Keep the Ghost

45. Aural

By the time night begins to fall, it's been over an hour without a sign of anything modern. Only faded ruins: A gravel road half-sprouted with weeds, the remnants of a crude oil pump, the collapsed skeleton of a windmill. Once, I cross over a fallen chain-link fence. A metal plaque drilled to one of the fallen supports reads Crystal River Nature Preserve.

The four wheeler's glowing eye beams light across the wilderness. But as night falls, I lose the ability to scout the terrain far ahead. Three times, I find myself hopelessly lost among pools of water, unsure if I'm coming or going. It takes some panic, some thrashing around to find my entrance again and escape.

As the last traces of the sun vanish, I bring my little motor to a stop on a slight hill of hard dirt and thin grass.

Half a tank left. I keep the headlights on as I turn to inspect my gear, still tied to the rack.

When I was a kid, my dad used to take us out in our family sedan, to Gougane Barra—a nature reserve in Ireland. Our little car would roll along a gravel path far as it could, before we parked in a little lot and took our gear out of the trunk. He carried it all, big camping bag in one hand, tent strapped across his back, ice chest rolling along in the other.

That was barely camping, really—sleeping on a little plot of mowed grass, other families in shouting distance. We would lay there, stargaze and talk to each other. He was my father and I loved him.

The sadness is a tearing inside me. But it's past tense—I've accepted this. He is not dead, after all, and neither am I. We're just separated; I've been through the gulf. The son he knew is gone.

Still miss Dad, though. Strange, to think of him now. How can anyone ever say they're truly reborn, truly new? The memories travel with the ghost.

I draw one of the walking poles and press it against the soil. The tip digs in, but is stopped by the metal band, giving purchase. The grip isn't easy; it's almost vertical and strains my wrist. But, I can move. I manage a few shaky steps away from the four wheeler, sleeping bag under my free arm.

I shake out the man-sized sack. It's slim, light and cheap—I can't imagine it gets cold here in the Florida swamp. At least, I hope it doesn't. As I lay the bag across a short section of weeds, bugs leap away, buzzing into the distance.

They will be a problem. Insects fly out of the black like they're congealed pieces of it, little humming spots of darkness encroaching on my light. Mosquitoes congregate around me and moths knock against the ATV with dumb thumps.

After traveling back to the pack, I retrieve a flashlight, put the duffel bag over my shoulder and kill the headlight. The momentary blackness is all encompassing, and a little notch of panic constricts my neck while I fumble with the flashlight. Then, I find the switch. Sight, again.

I hold the light between my neck and shoulder, then find the sleeping bag and lower myself on it. The duffel bag goes down next to me.

Weeds form hard lumps and I can feel them through the thin cushion. I untie my shoes, then set them next to me. Slowly, I open my bag and crawl inside, bringing the flashlight, holding it close to my body.

One hand reaches out, feels for the duffel bag. I unzip it, removing the gun and setting it in the grass near my head. The safety is off. Still my last-ditch escape plan.

With it removed, I pull the two million dollar duffel bag in close, and rest my head on a thick pile of money. So much trouble over this little canvas sack and out here, it's reduced to my pillow.

*

It's not real sleep. It comes in fits and I'm jolted from it each time something crawls across or onto me. This brings frantic action as I sweep my hands across the smooth fabric, damp now with my sweat, and force a wriggling creature out.

Then I'm awoken by something worse: the deep chop of a helicopter as it floats past. I pull my head from the sleeping bag and peer up.

The predator passes slowly, low to the ground, distance from me impossible to judge. One mile, or ten. A focused beam of light aims downward, searching the earth.

The four wheeler sits in the open, a few feet away, threatening to expose me. But, there's no solution to that. There is nothing to do but wait and listen and hope.

The sound fades as it prowls on. I lie, tense, trying to pick the rhythmic hum of the helicopter's blades out from the chorus of crickets.

Nothing comes. I wait, now very awake, now past sleep. My adrenaline is drawn from newly discovered reserves, from this new core of myself I'm only discovering now.

My hand reaches along the grass, grabs the gun. It stays with me as I stretch out, prone, braced on my good leg and two arms.

I lie motionless for hours, watching, listening. The occasional beetle or centipede scuttles past and I knock it away with my fingers.

Then, something unexpected; so abrupt I jolt within the bag's confines, climbing up on my hands in surprise. It's not a helicopter, but it's not the wild, either. Something manufactured rings in my ears.

The duffel bag is chirping.

I listen for a few seconds before I realize what's happening. Doubly frantic now, I tear into the bag, searching with both hands through piles of money for the cell phone that's ringing.

It's in my hand; I press the answer button, praying it isn't too late.

"Who is this?" I ask.

"You know who." A woman's voice. Morgan.

"Holy shit, you're okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you. How did you get out?"

Her voice sends waves of relief through me. "I buried myself. Look, you need to save your battery. Where are you?"

"I don't know. I got a four wheeler, got off the road. I passed a sign that said 'Crystal River Nature Preserve.' I have your money," I say. "It's safe." In case she needed extra incentive to save me.

I hear the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard.

"Do you think you can make it to the gulf?"

"The Gulf of Mexico?" I ask.

"Crystal River has a hundred channels, it looks like, and they all empty into the gulf. You get out there, stay on the beach. Listen, there is a smartphone in my bag. It might have some charge left. When you're ready, turn it on and I'll use it to find you. It may take me a while, so be visible."

"Give me a day or two, I'll find a way," I promise.

"Don't be late," she says.

"Don't give up on me," I tell her.

The line is dead. I return the phone to its place in the bag.

Violet fills the sky's edge, the barest peak of the sun's first blade slicing across the horizon. A deep blue follows, then a pinprick of orange, and I know it's time to move. I rise, gather the thin sleeping bag that's now heavy with sweat and dew, and roll it into a tight bundle. This is thrown at the four wheeler, and rolls to its wheel.

Hiking pole in hand, I stagger to the vehicle. My eyes adjust to the purple dim and I can make out the shapes of the taller weeds. Water glistens in small pockets between lumps of swamp.

The four wheeler rumbles to life. I turn on the headlight and within seconds, insects swarm to its glow, flying in helical structures through its warmth. I twist the accelerator and pull the little buggy out of the hole it dug for itself in the wet weeds, and slide slowly through the brush.

Some sort of forest looms ahead, and I want inside. Something in me knows—primal, beyond evidence—that the helicopter searches for me. If I'm spotted, there's nothing I can do. If I stay in the trees, though, maybe I won't be seen.

I got no real sleep. Nothing to eat, either. Just drive. Just a clear focus on each yard I gain, mind quiet, calm. Nothing distracts me, because for once, I am not distracted. Life is simple: I am, and I must be free.

What was it Mr. Banks asked me, when we first met? 'Did I like ghost stories?'

He knew, of course. Knew what I'd learn over time—that I am the ghost. That we all are, underneath everything else. Everything I destroyed, piece by piece.