushed out.
All alone, he wept, his stomach clenching, his body numb, his eyes blind, his emotions spent.
And if God existed and heaven existed and Lucy floated around with them right now, Dennis hoped she could see him, hoped she
could see how much he still loved her and missed her. Not to make her feel sad, but to make her know the sort of life she
led, the sort of impact she left behind.
And now, alone again, he dealt with the horrible, horrific truth that Lucy wasn’t the only one gone.
That the only reminder of her left on this planet was gone too.
Shivering in the darkness, Dennis cried out for it not to be so.
Lying in the cold black with all hope gone, Dennis heard a whisper. Even with the wind and the storm outside and his shivering
breaths, Dennis could hear the voice clearly.
It wasn’t Lucy or Audrey.
It was Cillian.
“None of us has control, Dennis. There is only one Creator. And one day, Dennis, one day, you’ll find yourself on your knees,
not cursing him but asking for forgiveness.”
The voice didn’t mock him, nor did it sound sympathetic. It simply stated the words as facts.
There was a pause, then Cillian spoke again.
“But it looks like I’ll get there before you do.”
He ties the bag at the top, then loops it around to make another knot. The bag is light, about as light as the arm of someone
twenty years old.
Bob sits in a chair in the middle of the room. His pants and shirt are soaked through. Even the leather of his boots is damp.
All around him on this floor are plastic bags—hundreds of them, tied tightly and piled one on top of the other. On a wall
behind him hang dozens of knives. Daggers, swords, carving knives, and cooking knives and stilettos and saws and scalpels.
Some are used. He likes to pick and choose. He keeps them all sharp.
The writer is in the barn, tied in the stall with the rest of them.
Bob will deal with him in a few moments. The sun will be coming up soon.
First he will clean this up. He will take all these bags— every one of them—and drop them off. All in different areas, all
around the state. Nobody will know, and even if they’re found, nobody will have an idea.
They will find Dennis and his daughter missing, and steps will lead them here. But he will be long gone.
The white bags all look clean, unlike his clothes and his hands.
He will do one more tonight, and then he will be finished.
He opens his eyes and sees the sky moving, the brilliant white plumes of clouds coating the tranquil blue. There is a cobblestone
road in front of him, the walls of ancient buildings on each side. And in the distance, some hundred yards or so, an open
window.
I know this place. I recognize this place.
Dennis starts to walk, wondering where he is, wondering what’s happening.
I’m dreaming, and this is the place I’ve chosen to rest in.
But that doesn’t feel exactly right. This doesn’t feel like a dream.
He looks at his hands, and they look slightly different.
They don’t look old and torn.
But of course they don’t. This is his dream. He doesn’t have the bandages on his hands and they look younger and he feels
younger. He is desperately trying to cling to something, anything he can.
“Hello, down there,” a voice says.
It’s the voice of an angel. He looks up toward an open window and sees the unmistakable smile of his wife.
“Lucy?”
“You found me.”
“I don’t think I was exactly looking.”
“Tell me something—what are you feeling? Right now?”
He looks up and sees the colors and the shape of the open window and he seems to remember something but he can’t exactly say
what.
“Déjà vu.”
She nods. Her hair is much longer than he remembers it. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
And in a minute she is down, opening a door and greeting him with a beautiful smile.
“It’s okay.”
He can’t remember where he was or what he was just doing, but he knows it was bad. He knows it was bad, and he doesn’t want
to return.
“Where am I?”
“You are safe, that’s where you are.”
And as hard as he tries, he can’t remember. He can’t think back.
All he knows is that this place—this is not his place. It’s not his dream. It’s not his reality.
“Take my hand.”
She is the woman he married. She acts like she always did, but she resembles the twenty-something woman he couldn’t keep his
hands off of. The eyes look vibrant and young but also wise and wonderful.
This is my dream, and I’ve created her to be something more than she ever was or could be.
“You didn’t picture me,” she answers his thought.
“Then how come—what—”
“Take my hand,” she says again, so he does.
And she leads him down the winding cobblestone street to an opening in the wall. There he sees plush trees and deep blue and
sun reflecting off the giant lake. Wind blows flowers. Butterflies bounce around a field of gold.
“I’m imagining this, aren’t I?”
“No.”
“Then where am I?”
“You are in a barn two hours west of Chicago on an unnamed and unknown farm. You’re bound and very close to dying.”
“So what is this? A hallucination?”
She still grips his hand, her face so smooth, the smile so perfect.
“No. This, Dennis, is real. It’s soft and it’s peaceful and it’s very much real.”
“Is this heaven?”
She nods. “This is a snapshot of it.”
“Are you real?”
“Yes. And even though I know you never told Audrey what I asked you to tell her, it still applies. It’s still very much true.”
He goes to hug her but she stands back. “No.”
“Lucy…”
“Dennis, your life and your being and everything you’ve created are but a breath in the rest of time. But there is one thing
that endures. One hope.”
“Lucy—what—”
“It’s love. And love can conquer anything, Dennis.”
“Not this,” he says. “Not this life and not with the evil that’s out there.”
“Terror is real, Dennis, but so is love. Love doesn’t delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always
trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
“Is this made up?”
“No. The stories you write, they’re made up. But they contain pearls of yourself. This place is not a dream or a mirage. It’s
real. As real as the love you still have inside.”
“Then I want to stay here.”
“You can’t. You have to be invited, Dennis. And you have to accept the invitation. And all of this—this madness, this darkness—is
all part of you being called.”
“I don’t understand. Called to what?”
“Called to believe. Called to accept that life is not in your control.”
“But what about—what about Audrey—”
“You need to keep that love in your heart. That’s what keeps it beating.”
He thinks for a moment but then winces, changing the thought, unable to consider something so horrible here.
“I’m with you, know that. And know that you’re not alone. You’ve never been alone. Never.”
He knows he could never create something like this, this pure and this true. He’s tried but over and over and over again he
fails because he is flawed.
“I don’t want to go back.”
“This is but a glimpse, an image you’ve been allowed to see. Just like I was allowed to see.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re loved. And because there are those you love who believe despite not having seen.”
“I don’t—”
She nudges his hand. “You’re loved. So fight with that love and don’t give up. Don’t stop. And always know I’m here.”
Lucy, don’t.
But he blinks and the lake and the trees and the sky and the beauty all disappear.
And he finds himself in darkness again.
“Dennis.”
Lucy, I don’t want to leave you. Don’t make me leave you.
“Dennis!”
I love you and always will love you, and no matter what happens…
“Dennis, come on, man!”
I will be the man who loves you, the boy who fell in love with a girl.
“Dennis.”
He opens his eyes again, and this time he finds himself even more surprised than he was when he saw Lucy.
He sees Hank and knows he’s no longer in heaven.
Bob sits on the chair, shirtless, his bare feet and bare chest not cold even in the frigid temperature of the house. Sweat
runs down his hairy back; his hands grip the knife.
He is debating what to use. On the table in front of him are various tools.
The wind screams, and his house shakes.
There is a rattling, then a whine.
He doesn’t notice where it comes from.
The blade he caresses cuts his finger, ever so slightly. But he knows it will do and it will do fine.
A shadow inches out of the back room, the storage room, the room where he keeps waste that he will eventually throw away.
For a long time Bob stares at the foot-long blade with fascination and awe. He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, nor
does he see the face of the man walking toward him.
But he does hear the loud creak in the floor. He turns slowly, not afraid, not surprised.
Bob has never seen the man before in his life. A red-headed man, burly and tough.
And white as a ghost.
As he is about to stand up, the intruder says something.
“What kind of sick perverted freak are you?”
Shaking his head, the redheaded man doesn’t hesitate. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver. The .38 he’s holding doesn’t shake.
And the first bullet he fires hits Bob right in the chest.
He drops the blade and looks at the man.
“What have you done? Where is he? Tell me where he is right now!”
He starts to laugh, and the redheaded guy walks over to him and presses the gun against his forehead.
He is not afraid.
“Tell me where he is right now. I swear, tell me, you monster! You pig, tell me!”
Bob winces and laughs and then the laughter stops.
It stops when he sees someone behind the redheaded man.
He sees the glaring, leering face of the kid. The boy named Cillian.
And then everything is black, and he begins to hear the screams.
“Audrey.”
It was the first word he spoke. Ankles and wrists tied with electrical wire, blood dripping, a swollen eye and bloody nose
and mouth, Dennis looked like a prisoner of war. And all he could say to Hank was
Audrey.
“Hey, come on, let’s get you up.”
But Dennis kept saying it. “Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.”
Tears ran down his face.
“Dennis, come on, man.”
“No.”
“Dennis, she’s fine.”
“No, no.”
“Den—I just came from the house. I just saw her, okay? She’s a basket case, but she’s okay.”
“No.”
“I saw her just an hour ago. The police are with her. Ryan just got there, okay? She’s in good hands. And she’s worried sick
about you.”
“The car—the boy—the white—Mitch—”
“The cops are coming.”
“Give me your phone,” Dennis said with a slight slur.
“No, you need to—”
Dennis cursed at him and demanded the phone.
Hank gave it to him and Dennis tried to dial the number but couldn’t.
“Here, hold on.”
Hank dialed and waited.
“Audrey? Hey—I have your father—”
Dennis took the phone in his right hand. It shook as he held it.
“Audrey?”
“Dad, where are you?”
Never had a voice sounded so refreshingly wonderful.
All he could do was weep.
She’s still alive.
A hand went around him, then another took the phone. It spoke, but Dennis couldn’t hear what was spoken.
“Thank you, God. Thank you.”
Dennis went down to his knees and continued crying, but these tears were tears of joy.
Joy, and humility.
This is what he remembers about the moments that follow.
Hank not saying much, looking pale and horrified, only asking Dennis what he needs.
The flashing lights of a squad car approaching at a maddening pace, followed by more lights and sirens and madness.
One policeman turning into twenty men and women, all around him, their faces changing from tough and curious to faint and
appalled.
Several people asking him questions, sensitive, looking for answers.
Paramedics putting him on a stretcher, giving him an IV, checking him over, asking more questions.
Hank staying at his side even when pushed to answer more questions.
Squad cars and ambulances and fire trucks.
