Keep the Ghost

23. Escape artists

We stop once, at a gas station an hour from Lake Charles. While I pump gas, Morgan returns from the store carrying a plastic bag filled with gauze, paper towels, duct tape, rubbing alcohol, and various other supplies hidden from view.

"That's disgusting," Morgan says, nodding at the interior of the car near Jack's wound. Blood thickened over the material, leaving a burgundy crust on the fabric around him.

"Oh jeez, I'm sorry," Jack mumbles. "Did a little bit of my dying get on your car?"

"You're not dying," Morgan tells him. "He barely shot you."

The morphine is gone from my system, and as we exit the gas station, an uneasiness settles over me.

Jack struggles to pull the jacket from his wound—the inner lining is stuck against his skin, and he hisses when it peels away. The pile of makeshift medical supplies sit in his lap, only reflected by the occasional streetlamp shining overhead. They pulse intermittently, each yellow bulb crossing the car like a sun rising and falling. The thousand days of our night.

"Is it always like this?" I ask.

"Like what?" Jack asks, jaw clenched in pain.

"I don't know," I say. "Frantic. Running, hiding. Police showing up at random."

"Things are usually a lot calmer," Morgan informs. "It's been months since I dealt with the police. This whole situation is a mess, and you are toxic. Don't take that the wrong way, it's entirely Jack's fault. But for now, you should expect it. You talked about faking a death before you disappeared. We didn't leave them a body. You're being hunted, at least for now. When enough time passes, things will go back to normal. But, when the police do come, it's always like that. You blink, and you're one second from prison. They try to catch you off guard. Never blink, always be ready."

"Firing a gun in a public bathroom doesn't help," Jack says. "People seem to notice that, complain. And all those people at the bus station start remembering things."

"You forced his hand," Morgan corrects.

"I didn't think he would be that stupid. Losing the money is the rational option."

"I'm not feeling very rational," I say. "I'm feeling the opposite of rational, in fact."

"I think you're doing very well," Morgan reassures me. "I'm glad you shot Jack." She looks at him. "Sorry, but you shouldn't try to steal from me. I'm helping you."

"You're blackmailing me," he says. Then, after a pause, his voice softens. "And helping me. Your apprentice here is just homesick."

My first reaction is to reject his accusation. But—I am, I realize. There is a sick pit in my stomach, and as it burns, it reminds me that nothing—absolutely nothing—will ever be the same again. My old life is gone, and there is no going back.

A road stretches out before us, long and flat, fed to us in thirty yard portions illuminated by the car's headlamps. The path runs east, to Mississippi. In the space where the asphalt meets the night sky, a deep violet promises the coming dawn.

Jack hisses as he presses an alcohol-soaked paper towel to his arm. He brushes the purple wound roughly with a wad, scraping away dried blood. "You're learning to live without a shadow."

"I swear to God, if you start talking about shadows, I will shoot you again."

Jack clucks his tongue. "Only because you don't understand."

"You're right, Jack, I don't understand. No one could understand, because you're a crazy person."

He pours more alcohol on the wound, then rubs it again with paper towels. The red gore softens to pink as it comes clean.

"Your shadow is your shared persona. It's the part of you that everyone knows, but it's not you, not exactly. Your reputation, your public identity. It's the only thing we ever know of another person. Your shadow is the thing inside everyone else that died when they found out Sean Reilly was gone. Everyone has a shadow, and when it's dark, they're all together—creating this social network that governs us, that shapes our existence."

"Jack once embarked on a project to try just about every psychedelic drug on Earth, several times," Morgan says. "Don't think too hard about what he says."

"Don't make excuses for me," Jack says. "I know exactly what I'm saying."

"Stop talking. You killed Kayla," I tell him, voice flat. Just saying this makes me angry. Hate listening to him talk like he has something to teach me. She was a good person, and he butchered her.

Jack covers his thin bicep in gauze, which quickly turns pink, then bites the end of the cotton material to pull the wrapping tight.

"Kayla didn't know the value of a dollar," he says.

Morgan interjects: "You're free, aren't you? We escaped."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" I ask. "At least Jack's framing me didn't result in my going to prison forever? Some prize. If that bullet hit Jack about a foot to the left, that would make me feel better."

"That'll make you a murderer," he says quietly. "You don't like murder, remember?"

"Everyone who would miss you already thinks you're dead. I'd just be making it true," I answer.

A strip of duct tape is stretched; Jack wraps it around his arm, then tears it. He doesn't respond—this makes me even angrier.

"Why are we putting up with his shit, Morgan?" I ask. "Can't we stop the car, drop him off? He tried to steal from you; hell, Kayla's not even the first person he's murdered. Jack killed Cole's wife, too."

Jack barks out a short, hollow laugh. "You hear that?" he asks Morgan. "He thinks you two are a 'we.'" He turns to me. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Is that some big reveal you saved up? Cole? Fucking Cole Durham? That piece of shit is still sneaking around?"

"Shut up, Jack," Morgan says quietly.

"Cole came to me and told me you killed his wife," I answer, body like stone, face forward. "And I would have told him how to find you, if I knew. You're a psychopath and you need to be in prison."

"That's rich!" he exclaims.

"Jack," Morgan warns, but he speaks over her.

"You think I killed Cole's wife? She's driving this car, you idiot. Listen carefully: Morgan is Cole's wife."

"Shut the hell up, Jack," Morgan repeats, except this time her voice is barely a whisper.