Prowlers - 1 (10 page)

Kate. Friday night they would all be grieving the same way for her.

"Jesus," Jack whispered to himself. He wasn't sure if it was a prayer or not. And if it was, he would not have dared guess exactly why he was praying.

Eyes front, he avoided looking directly at anyone. He felt Bill's solid presence behind him and was grateful for it. It was like having a bodyguard, only it wasn't his body that needed protection from the pain. Along the hall there were two large arches that led into a room so filled with flowers that the scent filled the building.

Jack's palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his suit jacket. His suit, a gray pinstripe he had bought for a

cousin's wedding. That was all it was good for—weddings, wakes, and funerals.

In the room with all the flowers, he lifted his eyes for the first time. Across the room he spotted Mr. and Mrs. Carroll. Artie's mother looked like a scarecrow, hair mussed, flesh as gray as the storm, clothing not hanging on her quite right. There were no tears on her face, not one. Jack had never seen anyone look so hollow. As though they had switched roles since the last time Jack had seen them, Mr. Carroll was the opposite. His cheeks were red, and tears streamed down his face in such a regular flow it was as though he were leaking. Artie's grandmother was there as well. She sat in a chair beside her walker talking animatedly to a younger woman who might have been one of Artie's aunts or cousins.

Jack took all that in seconds after entering the room. But his attention was not on the shattered family at the far side of the room; it was focused on the casket behind them: dark wood inlaid with a lighter, almost reddish wood, gleaming as though a fresh coat of wax had been applied.

Closed.

Of course it's closed, he thought, standing frozen in the middle of the room as mourners milled around him. Artie was torn apart.

As he stared at the closed casket, Jack found suddenly that he could move, that the sick feeling in his stomach had been replaced by a dark knowledge that what was to come, the remembrance of his friend, was important.

Around him, people whispered to one another with none of the levity often found at wakes, particularly Irish wakes. No fond stories were being told about the deceased with great amusement, no laughter of relatives, no happy reunions of people who had come together to pay tribute to the dead. Artie had died at nineteen years of age. He had been brutally murdered. There was no place for smiles or laughter here, not even in his memory.

Not yet. Jack knew in a disconnected way that at some point he would think of Artie and laugh about something they had done, some foolish antics or absurd debate. But not yet.

He took a deep breath and strode quickly over to Mrs. Carroll.

Her gray emotionless features altered when he approached. She pressed her lips together as though holding back a cry of anguish and she blinked back tears that threatened. "Jack," she said.

He kissed her cheek and embraced her tightly and said not a word.

She held him away from her and looked into his eyes. "He loved you, Jack. You never let him down. Ever. He would have wanted you to know that."

Jack could not stop the moisture that burned at the corners of his eyes. He squeezed Mrs. Carroll's hands and then moved on to her husband. Though Jack held out a hand to shake, Mr. Carroll pulled him into a hug that was almost painful.

"Come see us again soon, Jack," the man said,

almost choking on the words and his tears. "I think it would help."

"I will," he said, but even as he said it, he feared it might be a lie. He would go see them again sometime, but not soon. He doubted such a visit would help anyone.

Then Mr. Carroll let him go, and Jack found himself in front of the closed coffin with its gleaming wooden surface. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to cross the six feet of carpet that separated him from his best friend's mortal remains. The smell of flowers was overpowering, the splash of color all around the casket too much. Too cheerful.

The smell. He wondered if the tradition of sending flowers to a wake had started because mourners needed something to combat the stench of death. His face twisted into an expression of revulsion at the thought, and he wondered why he had thought such a thing. Then another bizarre thought arrived unbidden: he's not in there. With one last breath, he closed his eyes.

Once more, against the darkness of his eyelids, he saw the image of Artie standing in the street, gray thunderclouds above, heavy rain spilling down around him.

Jt was him, Jack thought now. Not my imagination. But it had to be. You're just losing it, Jack. That's it. You miss him too much.

A hand closed on his biceps. Jack started, momentarily frightened. He opened his eyes, heart skipping a few beats, and turned to find Molly standing next to him swathed in black from head to toe. The red hair that

usually tumbled around her shoulders was pinned back tightly and her face was white save for

the light dash of freckles on her cheeks.

"Hey," she said, a sad, tired smile on her face.

It was the first smile Jack had seen, and he offered it back to her.

"I was waiting for you," Molly went on. She bit her lip, very purposefully did not turn her eyes toward the casket. "I didn't want to go up alone."

Jack swallowed. He reached down and touched her hand, twined his fingers in hers, and side by side they crossed those few feet and knelt on the padded support in front of the casket.

They prayed together in silence and Jack never let go of her hand. He had felt so powerless, so injured, standing there in that room amid the scent of flowers, until Molly came along. She didn't want to say goodbye to Artie alone, and neither did Jack, but together they were strong.

"I thought I saw him earlier tonight."

Molly blinked once, then stared at him. They were perched on a sofa in a sitting room down the hall from the mass of people still moving in and out of the funeral home. Across the room in a small chair that looked as if it might break at any moment, Courtney sat with the head of her cane in both hands and spoke animatedly to Darrin Sannicandro, who had been Jack and Artie's history teacher at Boston Catholic. Jack had said hello to him, but not much more. Since Courtney

had been Jack's guardian since their mother's death, she knew Mr. Sannicandro well enough from school events.

They talked about tragedy.

Behind them, Bill Cantwell stood and watched over Courtney. He was their ride, and though he seemed to know no one else in the place, Bill did not rush Courtney to leave. Not for the first time Jack caught himself thinking of Bill as family. It was a definition that fit quite nicely.

While he observed Bill and Courtney and Mr. Sannicandro, Jack felt Molly staring at him.

"What did you say?" she finally prodded him.

Jack shrugged sheepishly. "Nothing. It was just me being whacked. On the way here I was looking out at the storm and I thought I saw him. It was only for a second, but I..."

He let his words trail off.

"You miss him," Molly said, simple as that. "I dreamed about him last night. He was . . ." Her voice got lower, and she smiled self-consciously. "We were at his house and he was going

through his CDs, organizing them. You know how he did that all the time?"

Jack nodded, remembering.

"I asked him what he was doing." Molly's smile remained, but her eyes were wet again. "He said he was choosing his favorites, 'cause they would only let him take a few."

Jack's chest felt tight.

"That's what he said," Molly repeated. "They only let you take a few. I think he's all right, Jack. I really do."

"I know he is," Jack replied. "It's just the rest of us who are a total mess."

They chuckled together at that, and Jack felt as though a tiny bit of the weight on him had been lifted. Together they leaned back into the sofa and sat quietly side by side and remembered.

They picked up Chinese takeout on the way back to Bridget's and Jack, Bill, and Courtney ate together in the dim light of the pub. Several people came to the door as if the Closed sign and the lack of bright light were not enough to indicate the place was not open for dinner that night. Courtney waved pleasantly to the ones who noticed them, sitting there eating Chinese food from steaming white boxes.

Talk was about anything but Artie or Kate, anything so they didn't have to discuss the funeral the next morning, Kate's wake on Friday, or her funeral on Saturday. Awful as it was, Jack wished he could fast-forward those days, put them behind him. Though they avoided talking about those things, that avoidance was so obvious that it was no comfort at all.

By the time Bill left, it was full dark outside, even beyond the storm clouds. The rain had tapered off a bit, but it still fell in a light sheen that streaked the long windows of the pub.

Courtney locked the doors behind Bill, then went back and sat next to her brother again. He studied her face, die way the sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose always made her seem to be smiling, even when she wasn't.

"Thanks for today," he said.

"For what?" she asked, frowning.

"For everything," he replied. "I... needed you there. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out, so don't worry about it," Courtney promised.

Neither one of them pointed out how tentative that promise was. The Dwyers knew better than most how unpredictable life was and how easily promises could be shattered.

"I've got some orders to get to," she told him, then stood up, cane in hand. "Do you mind?"

Jack shook his head. "We've got a business to run. Can I help?"

"Shouldn't take too long. Watch some TV, read a book, relax your brain a bit."

"I think I'll stay down here a little longer," he told her. "I like the rain."

Courtney nodded. "Want a beer?"

Surprised, Jack looked at her. I’m only nineteen."

"You've never had a beer?" Courtney replied doubtfully.

"I'll pass," Jack said. "But thanks for the offer."

After Courtney went upstairs to their apartment above the pub, Jack went to the bar. He tossed out the empty Chinese food containers, washed the forks and spoons they had used, and put them away, then wiped down the table. The rain spattered the windows, and cars roared by on the street outside from time to time. As he was turning their chairs upside down and put- ting them on top of the table, there was a knock at the door.

Jack glanced at the figure beyond the glass in the door and squinted. With a shake of his head he walked over and peered through the glass at two guys in suits with black umbrellas.

"We're closed!" he called to them.

The guy mouthed something and gestured to the sign that listed Bridget's hours of operation. Jack rolled his eyes and sighed, then lifted one hand and pointed, so the suits could see him, at the hand-printed sign about eighteen inches above the other, the one that said the pub was closed for the day due to a death in the family.

"Can you read?" Jack asked, though he knew the man could not have heard him through the door.

With a scowl, the guy threw up his hands and quickly strode away, umbrella bobbing above him, the other guy in tow.

"Jerk," Jack muttered under his breath.

"Tell me about it."

The voice had come from behind him. Jack spun, eyes darting back and forth, trying to see into

the dark corners of the dimly lit room. He felt the words on his lips, wanted to shout "Who the hell is in here?" But he had recognized that voice.

Something moved in the darkness behind the bar.

"Listen, bro, if you're not going to drink that beer Courtney offered you, can I have it?"

Jack could barely make him out; he saw only a

shadow at first. Then suddenly the figure behind the bar seemed to solidify, to take on color and substance.

'Artie," he whispered.

There he was, shaggy blond hair framing his face, Boston Catholic High sweatshirt on. But he wasn't there.

He wasn't there.

Jack closed his eyes, suddenly sick to his stomach. Artie could not be there because Artie was dead. Unless . .. unless he isn't dead. I never saw the ... Oh, hell, Jack, you've lost it completely. Artie is dead.

When he opened his eyes, Artie was still there, wearing that big old familiar goofy grin. Jack shuddered as if his gears were rusty, but he managed to take a step toward the bar. And then another. And then he realized that he could see the bottles of Jack Daniels' and Wild Turkey and Southern Comfort on the shelf behind where Artie was standing—the whiskey bottles, the mirror above them, and Jack's own reflection in the mirror. They were obscured, as if he were looking at them through fog, but they were there.

"I can see through you," Jack whispered.

In truth, he could see himself through Artie, in that mirror.

Jack froze in place. His skin prickled all over and his face felt hot, but his hands were as cold as ice. He felt a scream building in his gut, right alongside a surge of nausea. But a quick glance up the stairs reminded him that Courtney was up there. If he

screamed she would come down, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"You didn't answer me, Jack," Artie said.

His voice sounded hollow, as if it came from inside a coffee can.

Jack tried to speak, couldn't manage it, then tried again. "You're dead," he said.

Artie's smile disappeared. He looked angry now, and Jack thought, in the dim illumination that came in from the street, that he could just make out long, ragged tears in his face and neck. Then they were gone.

"Come here, Jack," Artie said in that hollow voice, and beckoned him with a finger. "Sit down at the bar and talk to me."

Jack hesitated. Then he did it. He had no idea how he managed to make his legs move, as scared as he was, but he walked over to the bar and sat on a high stool across from his best friend's ghost.

"Look at me, bro," Artie said. "Take a good long look at me. Now do whatever it is you need to do— pinch yourself or whatever it may be—to convince yourself that I'm really here. 'Cause I am here."