Keep the Ghost

24. Smoke

I don't know what to say, and so say nothing. The car falls to uneasy silence.

Cole and Morgan. I think back to his strange desperation, the way he jumped all over any mention of a girl traveling with Jack. It made sense.

Does he know she's alive? Why did she run away?

I even thought of calling him again, after I jumped, just to tell him where to find Jack. I couldn't risk giving up my secret, though, not to a sheriff. Now, I'm glad I didn't. He must be after Morgan as much as Jack.

These thoughts keep me occupied as the sun rises around us, and morning burns its path down the road toward our car. Sunlight wakes the swampland; deer graze in the morning light, chewing cautiously on greens at the edge of the tree line.

After an hour down a narrow farm road, Morgan speaks: "Is this the turn?"

Jack turns around and puts a hand on the black duffel bag, which he pulls into the front seat as I stare nervously. He unzips the bag and fetches a slim, rectangular smartphone. Once it's turned on, he reports: "Yeah, turn here."

I lean up and take the bag back, once he's finished.

We turn off the highway and on a gravel road; rocks are kicked up by the car and bounce noisily off the undercarriage. Tall ferns and moss-devoured trees line the road and wall us in—the vegetation here is aggressive, claiming everything.

"Stop here," Jack says. "It's a half-mile up."

The car slows, then reverses. Morgan maneuvers to a small trail, almost invisible from the road—just two tracks of sand half grown-over with weeds. The path winds through the trees for maybe a hundred yards, until we reach a clearing.

The rusted-out shell of an old Volvo, half a trailer, and a few rotting logs are piled atop a base of roof shingles and plastic panels of various sizes. Trash bags lay slain, torn apart and spilling their innards. We've arrived at someone's private dump.

We park in two feet of weeds. Locusts scatter, some flying kamikaze into the side of the car as Jack and Morgan open their doors.

"What's up?" I ask, cracking my own door open and pulling myself halfway out. I push my crutches into the earth; they shift uneasily, sliding as plants crack and snap beneath them.

Morgan opens the door opposite mine and retrieves the duffel bag. "We need a new car," she says as she rests the bag on the hood and withdraws a stack of cash. "This one has Jack all over it, and a cop saw us." She flips through the money and pinches off about a quarter of one stack—dozens of hundred dollar bills.

"Come here," Morgan says to Jack.

"You want me to go get it?" he asks.

"Yeah. Here." The bundle of bills shake in her hand. "Be quick."

He takes the money, nods, and sets off back the direction from which we came. In moments, he is out of sight.

"You trust him with that?"

"That's twenty grand. He wants to run away for twenty grand, he's more than welcome." As she speaks, she walks over to the driver's seat. The bag of gas station supplies lays open; she reaches in and grabs a pack of cigarettes and several books of matches.

Morgan smacks the pack of cigarettes on the underside of her wrist four times, then rips the cellophane off and pulls out a cigarette. "I'm going to teach you a trick. You'll need tricks, if you want to survive."

Her lipstick is cracked and faded, some sun-worn graffiti, all upscale vandal. The cigarette is placed between her lips; she lights it and inhales deeply, holding it in for several seconds. Savoring it. Moments later, smoke streams from her mouth.