Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (54 page)

I had made Kate take my window off the security system. I needed to be able to open it, to be able to feel the dry air on my skin. She had argued, but I was adamant about it. I had to be able to get to it in those lonely, dark hours, especially after a nightmare.

I promised her I would keep the window locked though, that I would be careful to never leave it open. Sometimes I heard her creep into my room, checking it.

I wandered back over to Kate’s door. It was closed, but I now saw a light bleeding out from the cracks. I put my ear up to it, but it was quiet.

I headed back over to the sofa and sat down, my feet cold on the floor, listening to the noises of the night.

CHAPTER 8

“He was such an ass,” David said, talking about his old boss at a restaurant that had closed last month. “You just can’t treat people like that.”

I emptied the tip jar and put it in a plastic pouch under the change holder in the register. A woman walked in and ordered a decaf mocha and before I even mentioned it, I heard David slapping out the old coffee grounds and starting her drink.

It was Monday night and it had been busy for hours at Back Street, with people coming in and out all evening and a book club in the corner by the gas fireplace talking in librarian voices but then occasionally breaking out in loud laughter. The group came in every week and we were getting to know them and for the most part they were friendly. Mike liked them because he said it gave the place an intellectual vibe. Plus, he said, they ordered a lot of coffee.

I didn’t read books too often, hardly ever really, but was impressed by how much passion they all had as they discussed their opinions about the different characters and plots. I couldn’t even imagine being excited about reading like they were. When I thought of books, I flashed back to high school and those long, old, boring classics that Mrs. Willows assigned to us in English. I never thought that reading could actually be fun.

I walked by the group and wiped down the nearby tables. They were arguing about the next selection. One of the younger women wanted the group to read a new bestseller about gray shades or something, but some of the others said it was pornographic and refused to even buy it.

It had been a pretty fun time with David.  It was just the two of us for most of the night and he talked nonstop about all his old jobs and old bosses, before starting a rant about his old boyfriends. Then he told me about his dreams, about how he had been taking acting lessons since he was a kid.

“So, what, you want to star in musicals?” I said.

“Child, please,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not a total cliché, you know. Strictly serious acting, Abby. No singing and no dancing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping I hadn’t offended him. “And I’m glad. I hate musicals.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I mean, shoot me now.”

He told me he was going to try out for a part at 2
^nd
Street Theater, going after the lead role, and then started reciting lines. He was pretty good. I promised him I’d go to opening night if he got the part.

The place started clearing out at about 8:30 and I was hopeful that we could get out on time. I started cleaning, sweeping the floor and pulling the scattered chairs back over to their tables.

“So where did you meet this Ty guy?” David asked, wiping down the countertops.

“On the river last summer,” I said.

“The river?” he said. “What were you two doing on the river?”

I told him. I guess he hadn’t expected it, me being a river guide. Although we had had a lot of conversations, David was the one who did most of the talking, which was okay by me. Pretty much the only things he knew about me were that I had a sister who worked at the newspaper and a boyfriend with light hair. Not much more.

“River guides?” he said.

“Yeah. You know. Taking groups down the rapids on the Deschutes.”

Still, he looked blank and I shook my head.

Sometimes I wondered if David ever went outside. Whenever I talked about hiking or biking or skiing, that same empty expression crawled across his perpetually pale never-been-in-the-sun face. I had the feeling that he never stepped outside except to walk to and from his car. He kind of lived like a vampire, partying in the clubs all night and sleeping it off most of the day.

“Come on, now,” I said, a little too sarcastically. “River guides.”

“Abby Craig, don’t be snide,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out where the heck the rapids even are on the river, that’s all. I’ve only seen it calm and gentle.”

I had forgotten that David had moved here just a year or so ago and that maybe he had lived in a city back home. He probably had only noticed the river gliding by at Drake Park, near downtown.

“There’s plenty of whitewater on the Deschutes,” I said. “We launch upriver, about ten miles from town.”

He nodded and smiled and I was glad I hadn’t hurt his feelings.

“Hey, you should come with us on a run this summer.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and considered it for half a second, at most.

“Rapids? Me?” he said. “Thank you very much, but no. Can’t take those kinds of chances. Plus I bet you’d make me don those dreadful bright puffy orange vests that make you look fat. No. Not for me.”

Soft, jazzy music played in the background. It was always so different working nights with David compared to Mo. Calmer. And more fun.

I heard the bells on the door and saw that an older man who wore a plaid hat had walked in. David helped him, taking his money and then moving quickly to the machines and pulling a shot of espresso. The old guy threw it back in one gulp and left.

“So does that mean you’re quitting here?” David asked.

I cringed. Mentioning the river guide job had been a mistake. I had forgotten that David loved to gossip and it would only be a matter of time now before Mike would find out about my plans.

“No, I don’t want to quit. I like it here,” I said. “A lot. I’m hoping I can do both, but I’ll have to see what Mike says. I just haven’t told him yet.”

“Hmm,” David said, stacking dirty mugs on a tray and taking them to the dishwasher in the back.

There was no point in getting him to promise not to say anything. I knew that even if he did, the news would slip out anyway. David’s friendly, chatty nature was one of the things I really liked about him. But what was good was also bad. It was my own doing. As long as I was in such a talkative mood, I should tell Mike. Maybe during my next shift or I could even send him an email.

At exactly nine, I turned over the sign hanging off the door and by 9:10 the last of the book club members left. I called Kate and left a message while David took the money out of the register, counted it, and took it back to the safe. I then took the broom, dustpan, and a stack of napkins to the closet and quickly checked the week’s schedule. David wasn’t working for two days and I was hoping that maybe he would forget about my summer plans by then.

“Well,” he said as I waited by the door for him to lock up. He put on his coat, the keys jiggling in his hand.

“I guess I won’t see you until the weekend, River Guide Abby Craig.”

I would write to Mike later, when I got home.

CHAPTER 9

I decided to head out to Big Sky, even if I didn’t have a full hour. I wanted to practice my shooting and there was nothing like shooting into real goals.

I strolled out to the grass and inhaled the cool air, dropping my keys and mace in my pocket and pushing the ball out in front of me. I was wishing I had a little more time, wishing I hadn’t picked up when Mike had called and asked if I could come in early. But 45 minutes of practice was better than nothing and I started picking up my speed, keeping my eyes focused out in front of me and not on the ball.

Except for a few people over at the dog park, I had the place to myself. It was strange seeing all six fields empty, the only sound a crow cawing as it circled above me overhead.

I started taking some shots, making most of them, sprinting in after them in case there was a rebound. One shot missed the net, rattling hard off the crossbar and ricocheting back over in my general direction. I jumped up and put it back in off my forehead.

I took off again downfield and started working on my conditioning.

I was following a fitness program that I had found online a few months ago. My speed was faster than ever before. Even before the accident. As I ran I gave thanks for being able to play again, this game I loved so much. It was hard to believe that there was a time not so long ago when I felt I would never be out here again. But now it all seemed possible. The 2015 World Cup. The 2016 Olympics. Why not? Me and Alex Morgan leading the team in scoring. Why not?

Driven by the boundless possibilities, or the lack of oxygen to my brain, I pushed myself even harder.

I could hear the barking of a dog in the distance, his howl carried by the wind, past the junipers, past the goal posts and fields, and into the surrounding desert.

After a few minutes, I fell back into an easy trot and looked around again. There were a few women with dogs in the distance and an older man now juggling one field over. A park maintenance employee was next to the bathrooms, emptying trashcans.

Out here in the fresh air, the long, sleepless night almost seemed to be part of someone else’s life. But then I caught myself yawning. I had to try something new. Whatever I was doing wasn’t working.

I did a few more field-length sprints, focusing on taking quality shots as I closed in on goal. Then I worked on free kicks and penalties. I had read that the hardest place for a goalkeeper to make a save on PKs was high in the corners. I aimed for the spot just below where the post met the crossbar. Of course, some players aimed right for the goalie, knowing that chances were good that he would lunge in one direction or the other. Most experienced keepers don’t want to just stand there, hoping that the ball will come right at them. They want to earn their keep, so they try to read the shooter’s mind and guess right. Or left. I practiced some shots straight down the middle.

On one of these attempts, I missed badly, kicking the ball off the side of my instep, sending it spiraling high and wide, flying perfectly in the left top shelf corner.

At one point a middle-aged man came by with his crazy Labrador, cutting across the field. He didn’t have it on a leash and it started chasing after me.

“Sorry,” the guy said, whistling and then yelling and then whistling again. The dog ignored him, and ran off and disappeared into the brush.

I checked my watch and saw I only had a few minutes left, so I ran downfield full speed to the opposite goal line and turned around and sprinted back for one more shot. For all the marbles. But as I looked up toward the goal, I saw that someone was in it, pretending to be a keeper.

I picked up the gauntlet and kept coming. If somebody wanted to try and stop me from scoring, good luck to them. I crossed midfield and thought about where I would put my shot.

As I got closer, I saw that it was a kid between the posts, not quite a teenager. He must have been with the man and the crazy dog, but had stayed behind to play a little soccer. I was glad. I could use the practice with a live goalkeeper and started visualizing how bad I wanted to burn him.

He was light on his feet, bouncing gingerly, taking a few steps away from the line and holding out his hands, palms facing toward me. He seemed to know what he was doing. At first he hung back, but then he came out to close the angle. Smart, I thought.

I’ll just fake left and go right around him
, I thought.
Or fake right and go left. Okay, left.
And then…
Sure, why not?

I decided to do neither. Instead I would chip the ball over him. That would show him.

I closed in, noticing he wasn’t smiling or even looking up at me. He kept his focus razor sharp on my feet and the ball. I thought about how much force to use, not too hard and not too soft, and how far under the ball to get.

Now
, I thought.

“Not today, kid,” I said out loud as I stepped into it. I lobbed it over him just right and watched it sail through the air, a work of art now more than a ball. But as I stood there admiring my skill, the boy somehow backed up and jumped high in the air, putting himself in position to make an awesome save.

“Damn,” I said under my breath.

The ball was heading straight for his hands. There was no way he could miss it.

But he did.

I stood there, breathing hard, amazed that the ball got past him, almost like it had gone right through him, and bounced into the goal.

Adrenaline suddenly rushed through my body as I realized
what
he was.

He looked up at me slowly and I staggered back. His large eyes had deep, black circles around them, his lips as pale as his face. I could see scratches and scars and bruises all over his arms. His face had a deep gash on the right side that ran down from his eyebrow to his neck.

He was wearing jeans and a familiar Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

There was no ducking away or turning or hiding from this ghost. Our eyes locked and he knew that I had seen him. He stared at me somberly with washed out eyes, waiting.

“Abby,” he said.

I was numb with fear and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run.

“Abby,” he whispered again, almost prayer like, his haunting voice carried by the wind to my ears. “Help.”

I heard the loose dog behind me again, breathing hard as it ran up, barking as it circled, the owner still chasing after it and calling its name.

When I turned back toward the net, the ghost boy was gone.

CHAPTER 10

He knew me.

The ghost knew my name.

I sat in the Jeep with the doors locked, the windows rolled up tight, trying to shake off the chills that ran up and down my back and stared out at the empty field.