Keep the Ghost

31. I blinked

I crawl back on my elbows—anything to put distance between us.

"What do you want?" I ask. My voice quakes out, sound waves jagged, betraying my terror.

"You look an awful lot like Sean Reilly," he says. "You know, the dead murderer?"

It's Cole—squinty-eyed and beer-gutted, clad in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, brown leather belt and black boots. Bothers me that they don't match.

His gut deforms the shirt, balloons it around his waist until it comes tightly cinched at his hips, tucked into a pair of jeans. Nervous, tired look. Eyes sunken, mustache graying. I can smell him from here.

"And that's the punishment for looking like someone else? You kick them over? I've got a broken leg."

Cole huffs out a single chuckle. "Cut the shit, kid. Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He shakes the gun, takes a step closer. I crawl backward, but press against a granite pillar which separates the living room from the hallway. Nowhere to go.

"Where's Lauren?"

"I don't know anyone named Lauren," I answer. Is that Morgan's real name?

"You know who I'm talking about. I know they helped you fake your death. Listen, I have no problem killing you, like you killed that girl. They find your body, they aren't going to search very hard for who did it." He waves the pistol between my head and chest as he threatens me.

I pull one of the crutches closer with my foot, until I can reach it. Once it's in hand, I talk: "Listen, I'll talk to you. How about I sit down in a chair? My leg feels like shit." With one palm on the ground and another on my crutch, I begin pulling myself up. "I can't even walk. What am I going to do?"

Cole doesn't disagree, or shoot me—I take this as a sign I can pull myself the rest of the way up. I do so, peripheral vision straining to track the gun.

"Why do you want her so bad?" I ask, limping on one crutch over to the brown recliner and falling into it.

"Why do I—why do I want to find her so bad?" He gestures as he talks, and the tip of the pistol waves with his words. I imagine a laser-thin red line pointing from the barrel, and track it as the gun moves, cowering inwardly when the line crosses my body. "She took my baby from me."

"What?"

He laughs humorlessly. "You don't know anything, do you?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean when she 'died,'" he forms quotes around this word, "she was eight months pregnant."

This is news.

"What do you think happened to my child when she disappeared? I'd love to know. It could be out there somewhere, if that whore didn't kill it!" While he talks, the weapon trembles.

My voice is low: "I don't know anything about that. I haven't known her long, and she's always been nice to me."

"She would be friends with a murderer, wouldn't she?" he asks.

"I'm not a murderer," I tell him. "It's complicated."

"You confessed!"

"I'm not..." I stop. Pointless to try and convince him. "How did you even find us?"

Cole smirks. "Tips come in from all over the country with your name on them—course, no one else knows who you're traveling with. After you three got pulled over in Lake Charles, it wasn't too hard to track you from there. Now, call her. Make her come back here. Your life for her life, that's the only deal I'm going to make."

I reach into my jeans pocket; the prepaid phone is a blocky plastic clamshell, and wouldn't have been impressive ten years ago. I flip it open. Morgan's latest cell phone number is in my call history; I find it and press the button.

"Don't tell her I'm here," Cole says. "Tell her to come, and that's it." He stands next to me as I dial, gun just out of reach.

The phone rings once, and Morgan answers.

"Where are you?" she asks.

"Listen close," I say. "I'm at the house. Cole is here, he's got a gun."

The phone flies from my hand as a fist connects with my jaw; I see stars. He leans over me and strikes again, from the other side. This one hurts worse than the first, and before my vision clears, the taste of blood fills my mouth.

"You think you're smart, don't you?" he asks. He clutches my bad leg and pulls; the cast absorbs most of the stress, but the movement on my broken knee is torture. I'm dragged off the sofa and land on the floor; he yanks the crutch from my hands and hurls it across the room.

A boot rushes at my face. I lift my arms up, catching his shin with my forearms. The stitches of his shoe scrape my cheek; he pulls back to kick again. As I struggle to get out of the way, I hook my good leg behind the one he's balanced on, and pull as hard as I can.

Cole comes crashing down, falling back on his ass. The gun is still in his hand, pointing at the ceiling as he topples. Immediately I lunge at him, pushing off my good leg and landing on top of the bigger, heavier man.

Both of my hands are on the gun as I work to stay on top, knee on the soft center of his body. He curses, clawing at my chest then clutching my throat with his free hand. As he squeezes, I take one hand from the gun and punch him in the side of the head—once, twice, then as I bring my fist back a third time, he shifts his weight and I fall to the side.

We lay side by side, fighting for the weapon. His fist slams into my chest repeatedly, making hollow thumping sounds. The third hit is too much; I flinch involuntarily, pulling my hands back to my body and letting go of the gun.

He springs up, panting, wet with sweat. I move after him, but am too slow, and by the time I'm halfway to my feet I'm staring at the sight on his gun.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," Cole huffs. Buttons across his shirt are ripped out; one hangs limp by a thread across his hairy chest.

I wipe my forearm across my mouth, and see skin streaked with blood.

I'm probably about to die, I realize. Really die.

Well, at least everyone already thinks I'm dead. That's most of it, right there. My stadium full of people came and went; everyone else's pain is covered—all that's left is mine. Just the immediate, visceral sensation of my life draining away.

I just stare at the gun.

Cole grunts, holds the pistol steady at my head, but doesn't fire. A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead, and his tongue sticks out the side of his mouth to catch it.

"You think she'll come?" he asks.

"I hope she'll run," I answer.