Keep the Ghost

51. In peace there's nothing

Morning comes slow.

What should be neon radiance is dull and muted, thick clouds swathing the morning sky. Celestial gauze.

Slowly, I pull myself upright, careful not to upset my balance. Dried blood stains the boat in brown-red rivers, congealing in a sunken corner.

The sunrise doesn't come. In this dim light, the water is the same color as the sky, and there's no line between the two. It feels like the whole thing wraps around me, heaven and sea, like a tunnel. Like the boat could surge forward, tumble into the horizon.

I'm not seeing any land, I realize. That means in the night, I drifted past the beach where I was supposed to meet Morgan. Could be miles from shore.

So, I'm doomed.

But, something catches my attention—a thin sliver of substance creeping in from the right edge of my vision. The little craft must be spinning slightly. Slowly, the threshold of the earth creeps past. This wedge of land cuts across the dull gray.

The beach is closer than I dared to hope, maybe a mile away. I could tip myself, try to swim. But, I can barely sit up straight; can't fight hundreds of yards of current.

So I lean back in the tub and lie still.

There is still the phone, if it has life left. If it finds a connection. If Morgan is watching, waiting to track it.

But mostly, there is nothing to do but wait and die.

A sudden warmth overcomes me. My mind empties, and my breathing comes easier. The peace that's been with me since I gave up in the truck returns, stronger now.

I smile. With my thoughts clear, my focus turns to what's happening around me. Can feel the sea spray drift across my skin, each droplet activating a nerve. The sensation is incredible. The raw hurt of my cuts dull to a quiet itch. Each pitch and roll of the boat cradles me, bringing soft thrills as I dip and dive.

I close my eyes, smile, and relax. Going to enjoy what life is left. Maybe for the first time.

For the first time, completely alone and totally free. Can't have one without the other, I think. The world sees me as dead, and there's no reason to tell them otherwise.

*

I sleep for hours, awakened only by the fall of warm rain across my face. The same peaceful calm fills my limbs, clears my head. If this is death, it isn't so bad.

But where there was nothing, there is now something. So small a difference that I cannot pinpoint it exactly. I stretch my focus to my ears, picking each sound apart: the waves in the distance, the water under the craft. Rain falling against metal, rain falling against my skin. There is something else. Can't hear it, not yet, but I feel it.

A deep rumble. I turn my head, press an ear into the metal, feel the dry blood against my cheek. There it is.

A motor. I hear a motor.

Both hands grip the edges, pull. Tired, malnourished muscles like frayed ropes ache as they tighten, tearing against one another. The base of my neck protests in pain as it supports a pounding skull.

Less than a hundred yards away is a cream colored fiberglass boat, maybe fifteen feet tall. Nose high in the air; small, calm waves broken under it. I lift a hand up and wave.

It nears, roar muted as the engine is hushed, then silenced, and the vessel floats gently next to me, now only a couple of yards away. Being near the larger boat sets mine on edge, sending me sliding wildly along the water.

A coil of smooth black rope flies into view, tossed from the craft. It lands silently in the sea nearby. A pale face looks over the rim.

"You look like hell," Morgan says.

I smile.

*

I awaken to darkness. For a moment I am lost, and panic. Do the police have me? Am I dead?

My hands shoot up, bracing against a ceiling that looms less than two feet overhead. Then I feel waves rocking the boat, and realize I am dry, and hear a voice.

"It's all right, Sean," Morgan says. "You're okay. Relatively."

I don't remember climbing into the boat, or collapsing here. The blood-soaked pants have been pulled from my legs, and my skin smells of rubbing alcohol. My cuts are angry pink mouths.

Words rasp from my throat, clawing their way up then emerging in ragged wisps. I can't talk.

The mattress shifts as Morgan climbs up to me and a water bottle is presented to my mouth. I drink most of it, and the warm liquid washes back the dried, broken words.

"Relatively?" I ask anew.

Morgan's voice is tense.

"Well, you're a fugitive. After this, the police are going to think you're alive up until the day they have your corpse on a slab. They'll put your face on TV, or already have, and everyone who thought you were dead is going to know they were fooled. They've got Jack in a prison cell, and depending on what he does, everyone from Mr. Banks down could be exposed. You've lost a lot of blood, and if you get an infection, you could easily lose an arm or a leg, or your life—and there are no hospitals out here."

"You don't have to sugarcoat it," I say, grinning, then finish the rest of the bottle of water.

"I can handle the truth." Maybe for the first time in my life, too—I can actually say that I just don't give a damn. Might be the blood loss. But I still feel good, still feel free.

"There are some dim positives," she says, head on her hand, leaning over me. It hurts where her shorts press into the cuts on my leg, but I say nothing. "We've been moving south for about twelve hours. If I'm right, we should be in Mexican waters soon, and I don't see any helicopters or police boats on the horizon. We may have actually slipped the noose."

"And then what?" I ask.

"Then we'll be in a strange country that we know almost nothing about, where they speak a language we don't, and we'll be running again. We don't have new IDs, or any connections, and if they catch you in Mexico you'll probably be just as screwed as if it happened in Florida."

Morgan looks tired. Her eyes are red, and framed by dark crescents. The muscles of her jaw are clenched and knotted; I doubt she's slept in days.

But I'm still smiling, despite myself. In her grim prognosis, she's left out the details that give me the most hope. I have Morgan, she has a bag full of money, and we've both escaped America.

"I thought you were going to tell me things were bad. So, that's all?" I ask her, grinning.

The tension in her face breaks, all at once, and a smile rises. She lifts a hand to her mouth to hide the single laugh which escapes.

"That's all, Sean."

---------

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