Keep the Ghost

30. Faking a life

"Thanks for breakfast," I murmur, wiping my hands on the single paper napkin included in our sack full of breakfast tacos.

"No problem," Morgan responds.

I stare out the window at an overgrown field, last vestiges of wildflowers wilting under the arrival of summer. A herd of cattle congregate under the shade of a single oak tree, bodies pressed to the cool earth.

We drive for fifteen minutes, leaving Ocala proper and traveling down the poorly paved farm roads that form a grid across the county. We pass a dilapidated southern estate which lies in ruin, a pillar fallen across the entryway, cracked under its own weight.

We reach a small trailer park, fenced in by barbed wire and blanketed by soft red sand. Fresh signs warn us to obey the speed limit. The lot is mostly empty—only a handful of RV's and mobile homes. However, what's here seems expensive, with glistening paint and thin carbon-black satellite dishes.

Morgan parks in front of a shining new RV, obnoxious tribal design sweeping across the gleaming metal panels.

"This is Jack's?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Ronald Silver's."

I follow her across the red dirt, crutches sliding just enough to unnerve me. She knocks on the door of the Winnebago, eliciting a hollow, metallic sound.

The door opens to a bleary eyed, hollow cheeked Jack. He stands in the frame, holding a rag to his face, about an inch from his nose. He inhales, moans sharply, and motions for us to come inside. Jack collapses back on a plastic bench; the flask of ether sits on the table next to him.

The air conditioner blasts full throttle, and cool air feels crisp on my skin. The interior is half leather—real or not—and half cloth, everything a light cream color. Tables and chairs line the walls, and a television has risen from a wooden dresser.

Jack puts an arm down on the table, then attempts to hold his chin—except he slips, and only just stops himself from banging his head. Dozens of printed forms are spread out in front of him, and a black pen rests uncapped on the table.

"These are hard," he says simply, slapping his hand down on the papers.

"The ether is helping you concentrate, then?" Morgan remarks.

"I was up all night," he groans. "My arm hurts. I didn't think there would be this much paperwork. Could you?" He holds up the pen, offering it to her.

Morgan clucks her tongue, sighs, but walks to the table and sits down. She rearranges the documents, painted fingernails clicking against the polished table as she collects the papers in a stack and rotates them to face her.

I lean against the wall and scratch idly under my cast. With time to spare, my eyes wander the mobile home, trying to piece together the story.

Creating a life. Travel booklets from all around the United States and Canada are spread across the passenger seat of the giant van. The trashcan is full: trays from microwaved dinners, cigar rings, and the discarded packaging from some pill that promises to make its purchaser 'twice the man.' Two posters of scantily clad women in provocative positions decorate the walls near the bathroom.

"Did you just spend a few days here and it looks like this, or is there a reason for it?" I ask Jack.

Morgan snorts out a laugh.

Jack answers: "Arrested development. Older guy, briefly married, now widowed, never matured. Spends his considerable wealth on big toys that he thinks will get him laid, which is what he really wants. Of course, those of us on the outside can see that his personality means he won't get it unless he pays for it. Check in the glove compartment; it's a masterstroke."

I open the glove compartment. A few sections of newspaper are stuffed inside: the classifieds from different dates. I shuffle through; some parts are circled in red ink. Thinly veiled advertisements for prostitutes.

I close the glove box and turn around. At the opposite end of the narrow chamber is the second of the two defective bathroom heaters. It sits beneath a small wicker table. This is Jack's fire-starting setup.

A stack of magazines rest on the table above the heater, and thick cotton curtains stretch down from the nearest window to meet them. A clear path for the fire, from the heater to the ceiling.

Morgan stares at one of the documents, then squints. After a moment, she picks up her purse from the floor and begins rifling through it. As the seconds pass, she begins to do so violently, hand tearing through the bag. Eventually, she stops and curses. "I left the social security card. I need the number to fill this out."

"Rookie," Jack grins from his position slumped over in the chair.

"This is going to take hours. Sean, would you go grab the manila folder under my mattress? Not the redwell or the beige binder, but the manila folder."

"Got a lot of secrets under that bed?" Jack asks, voice slurred to near incoherency.

Morgan only casts him a sideways glance, then throws the keys to me.

"I'll be right back," I promise.

I hobble out to the car, taking my time to put the crutches in the back seat. The car is an automatic, thankfully, and so I can drive with only one good leg. I take my time adjusting the mirrors in the car—can't afford to be pulled over.

Cautious driving brings me home; I pull all the way into the driveway and turn off the car. After I shuffle to the front door, it takes me a moment to find the right key. The deadbolt slides open with a well-oiled clack.

The keychain rattles as it presses between my palm and the foam pad of the crutches. I drop the keys on the kitchen table, then move to the living room.

I hear the intruder a split second before I'm shoved to the floor. I stumble forward, press my broken leg into the ground automatically. The pain is blinding, flash bang grenade in my skull—I fall, hands pressed to the cold tile floor. My crutches clatter, one within reach, one not.

I turn to see Cole, both hands gripping a gun that's pointed at my chest. 

------------

Gasp! Hey, don't forget to vote on all the chapters if you're enjoying this book. It's seriously a big help for me - it shows book publishers that people are interested in seeing more of my work.