Ghosted - A Novel Part 41

"So this Handyman," said Flores. "He hired you to write a suicide letter?"

"Yes."

"But you have no idea where he might be now?"

Mason thought about it. "Aren't there more ghost stations? I'm pretty sure there are."

Detective Flores wrote something in his book. "Do you own a motorcycle?"

"No. Why?"

"Just trying to figure things out. That bar fight you mentioned ..."

"Tony's Happy Daze Bar and Beer."

"Exactly. Was there anybody with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I took that call. The fish tank was busted."

Mason nodded.

"And do you know where we found those fish?"

He shook his head.

"In a motorcycle helmet." Flores paused. "Just swimming around inside. Now what kind of thug, fleeing a crime scene, would stop and save the fish?"

"That is is weird." weird."

Flores flipped his notebook closed.

"Are you going to arrest me now?"

"I'm going to look into a few things first. But don't worry, I know where to find you. Oh, and I take it back ..."

"What's that?" said Mason.

"For a guy who's been thrown from a horse, beat up in a bar and hit by a streetcar, you don't actually look so bad."

"Must be the detox," said Mason.

"Right. I forgot about the detox." Flores turned to go, then stopped. "I hope she pulls through. I really do."

84.

It had been a whole day and she was still unconscious-in the ICU, in a room made of windows across from the nurses' station. There was a blue hospital sheet pulled up to her chin. Mason sat by her bed, scared to move-scared to ask anyone anything. The whole unit was far too quiet.

He leaned forward and spoke into her ear. "I love you," he said. "More than you can know."

He paused then said, "I'll kill him. I promise."

"There's a policeman here to see you." Mason jumped at the voice.

He saw Detective Flores waiting in the hall behind the nurse. He wondered where the doctor was.

"Ask him not to arrest me until she wakes up."

"We need to talk," said Flores.

Mason kissed w.i.l.l.y, then got up and walked down the hall, Flores trailing him.

"Must be difficult to look at," said the detective.

"She looks peaceful," said Mason, and led him into a small room with a large pop machine.

"Did you find Seth?" Mason asked.

"Not yet. But we will."

"He'll surprise you," said Mason.

Detective Flores took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Mason. Then he started fis.h.i.+ng in his other pocket for change. "You know that guy?" he said.

It was a man with dark skin, wearing a sweater. "He's vaguely familiar. I think I might have sold him a veggie dog once."

The detective walked over to the pop machine. "That," he said, "is Samuel Batt." He stooped slightly to peer at the b.u.t.tons.

"Who?"

He made his selection. A kachunk kachunk sound came from within. sound came from within.

"He's the man who killed Warren Shanter," said Flores, a root beer in his hand.

69. Everything dies, baby. That's a fact.

70. Everything that dies, someday comes back.

"Mozambique," Mason said.

"He regrets it," said Flores. "Ten years looking for the man who killed his son. And all he got was remorse."

"And Warren ..."

"Just another hopeless romantic, I guess."

"So what does that mean?"

"On the one hand, you didn't a.s.sist his suicide. On the other, you came up with that business model all by yourself."

Mason looked at the floor.

"But we got nothing that matches the fat girl. Not yet."

Mason nodded. He could see Sissy's face. He wished he knew her name.

"I found a fair amount on Soon, though. Did you know he came here as a refugee in 1978 after his family was killed in East Timor? Hacked to bits.... But if, as you say, he hired you for an art project, well, I don't see a problem-or a body, for that matter."

The nurse appeared in the doorway. "Your friend is awake," she said.

85.

There were doctors and nurses all over the place now, as well as detectives and policemen. A possible murder victim suddenly awake was an exciting thing. There was a grave intensity in there. Mason did his best not to hear what they were saying.

Eventually they let him in, and finally they left. He knew they were still out there, watching through the gla.s.s-but it didn't matter. It was just the two of them now.

"Hey there," said w.i.l.l.y. Her voice was thin, but she was smiling.

"Hey," said Mason. "I love you."

"I know."

"More than you can know." than you can know."

"All right," she said. "More "More than I know. I love you, too." He sat down and looked at her face. It was bruised, but strong. There was life in her eyes. "You look good." than I know. I love you, too." He sat down and looked at her face. It was bruised, but strong. There was life in her eyes. "You look good."

She laughed-a distant eerie sound. "You haven't really looked."

"Do you want me to?"

"Only if you can see what's there."

"What should I look for?" said Mason.

"Victory ..." It seemed she was going to say something else, but then she didn't.

Mason leaned forward. He kissed her lips, took hold of the blue sheet, then pulled it back.

The shock was so severe it was like his windpipe had closed again. He didn't gag or gasp for air, just couldn't breathe. The only thought he had was more like an image: a paper snowflake.

He was trying to make a snowflake.

But he didn't fold the paper.

Somewhere back there, in the land of oxygen, he could hear her voice. "Don't you see?" she said. "We got the son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

And now the snowflake was gone-replaced by w.i.l.l.y, half her body carved, so much cut-up meat. "We beat the psycho!" she said, lifting her right arm in victory. And then Mason saw.

Her arm without a hand.

"No," said w.i.l.l.y. "Don't cry. It's a good thing...."

"Look at you," he said.

And w.i.l.l.y did. She looked down at herself, then up at Mason. She smiled. "Never did like that half: all function, no feeling. It got what it deserved."

She really was happy. Mason could see that, but he felt blown apart, because now he knew. He pulled the sheet back over her. w.i.l.l.y would never leave this room.

"It's going to be okay," she said.

"I don't know what to do."

"Why don't you tell me a story?"

Mason tried to rein in his thoughts. "There once was a little girl ..."

"Not me," she said. "How about your dad? I've got an unhealthy interest in fathers...."

"What do you want to know?"

"I want a story." She smiled, and Mason saw that she was doing this for him.

"Okay ...," Mason thought. "My father almost killed me-"

"Mine, too," said w.i.l.l.y and laughed.

"-on the day that I was born."