Keep the Ghost

34. Belly

Jack is led to the back of the man's police car, and placed inside.

"Do I need to put a pair of these on you?" the cop asks, returning with a second set of handcuffs. Sound waves wash over us as cars pass; he fights to keep his voice over the break.

I shake my head 'no.'

"Okay, just stand real still, I've got to check your pockets. It's just to make sure you don't have any guns or drugs. That okay? Nothing in there that's going to stick me, no needles or knives?"

"No," I say. He rifles through my pockets, retrieving my phone and ID. The ID he hands back, but the phone stays in his hand.

"Only until we're done talking," he says. "How do you know this man? Did you know there was a dead body in the trunk?"

"I didn't know about the body," I say finally, words wobbling through the air, broken arrows.

"Did he beat you up?" the officer asks, pointing at the side of my head. In the excitement, I forgot about the damage Cole did. I must look like hell: split lip, bruised face, dark marks on my arms where I tried to defend myself.

Instead of answering, I just stare at Jack in the back of the cruiser.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me here. Where are your parents?" he asks.

I can't think of a good answer. "I don't..." My sentence is shaken apart by a cresting wave of panic. There is a corpse in the car; they aren't going to let me go. Eventually, they'll work out who I am. I'm going to prison forever.

So I just look down, glad for once to have crutches, because my good knee is weak.

Instead of pressing harder, though, the cop just nods knowingly. We stare at the ground together for at least a full minute.

Something catches my eye, and we both turn our heads. Two patrol cars arrive, one after the other, blue and white disco blitzkrieg.

The policeman who arrested Jack leans in close, speaks gently: "We need to hear exactly what happened, okay? I'm going to put you in the back seat of that patrol car, and he's going to drive you to the police station. You aren't under arrest, we just want to talk to you. But, that man is under arrest, and he's not going anywhere. So you're safe."

I nod again, hesitant, then pull myself forward with the crutches. Seems unreal that I'm moving freely, and I hesitate, half expecting to be tackled.

He looks at me, smiles, mutters an encouragement. This is the friendliest anyone's been to me in weeks.

I pass Jack on the way to my escort; he looks like he's in another place already. The eyes gleam, but there's nothing behind them. None of the hungry, half-mad weight that defined him.

The passenger door is opened for me, and I climb into the back of a police cruiser for the second time in my life.

There's still a chance. Maybe. The way it looks—me beaten up, in the back seat, with a broken leg. Plus, Jack is older, and he was driving. To these police, maybe I'm a victim and not a fugitive.

Just have to keep it that way.

*

The police don't talk with me right away—they stick me in an empty conference room, where I sit at a big wooden table surrounded by worn office chairs. A whiteboard on the wall is blank, save the faint orange stains of markers that haven't quite washed away.

A television sits on a rack at the far end of the room, and the policeman gave me the remote before he sat me in here. I don't turn it on, though. I need time to think.

When I speak with the police, each consecutive word decides my fate. I must perform perfectly. I must craft a story—but there are so many details to take into account, so much I can't control. It's like throwing sewing needles into the air and threading them before they reach the ground.

I remember my interview with Detective Alvarado, and try to use it to prepare me now. He liked facts and evidence; he wanted me to tell a lie so he could present proof I lied. Once that happened, it was over.

Can't give them anything to hang me with.

I'm sure the reason I haven't been interviewed is that they're talking to Jack. Another variable I can't control—he could turn on me any moment.

But what if he keeps his mouth shut? It's a possibility. That body in the car must be the one he planned to use before Cole came along. He must not have murdered him, so he might not spend his whole life in prison. Jack could be in damage control mode, trying to limit his jail time.

Could be. I feel decidedly screwed, hanging my survival on guessing what a complete psychopath will do.

Well, maybe I should turn on him. I'm the one who looks abused—I can say Jack beat me up, made me come with him.

There is a pad on the table, and a pen with it. I uncap the cheap, black Bic and draw a large hash sign on the paper, a grid with nine spaces. Into the top left corner of the figure, I place the letter X.

If Jack realizes I turned on him, he might get even. Tell them my real name. One search of the web, and I'll be here for a long time. He'll do anything if he thinks it might help him, I've seen that.

I draw an O in the top right corner of the tic-tac-toe board. That's his move in the game, his reaction.

If he did that, I could tell the police he's Jack Vickery, and he killed Kayla. I could flip this on him, bring the whole thing around. Just maybe, I could be Sean Reilly again.

That thought makes me pause. What if I fixed everything? What if somehow I turned the tables, and I went home to Ireland again, and saw my parents? God, what a dream. Daring to think that draws a pang of desire. Mom's face. Not running anymore, but a normal teenager with a real life.

I place an X into the bottom left corner of the board, so only a third mark in the center is needed to complete my line.

But if I did that, Jack could point out that I wrote a confession, and went to great lengths to escape the law. After all, I already admitted to helping Kayla fake her death—facts which make me seem like an accomplice, or worse yet, the real killer. And who knows if the police can even connect him to the name 'Jack Vickery?'

An O is entered between the two Xs. It must play out that way—Jack won't let me sit here and blame everything on him. The harder I fight, the harder he will fight back.

I place Xs and Os in quick succession, imagining a battle in the courts, playing fairly for each side, attacking and reacting. In moments, the board is full, and both sides have tied. No one wins.

Really, it doesn't even matter if Jack turns on me first, or me on him, because the outcome will be the same: everyone will go to prison.

Here's the kick in the teeth, though—if Jack turns on me, and I don't do anything? I'll end up with all of it. Just like him, I have to defend if I'm attacked. But, I may not find out what he says—I'll just have to guess whether he ratted me out or not. So, how do I trust the murderer who got me here in the first place?

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