Laying a Ghost (41 page)

If nothing else, the tree that they’d hit would bear the scars of the crash in a more physical way than he did.

The past year had healed him. His wrist rarely bothered him now, other than the occasional ache when a storm front was moving in, and he’d settled down psychically, too. Maybe it was having a place to call home that had helped; maybe it was having John, who’d moved in with him after deciding to let his mother rent his grandparent’s house to someone else. Anne wasn’t thrilled with their relationship, and probably never would be, but she was civil, and that was enough for Nick.

He saw fewer ghosts now. The fact that he was on an island with a small population meant that there weren’t all that many to see.

As Nick turned the car around the curve that led to the stretch of road where Matthew had died, he tensed. He couldn’t help it. He slowed down when the road straightened out. “Here.” He nodded with his chin. “Over there. I’m ... oh God. I have to stop.”

Nick tried not to brake too abruptly even though he knew John was wearing his seat belt, but the front tires shifted in the loose dirt on the side of the road as the car stopped. He was out the door in a flash, holding onto the car for support as dry heaves hit him like a punch in the stomach.

He heard John get out and come to him, moving quickly but without panic, almost as if he’d been expecting this and was prepared for it. Maybe he had been. The months that they’d been together had done nothing to lessen the strength of that initial, instant attraction and everything to deepen it. John would know exactly how he was feeling -- would share it to a certain extent -- but with enough distance to be able to comfort Nick.

They made a good team.

“I’m here.” John’s arm wrapped around Nick’s shoulders. “Right here, love.”

Swallowing and wiping at his damp eyes, Nick straightened up, grateful for John’s support. “This is why I didn’t eat anything this morning.” He was glad he hadn’t.

“Aye, I thought so.” John moved his arm down to Nick’s waist. He turned his head and looked behind Nick. “Is that it, then?”

Nick rotated slowly, not really wanting to see. There was a small part of him that was worried about seeing Matthew here, even though Matthew had promised him dozens of times -- often at Nick’s insistence -- that he had enough sense to move on and that he knew better than to haunt Nick. Nick didn’t have any reason not to think that was true. He knew that if there was one last thing Matthew could have given him, it would be his absence.

The tree was half dead, scarred from the impact of the car, but otherwise it blended in with the surrounding woods well enough. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it at all. There were no tire marks on the pavement, no crosses or flowers to indicate that this was where a man had died.

As if in a dream, Nick moved away from John and started to walk toward it.

He’d seen it through the windshield that night, the wide, thick trunk illuminated by the fitful, dying headlights of the car. He reached it and traced his fingers over the bark, touching it and wondering if, like him, it was recovering. That it still bore leaves was a good sign, he supposed, even if the pale, bare branches jutting out here and there told another story.

But, really, it wasn’t the tree that was important. It had signaled the end of his journey -- and Matthew’s -- that night, but he’d come here to deal with the ghost whose sudden, horrific appearance had sent him veering off the road.

“Where are you?” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I’m here. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come back to help you, but I’m here now.”

This long. A year. A year before he’d brought himself to admit that until this one ghost was laid to rest he’d never be at peace himself. A year to erase the last, lingering resentment towards the unknown man who had, in death, still been capable of affecting the living.

John waited patiently, giving him space, and Nick took a deep breath and opened himself up, letting it come.

There was a whisper, a slippery sound like something sinking into water. Nick flinched away from it instinctively, curling a hand up around his head to block his ear.

Here ... people and ... so alone.
It was a vicious hiss, angry and frightening.

“I’m sorry,” Nick gasped. “I know, I shouldn’t have ...”

John came up beside him and reached for his hand, murmuring reassurances, and Nick took heart.

“I’m here now. Tell me what you need.”

Images flashed over him, vivid and quick, like being assaulted by a slide show that left out too much information to be a complete picture. Each image
hurt,
searing into his brain, too bright for his eyes to take.

A hiker, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, walking through the forest.

The same man sitting at the base of a wide tree, huddled for warmth.

A hand stretched out on the ground, unmoving and covered with ants.

“Shit!” Nick flailed wildly only to discover himself sitting with John’s arms around him, holding him together.

“Tell me what you saw.” John’s voice was calm and undemanding. They’d done this before, with John’s questions pulling details from Nick that he hadn’t been aware of absorbing, helping him to piece together what needed to be done.

“He was walking,” Nick said. “He got lost ... hurt, too. He couldn’t walk. His ankle. He broke his ankle.” He felt a throb in his own left ankle as he said it, intense but fading fast. Ghost pain. Real, and somehow not; he’d rarely mentioned it to Matthew, not wanting it to seem like he was looking for sympathy, or weak. But there was nothing that he couldn’t share with John. “He waited ... God, a really long time. Hoping someone would come.”

“And they didn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

“The animals came.” Nick shuddered, but knew that it wasn’t really that bad when you thought about it logically. The man had been dead when they found him, Nick was sure of it. “But no one else did, and he’s in there, deep in there.” He frowned. “I don’t know why they never found him, but that’s what he wants. To be found. To be buried. His family ... they think ... oh, God, I don’t know what they’re thinking, but he wants them to know. To be sure.”

“We’ll need to tell the police.” John sounded a little concerned about that, even as his hand moved in slow, gentle circles on Nick’s back. “Will they believe you, do you think?”

Another flash went through his head, sharper than the others. This one was emotional rather than visual -- the stark, intense terror of a spirit who hadn’t realized that his physical body was dead, watching as flesh was torn from bone by a fox. Nick clutched at John and pressed his forehead to John’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Okay! I know. I know. I’ll ... I know.”

John’s touch was comforting. “Nick. Police?” That was just what Nick needed at times like this -- to be reminded of the concrete, of what had to be done.

“Yes.” Nick nodded, the words coming painfully. “There’s a cop in
Scranton
who knows me. A detective. He’ll back me up when we call the locals.” He shivered and breathed deeply, reassured by John’s scent and presence. “God, he was so
alone.
”

“Then, maybe, but not now.” John’s hand was warm on Nick’s face. “Tell me when you’re ready to go. There’s no rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Do we?” Nick asked idly. It wasn’t a serious question, and John knew enough not to answer it. John’s hand slid across his skin and came to rest at the back of his neck. Nick turned his head, letting his temple rest against John’s shoulder as he looked at the trees and the thin strips of sky that were visible between the branches. Now that they were quiet, he could hear the chirping of birds and the sound of his own breathing, slow and relaxed.

John’s thumb traced a tendon in his neck gently, rubbing at it as he waited for Nick.

After another minute or so, Nick pulled away. They untangled themselves and stood up. He couldn’t resist going to the tree one more time, touching the scarred wood of it and then looking down at the small scars on his own wrist, faded from dark pink to pale now on their way to white. They’d fade with time. Pretty much everything would.

But not, Nick thought, turning and meeting John’s blue eyes, everything.

He was glad he’d gotten the chance to learn that lesson.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Nick asked.

John smiled as Nick walked over and put his arms around him. “Aye, I think I do. It might even be almost as much as I love you.”

Nick didn’t turn his head to look at the tree again. Whispering a silent goodbye to any ghosts that might be near enough to hear, he kissed John before they started back toward the car, arms around each other’s waists and the sun shining on the backs of their necks.

“Let’s go,” Nick said. “And afterwards, when we’ve taken care of this guy ...”

“Mmm?” asked John.

“Well ... where do you want to go? Pick a direction; we’re on holiday.” Nick smiled, deliberately using the word John would have and picturing the expression on John’s face when he saw
New York City
or the
Grand Canyon
.

“There’s a perfectly good bed waiting at the hotel.”

“There are perfectly good beds everywhere,” Nick told him, grinning.

He was looking forward to trying them out.