Keep the Ghost

27. What to do with everything

Main Street, Ocala has a gimmick, a motif. Everything calls back to some idyllic pre-Civil War time that was probably never quite this graceful: stately plantation homes, mint sprigs in the sweet tea, and black men in white suits. The whole vaguely racist fantasy makes me uncomfortable.

"I can't believe this is how you wanted to spend your morning," Morgan says, walking slowly to keep pace with me as I hobble along.

"You said I could spend some money," I reply as I work my way down the sidewalk, clack of my crutches punctuating every step.

"I thought maybe you'd want to go to a strip club, or sip some hundred dollar wine in a fancy restaurant."

"I don't think I'd like a strip club," I say. "Sit in a crowded room with a bunch of strangers and do what? Talk about our hard-ons?"

Morgan laughs into her hand; gold bracelet and pale pink fingernails. They're painted to match her lips.

Those lips. Other than the kiss, nothing has happened. It established a truth, though: My knowledge that she's a master manipulator doesn't actually stop her from controlling me.

I spot my target—a worn bundle of a man, dusty baseball cap pulled over his eyes. A paper cup rests in his hands, and a cardboard sign scrawled with his plea is trapped under his foot. There are a few quarters in the coffer.

I bend over at the waist, as the cast won't allow me to squat—it appears I am bowing. The beggar snores softly; I pull five hundred dollars from my pocket and place it into his cup.

"Have a good day," I say loudly; he snorts awake. I stand immediately, motion for Morgan, and continue down the street.

"That's anticlimactic," she murmurs as we walk.

"Are you kidding? I feel awesome," I say, smiling.

About the time we turn the corner, the dusty man howls with joy.

I see Morgan smile out of my peripheral vision. She speaks: "I pick next."

*

I press the butt against the inside of my shoulder, then pull tight, line up the sights, and squeeze.

The rifle only makes a halfhearted pop, muted through the foam plugs pressed into my ears. Two more squeezes, and two more bullets pop off in quick succession. The paper target shudders slightly as holes are torn through it.

Two more pulls, two more holes in the target. The device is warm and alive, clean smell of oil and gunpowder lingering as I continue to fire. It operates flawlessly, as it should—it is a seven thousand dollar semiautomatic rifle modeled after something they use in the military. The whole thing is light; almost too light, so that I couldn't believe it was a real gun when the store's owner put it in my hands.

"That's pretty amazing," I half shout as I slide the empty clip from the gun, pull back the chamber, and place it on a table next to five more rifles of various size and complexity. We've been here at the gun range test-firing them all, so much that my shoulder aches and I'm sure it's bruised.

I don't think Morgan heard me; she's looking down the barrel of a tiny black revolver, firing shots every few seconds, steadily. She focuses on the target, squinting behind yellow tinted safety glasses. Five of the bullets land in a loose bundle around the target's center, with one having veered up to the side of the neck.

When she's finished, she turns and smiles. Morgan pulls the sound canceling headphones from her ears.

"Do you like it?" I ask.

"I'm buying two," she answers. "And one is for you. Here, take it."

"I don't want a gun," I say. "They're fun, I mean, this is fun—but I don't want to worry about shooting people."

Her eyebrows raise. "You shot Jack. I didn't think you had it in you. He didn't either, obviously, or he wouldn't have tried to run."

"That's different—he murdered Kayla."

"Someday, someone may want to murder you."

Morgan slides the cylinder out, then empties six casings into her hand. Her fingers close around them, and they rattle when she shakes her closed fist.

She stares into my eyes; I find myself paralyzed. While keeping this line between us alive, she prompts for me to take the gun. I am unable to refuse, and lift the unloaded weapon from her hand.

"It's heavy," I say.

A new energy fills Morgan: "You want heavy; you want to know it's there. Revolvers are best, because they don't leave shell casings. You don't want to try and pick those up in a hurry. Don't carry it everywhere, because you'll be in trouble if you get caught, at least until we can get you a permit. But, keep it near the money—you need to be able to defend the money. And, load it with different brands of shells, so if you do shoot someone, the police will look for multiple shooters. And never—" she glances up at me and smiles. "You'll be fine."

Morgan isn't giving me an option, and so I only nod. "What's for dinner?" I ask.

"We'll order takeout; I've got some plans for you at home."

"Plans?" I ask.

"You'll like it," she promises. "My hands will be all over you."

*

Morgan drags her fingertips over the surface of my scalp, each follicle bending and twisting around her hands. I'm focused entirely on the feeling, and where her fingers are, so is my world.

"You've got goose bumps," she says.

I only groan softly. The skylight in our new kitchen glows red behind closed eyelids.

"Okay, now what's the trick to avoid carrying cash everywhere?" Morgan asks, quizzing me again.

"Pre-paid gift cards," I answer, voice a moan. "The kind credit card companies put out."

"And how do you buy those?"

"With cash."

"While wearing what?"

"A hat and sunglasses," I answer.

"Why?"

Her hands vanish for a moment, then return with force, hair dye wet and cold on my scalp. Morgan insisted I dye my hair, and we settled on blond.

I can't stand the look, but I see the logic. Between this and the new, colored contacts, I'm making myself that much harder to catch. A blond-haired, blue-eyed Sean Reilly. Not sure I like it; it makes me feel somehow less Irish.

"Most security cameras are overhead. Wearing a hat and sunglasses makes you hard to identify," I answer.

I do like the process of being dyed, though. A plastic comb runs through my hair, followed by her palm, which soothes my scalp after the black teeth rake over my skin.

While the dye sets, her thumbs press into my neck, kneading the muscles around my spine. This is not something that gets touched—maybe ever—and the feeling is overwhelming.

Maybe she's shaken an idea free, though, a bit of mischief. I decide to test her. "If I wanted to leave now, could I?"

Her hands stop moving. "Do you want to leave?"

"I've been thinking about it," I answer, voice glib.

"Stop it," she says, hands still rigid on my neck.

"What do you mean?" I ask, though my cheeks are already beginning to burn.

Her fingers fall away, hands landing at her sides. "Since we established that I'm manipulative, and I need you to be here right now, you think that by threatening to leave, you can drive me to do more to please you. But instead, I'm calling you out on it."

She's pulled the words out of my mind. I fall quiet.

What she says next is somewhere between a compliment and a condemnation: "You're learning fast."