Ghosted (37 page)

And realizing this—at this flashing bloody moment, she knows this, too:

He was trying to save her
.

From the fire. From the demons.

And so he jumped
.

They got a hold of her anyway, of course. But now she has them—or at least this one—right in the palm of her hand, so to speak.

The right hand gets you in
.

He asks her questions, basking in what he thinks is her pain. But she’s already won. It had been difficult at first: not to flinch when he struck her left side. It took more than mere acting, but she managed it, and then screamed out so painfully when he slashed her right breast, that his joy was overwhelming. And now she’s bluffed him so well that he leaves her
left
alone.

The left hand gets you out
.

“Where is my book?”

She screams, gasps, then screams again. He digs in deeper. A flash and she sees his face—the ecstatic brutality of a fucked-up child.

He isn’t so tough
.

For all the talk—how
inscrutable
, how
perceptive
the sociopath, how beneficial the lack of empathy—it won’t be beauty that kills the
real
beast, but lack of imagination. He wanted to carve up the living, most precious side of her—but couldn’t make the necessary leap. The body that
moves
is not always the one that
feels
.

“Where is my book?” he says, cutting into her breast again. She screams and gasps, and finally she tells him.

And he knows she is telling the truth.

“How do I get it?” he says. She sobs as if about to pass out. Then he slices downwards, gouging out her nipple. She is wailing, half her body writhing.

“How do I fucking get it?”

And finally it comes out of her, like a burst of breath—and both of them go quiet. They turn and look at her hand. It seems, suddenly, like its own entity—clenching against the restraints, blood between the fingers….

Willy repeats the words. “The right hand gets you in.” Her voice is broken, lost and hollow, and he is sure she is telling the truth. Could a stupider lie ever be told? His joy is overwhelming. He begins to sharpen the blade.

When Mason came to, he was lying on the floor beside the captain’s bed. It looked like a meteor had crashed through his window. He tried to get up, but the pain stopped him—that, and a hand on his chest. And now Ms. Pac-Man was staring down at him, smiling gravely.

“Ms. Pac-Man?” he said.

“Her name is Barbara,” said a voice. It was Dr. Francis. It sounded like she was over by the window. “She carried you up here.”

Barbara nodded. She’d retrieved the beach towel from where Mason had tossed it by the door—weeks or months ago, he didn’t know. It was tied around her neck once more. She leaned down, her mouth against his ear.
“She’s
the one,” whispered Barbara, her eyes looking across the room at the doctor. “She eats the ghosts.”

“Carried me up here …?” called Mason.

“You were knocked unconscious,” said the doctor’s voice. “She’s very strong.” Barbara smiled again, and it started to come back to him….

“Oh, Jesus! Willy!” He struggled to his feet. He could see Dr. Francis by the window. He took a step and crumpled.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Dr. Francis. She walked over to Mason’s new position on the floor and crouched down, holding her laptop. “Look,” she said, “this makes no sense.”

“What am I looking at?”

“Nothing,” said Dr. Francis.

“Where the fuck is Willy?”

“Listen to me very carefully. The cops’ll be here any minute.” She cocked her head towards the broken window, and only now did he notice the noise—idling sirens, backed-up traffic, a streetcar full of bitching commuters. “We’ve got to figure this out!”

“Then don’t tell me I’m looking at nothing!”

“Bay and Bloor,” said Dr. Francis. “The Bay Street subway station. This was the location of the GPS, right? When we thought that Seth was dead.”

“Okay …”

“After you saw it that day, then the signal got weaker—the same spot, just weaker, until it was gone. I assumed the trains had run it over. But then today, he shows up and so does the signal. You saw it, right?”

Mason nodded. “So where is he?”

“That’s the thing. I was watching the screen while you went after him. But then you collided with that streetcar….”

“Where the fuck
is
he!”

“The last I saw, he was
here,”
said Dr. Francis pointing at the screen. “Back at Bay and Bloor. But now the signal’s gone again. It doesn’t make any sense….”

“I know where he is!” said Mason. He jumped to his feet. Barbara caught him as he fell.

“You’ve got to stop doing that!” said Dr. Francis. “You can’t go anywhere.”

Mason twisted around and jabbed at the computer screen. “He’s right there,” he said. “But deeper! He’s playing the fucking depths!”

“What do you mean?”

“The deeper he goes, the weaker the signal? But I know where he is! I’ve got to call Flores!”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“He’s not at
Bay
station. He’s at
Lower
Bay!”

She handed him the phone. “What the hell is Lower Bay?”

“It’s a ghost station.”

Mason looked up from his hospital bed

“You look like hell,” said Detective Sergeant Flores.

“Can I see her?” said Mason.

“Not now. She’s in surgery.”

“How bad is she?”

“Bad,” said Flores. “But for some reason he kept to her right side.”

“You’re saying she didn’t suffer?”

Flores walked towards the window. “Are you aware that there was a second victim there—in that
ghost station
of yours?”

Not my ghost station
.

“A girl by the name of Bethany Strohl.”

“Dead?”

Flores nodded. “She
definitely
suffered.”

Mason didn’t know what to do here—in this limbo—this private room with a cop, waiting for Willy to come out from under anaesthesia. He had a separated shoulder, two broken ribs and his ankle was sprained again, but he wished the pain were more intense.

“Have you caught the guy who did it?”

Flores looked at him. “We found this at the station,” he said, and pulled a Ziploc bag out of his jacket. “Do you know what it is?”

“A scalp?” said Mason.

“That’s right! And do you know who it belongs to?”

“Seth Handyman?”

“Who?”

“Setya Kateva?”

“This scalp belongs to a man named Larry Weib. He used to work as a counsellor in the Kingston Pen and was recently run over by a subway train.”

“White,” said Mason.

“Excuse me?”

“I knew him as Larry White.”

“Oh, you did,” said Detective Flores. “I think you’d better tell me about it.”

And so he did.

Mason told him about Warren and Willy, Soon, Sissy and Seth. He didn’t mention Chaz or the doctor, the QT Room or the chip in Handyman’s head. But he came clean on everything else. He even confessed to stealing the poet’s daughter’s horse.

“That’s a helluva story,” said Flores, writing in his notebook.

Mason just nodded. It was the least he could do—Willy still under the knife—confess and keep confessing.

“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
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.”

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 Willy, 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 fishing 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 buttons.

“Who?”

He made his selection. A
kachunk
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 assist 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.

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 glass—but it didn’t matter. It was just the two of them now.

“Hey there,” said Willy. Her voice was thin, but she was smiling.

“Hey,” said Mason. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“More
than you can know.”

“All right,” she said.
“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.”

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 bitch!”

And now the snowflake was gone—replaced by Willy, 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 Willy. “Don’t cry. It’s a good thing….”

“Look at you,” he said.

And Willy 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. Willy 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 Willy and laughed.

“—on the day that I was born.”