Hitchers (31 page)

“It's getting harder to hang on in there,” I said.

Summer drew her feet up and crossed her legs on the bench. “I felt it for the first time. The pull you told me about.”

A hitcher wandered through. He was a big guy—both tall and fat—with a red baby face and long black hair, although that told me nothing about the hitcher him- or herself.

“I never believed it would come to this,” I said. “I thought we'd figure it out. I really did.”

“Me too. Maybe we still will, and not just for Mick.”

“Maybe.” I didn't see how, though. “But just in case—”

“There's Gilly,” Summer said, pulling her vibrating phone from her pocket.

Mick met us at the door. We looked at him expectantly, but he just shrugged.

“If I'm supposed to feel different, then Gilly's not gone. I don't feel any different.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “Here it is, every bloody note in place, and he's still here.”

“What did we miss?” I asked, looking from Mick to Summer.

Mick turned and headed inside. “It was a long-shot from the start.” He dropped the composition on the coffee table. “It's finished, though. That's something.”

Summer looked at me. “It's got to work. Something's keeping Gilly here.”

I tried to put myself inside Gilly's head. His masterwork was complete; no more music running through his head. Fences were mended between him and Mick. But he was still watching through Mick's eyes, hanging on despite himself. For what? If I was Gilly, what would I want? I closed my eyes, imagined I had just finished what Mick called one of the greatest rock albums of all time.

I'd want to hear it, or course. I'd want to see other people hearing it. We didn't have time to organize a concert, though. I put my hands on my head, trying to think, staring at the wall.

The answer was right there, on the wall. The framed poster of The Beatles' movie,
Let It Be
.

“Oh, shit. Mick?” I shouted.

Mick turned at the urgency in my voice.

“Do you have an amplifier here? And a microphone? You'll need a microphone.”

He canted his head, trying to read me. “Yeah. What do you have in mind?”

“Help me get everything to the roof.” I spun around. “Summer, get on the phone and call every news agency you can think of.” I gestured out the window. “All the networks that own those helicopters buzzing around out there. Give them this address. Tell them
Mick Mercury is going to give a concert. Tell them he's going to perform a new album recently co-written with his dead ex-collaborator Gilly Hansen. On the roof.”

Mick burst out laughing. “Brilliant.”

“I hope Gilly thinks so. God bless The Beatles.”

H
alf a dozen helicopters buzzed overhead as Mick made his entrance to wild applause (wild applause from Summer and me; the dozen or so press reps who were present clapped politely). Mick was dressed in black leather pants and a plain white t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, or maybe chewed off from the look of them. He waved to the helicopters as he approached the mike, raised his arms and shouted, “Hello, Atlanta!”

We'd stacked every amplifier in Mick's apartment along the edge of the roof, and the sound was impressive. I'd had no doubt the press would flock to cover this—it had everything they craved—drama, celebrity, a feud, hitchers.

The helicopters descended, jockeyed for the best vantage point as Mick launched into the first song.

I'd heard bits and pieces of songs, croaked by Gilly, mostly under his breath. I'd had no idea.

By the third song tears were streaming down both Summer's and my face. We kept exchanging astonished glances.
Are you hearing
this?
the glances said. We knew something important was happening.
This music was alive; it was breathing. It had undertones of New Wave and Punk, but it was neither. It soared to breathless heights, plummeted to low, dark places that chilled me, because I knew Gilly had composed them in Deadland.

The dead had returned to Atlanta, and they had brought something new.

Though Mick didn't know the songs by heart (we had to tape the pages to the back of a hutch hauled up in the elevator), he sang as if the music was being pulled right up from his soul.

People hearing the music from the streets filtered onto the roof, slowly forming an audience, and Mick fed off their energy. There was a nip in the air, but he was pouring sweat. On the street below more people congregated, craning their necks toward the sound. Others gathered on nearby rooftops, or watched out apartment windows. The applause grew louder with each song, until it sounded like we were at a rock concert in Mick's prime. Twenty years melted off Mick as he performed.

When the last note fell silent, a deafening roar filled the air, blocking out even the drone of the helicopters. The press rushed forward wielding microphones, but Mick pushed through them to reach Summer and me. The three of us came together in a hug.

Mick ruffled my hair; I could just hear him over the crowd. “You did it. He's gone.”

I threw my fist in the air and hooted. For a few hours I'd been able to forget my own impending end, and, I thought, as I stood there with my fist in the air and remembered, it had been time well-spent.

A
n hour later, Grandpa took over. I was grateful to the cosmos that I'd gotten a good four hours, enough to see Mick's glorious concert to the end. Now I returned to my own struggle, clinging to my body as Grandpa went about planning his new life.

I, on the other hand, went about planning my death.

If I was going to die, I decided I would at least choose the time and place. It wasn't an idle decision; I knew I would spend decades wherever I slipped out.

The idea of that, the hard truth of it, rattled me to the bones. My time was almost up.

I tried to calm myself so I could think, but all I could think about was that place where all of the color drains out of your eyes. I dragged my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Where did I want to be?

Gilly had been lucky, slipping back into Deadland on the roof, where his life's ambition had been realized.

It would be nice to have company. Maybe I could end up near Summer. It would be comforting to have Summer with me. I was
further gone than her, though, so unless she made a point of dying in the same place as me, I couldn't make it work.

I'd much rather be outdoors. The thought of spending decades in an apartment, like Annie, depressed the hell out of me. Better to see trees, water.

Maybe the ocean.

It came to me with a clarity bordering on prescience. I should die beside Kayleigh, on that pier overlooking the ocean. It was perfect—twins reunited, the timeless ocean. There couldn't be much of Kayleigh left, but maybe there was something. We could mix and blow away together.

I pushed the image away. Thinking about it was like falling into a damp, dark well. That's what disturbed me most—being swept off a crumb at a time. I would be far more comfortable with an afterlife that involved staying whole.

I wasn't sure if this plan was even possible; Tybee Beach was a three-hour drive, if I drove like mad. I was getting three or four hours tops, and less each time.

If I was going to do it, I had to do it the next time I was in control. As Grandpa drank, cut-and-pasted strips, and began getting back in touch with a few of his old friends, I made a mental to-do list so when I next took control I could spring into action.

I
came back to myself, probably for the very last time. I was a little drunk. That was a good thing; it took the edge off the terror I felt, contemplating this as my last day on Earth. There was no turning back, though. I had decided. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the Maserati, praying I could make it to Tybee in time.

As I drove I had to keep wrapping my mind around what was transpiring. It was over. I couldn't believe it.

What would Grandpa do now? Would he live out his life claiming to be me, or insisting he was himself? Would he marry and father children? If he did father children, would I be the biological father, or would he? Imagining my body carrying on in the world without me was like trying to picture two objects occupying the same space. I was dying, and I was not.

Fifteen minutes into the trip I realized I had overlooked a painfully obvious detail. The quarantine. I rolled to a stop in front of a roadblock on 1-75. A National Guardsman around my age, a pistol strapped at his waist, squatted as I lowered the electric window.

“Do you have transmittal papers?” he asked. Then his eyes brightened.
“Hey, you're the
Toy Shop guy.”

I offered my hand through the window. “Finn Darby.”

He turned as he shook, called, “Hey, it's the
Toy Shop guy.”

Another uniform-clad guard came over, a chubby woman in her twenties, carrying a rifle. “You draw
Toy Shop?”
she asked.

“I do, yeah,” I said. “Listen.” I propped an arm on the steering wheel and leaned out the window, trying to channel my inner Mick. “Can you help me out? I've got business I need to get to, but I don't have any papers.” I held out my empty hands.

They looked at each other; the woman shrugged. Grinning, the guy said, “Will you draw a couple of Wolfies first?”

I sketched my last two Wolfies, asked my new friends their names, inscribed the drawings to them, and I was on my way.

Fame. It didn't suck. If only I was going to be around to enjoy it.

Ten minutes later I thought of something else that hadn't occurred to me while I was planning my swan song. Grandpa would turn right around and head back to the city as soon as he took control. He wasn't going to hang around the pier on Tybee for even a second to wait for me to exit. Even if I threw my car keys and wallet off the pier, it would make it harder for him to get home, but it wouldn't keep him on the pier.

For the thousandth time I silently cursed my son of a bitch grandfather. Then, on second thought, I cursed him out loud so he could hear me.

I needed to lock myself to a bench or something. Handcuffs would be perfect, but I didn't know where to buy them. I tried to picture the pier—were there benches? If not, the railing might work. Had it been made of metal or wood? If it was wood Grandpa might be able to knock the rail out where it was joined. The surest thing would be to lash myself to a piling under the pier, but then I'd be in the water...

An idea occurred to me. A sneaky idea. Heart hammering, I ran it over and over in my mind, examining it for flaws. When I couldn't find any I went over it again, deciding if I really wanted to do it,
and if I had the guts.

Yes, and yes, I decided.

I called information and got the tide line for Tybee. High tide would be in six hours. Perfect.

There was a Home Depot near the exit to Forest Park. Tires squealing, I flew into the parking lot. Inside I jogged up the lock aisle and grabbed a twenty-foot-length of chain and their best padlock.

Back on the road, I brought up Summer's number, wondering if it would be Summer or Lorena who answered. I punched the number. The rings built one on top of another, then the familiar click as I was transferred to voicemail. I chuckled at the irony.

“Hi,” I said after the beep. “Hi Lorena and Summer. I'm about out of time. I don't want to wonder each time I get a few hours if it will be my last, so I've decided to take matters into my own hands. I'm going to the spot where my sister died, and—” And what? Kill myself? That wasn't right. “I'm going to stay with Kayleigh. Summer—” I hesitated again, I didn't want Lorena to hear what I wanted to say. I decided it was too important to leave unsaid. “In a couple of weeks, if you find yourself in the same situation, maybe you'll decide to join me. I'm guessing Kayleigh won't be very good company by now. It would be nice to have a friend. My mother can show you where I am, if you decide to come.” I choked up, as the weight of what I was doing hit me afresh. I would never see my mother again. “I love you, Lorena. I love you, Summer.” The tears came in a flood. “Goodbye,” I managed to choke before disconnecting.

I took a few deep breaths, wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. I had more calls to make.

When I'd pulled myself together sufficiently I called Mick's land line. He answered on the second ring.

“Hey. I'm in the car.”

“Where you headed?” Mick asked.

“Savannah. Tybee Island. I'm going to be with my sister.”

He didn't say anything for a long time. Then, finally, in a strangled
voice he said, “I'm sorry, mate. I'd trade places with you if I could. I swear I would.”