#Wattys2015 The Ghost of James Fitzpatrick

Chapter 46

James wasn't glowing or smiling; he wasn't holding out his hands and beckoning her to come with him and go toward the light. His teeth were clenched and she could see the muscles of his jaw meet with the muscles of his neck and disappear into the collar of his sweatshirt. He was straining to pull up on Zwicki's chin, while Zwicki contorted his body to determine who had the better of him, and from where this adversary had come.

James finally threw Zwicki to the floor.

Sarah rolled away, gasping to get the air back into her lungs through her nose. She pulled the tape from her mouth and drew in a great breath, surprised to find her head still attached to her shoulders.

She saw Zwicki rise slowly to his feet, exhausted from his attempt to extinguish her life, and sporting an apparently superficial bullet wound to his side.

The fifty five year old straightened and stood to face his unexpected opponent. Sarah could see blood near Zwicki's waist where it soaked through his shirt. He was out of breath, but he was still smiling and curious, as he turned to face James.

Zwicki froze and focused his gaze on his attacker, this young man who stood so confidently before him. He could not look away. He took in this vision, the face of his old teammate, the eyes, the hair, the familiar letter jacket, the face he had last seen in the darkness high above the choppy Mississippi.

Sarah sat in silence. She wanted to get to her feet, but she dared not move. She had never seen James outside her bedroom and there he stood. Three steps over her threshold, face to face with JJ Zwicki.

"Who in the flying fuck are you?" Zwicki asked very slowly, but the three of them knew he knew. When James didn't answer, Zwicki closed his eyes.

Again, the deep inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

James stood still within inches of his old teammate until Zwicki opened his eyes again to stare into the face before him. He frowned and ran his eyes over James' features.

"Sarah, are you alright?" James asked Sarah without taking his eyes off Zwicki. Zwicki then turned to face her.

"Don't look at her," said James soberly to Zwicki.

Sarah nodded. "Yes," she whispered quietly.

Zwicki wiped the sweat from his face and started to chuckle, then spat onto the carpet.

"Jesus Christ, Fitz," he said smiling at James, "where in the ever lovin' fuck did you come from?"

James said nothing and did not move a muscle.

"You're goin' all Tell Tale Heart on me, thump thump, thump thump," said Zwicki pounding his own chest with his fist. He looked James up and down from his sneakers, up his Levi's, across his jacket, his face, around his dark hair, and finished at James' clear blue eyes.

"You are some weird figment of my currently fucked up imagination," he said smiling with wide eyes. He leaned in closer to his James' face, but James did not give an inch. "You don't scare me," said Zwicki , "because last I checked, James Fitzpatrick, you were very dead."

Zwicki slowly reached out his hand toward James. His fingers stretched toward the white, stitching of James' right lapel that read "Arden Baseball".

Before Zwicki could feel the red wool beneath his touch, James pushed back at Zwicki's chest. Zwicki stepped back surprised and easily broke through the railing along the second floor with the deafening crack of splintering wood as the banister gave way.

Sarah saw his face in an instant. He pursed his lips then opened his mouth wide. She saw his hands reach out to grab nothing but air, and in a swish of  black polyester suit coat and trousers, he fell victim to gravity.