Hitchers (32 page)

“I know you would. Hey, my last months were so much better for knowing you. Thanks.”

Mick took a minute to compose himself. “Same here.” He sniffed. “Ah, Christ this is not fair.”

“I know. I don't want to blow away and forget myself.”

“I won't forget you, if that's any comfort.”

“It is. Thanks.” But I was way beyond comforting.

I told Mick I needed to call my mom. We said our final goodbye, and the phone went dead. I called Mom.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Just taking a drive. Clearing my head.” She'd understand why I didn't tell her the truth, once she got over the shock and grief. There was simply no way to spare her that grief, but I could delay it for a few hours.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“Not so good, Mom. I don't think I can hang on much longer.”

Mom sniffled into the phone. “I know you're trying, sweetie. Hang on.” She took a big, shuddering breath. “He swears he can't help what's happening. Is that really true?”

I was tempted to lie, but if everything went as planned, I'd have the last laugh anyway. “Yes, I think he's telling the truth.”

I wondered what it had been like for her, growing up with Tom Darby as her dad. She'd told me stories. Some of them were typical Grandpa, others surprised me. Grandpa used to take her fishing, just the two of them. And he spent money on her behind Grandma's back.

“Come and stay here with me for a while,” Mom said.

“Maybe I will. I will, if I'm still here.”

The Maserati's engine whined as I leaned on the gas even harder. Ahead there was nothing but grass, trees, and a line of concrete that disappeared in the distance.

Somehow Mom had managed to retain Grandma and Grandpa's
mental toughness without losing her warmth. She was kind of like Summer in that way.

“Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, sweetie.”

“Do you think Lorena was the right woman for me? Were we...I don't know, were we meant to be together?”

She blew out another big breath. “It's hard for me to say.”

“Mom, just tell me. I want to know what you really think.” I passed a big log truck like it was standing still.

“I love you. I love Lorena. You're both wonderful people.”

“But.”

“But I don't think she was perfect for you. She was the kite, and you held the string. You didn't get to do much of the flying.”

Her words surprised me. I'd seen it; it wasn't like I hadn't, but I'd never thought it was a problem. “I'd always thought of myself as a string holder. I felt lucky to have such a fabulous kite.”

Mom laughed at the metaphor. “You're not just a string holder, though. Sometimes you're a string holder, sometimes you're a kite. You're a good balance that way.”

I wished Mom had met Summer. I wanted to ask if she thought Summer and I would have been a good match. I already knew the answer to that, though.

I wished I could tell Summer.

I didn't want to say goodbye, didn't want to face the empty car hurtling me toward my death, but we'd said what we needed to say. It was time to say goodbye, or raise Mom's suspicions.

When we hung up, the road was deathly quiet, save for the thunk of the tires running over the grooves in the pavement.

“I'll give up
Toy Shop.
Is that what you want? I'll bring Little Joe back. I'll print an apology and discontinue the strip.”

No answer, of course.

I was back to bargaining, the third stage in the dying process. I hadn't realized you could move backward; I thought once you finished a stage that was it. I had been in the depression stage,
and thought I'd been moving closer to acceptance with every mile I covered, but here I was bargaining again. Even if Grandpa had some control over what was happening, and all signs suggested he did not, why would he bargain now? He'd won. At least, he thought he'd won. I shut my mouth, resolved to follow this through in silence.

What was it Krishnapuma had written about dying? It had been strangely comforting when I read it.

I sobbed. I didn't want to remember yet. In fifty years I might embrace it. Maybe it would be comforting to understand what was happening. But I had a lot of time left, or I was supposed to. Right now I didn't want to take the ultimate journey into the godhead; I wanted the mundane things, the day-to-day. My work. My friends. Summer.

I tried Summer again. Still got her voicemail. I pushed the Maserati harder.

I
barely recognized Tybee Beach. The seedy bars had been replaced by upscale surf shops, rooming houses by giant condos on stilts. Heart pounding, I sought familiar landmarks. The street names were no help; I didn't remember which street Grandpa's house had been on, and none of them were familiar.

A cold ocean wind cut through my leather jacket as I trotted up and down the boardwalk clutching a Home Depot bag, past bicycle rental kiosks and custard stands, all shuttered for the winter. Piers jutted over the grey water every tenth of a mile or so, abandoned save for the occasional weekend fisherman. They all looked the same.

I tried to reel myself back to the days when this boardwalk was a second home to Kayleigh and me. We'd fly kites here—triangular black bats with long yellow tails. Once we'd built a fort underneath the wood planks and giggled as people walked by, unaware of us. We lived on French fries and fried dough served on paper plates, salt-water taffy that stuck to the paper wrappers.

Was she still under that pier? Where was that pier? I could see
it so clearly in my mind's eye, but I had no idea where along the beach it was. I scanned the boardwalk.

Beyond an ice cream shop, a patch of open space caught my eye. It was a miniature golf course with a pirate theme. The neon sign—Blackboard Golf—was new, but the course wasn't. Grandpa's rooming house had been on the street directly behind Blackbeard Golf, the pier fifty yards to the left down the boardwalk.

“I bet you recognized it long before I did,” I whispered. I slowed, my steps thudding hollowly on the wood planks. The cold ocean wind reminded me of the wind in Deadland, the wind that worked on you like sandpaper.

We had the pier all to ourselves. Green wooden benches lined the low railing on both sides, with ornate lampposts running along the center. The benches were familiar but I was sure the lampposts were a recent addition. The pier stretched out fifty yards or so, the planks thinning to lines.

When I reached the end of the pier I looked into the white water crashing against posts covered in green slime. Anyone passing would have seen a lone man, but there were three of us here. At least. Who could say how many souls had drowned off this pier?

Who could say how many more would follow?

I backtracked off the pier, found stairs leading down to the beach. Hunched against the cold wind, I following the knobby beams, canted this way and that, supporting the pier.

I stopped at the edge of the surf, watched a little white bird race in and out with the waves, plucking unseen things from under the wet sand.

There was no point in putting it off; every minute increased the chance that Grandpa would take over and wreck my plans. I pushed into the foamy white water. It was freezing.

“You want to play, old man? Let's play.”

It was my body. I could do what I wanted with it.

A wave rolled in. I turned sideways and set my feet; it crashed into my thigh with numbing force. I surged on, my teeth chattering,
exhaling in breathless puffs until I reached the end of the pier. The water was waist-deep.

I pulled out the chain and padlock, allowed the waves to sweep away the plastic bag.

The tug of the surf was so powerful I could barely keep my footing as I pressed my back to a post, fumbled with the chains, wrapping them around and around, lashing myself to the post, my hands throbbing, my toes numb.

“How do you like me now, you old bastard?” I shouted, my throat raw. It wouldn't be murder. No one would blame me. I pulled the chain tight, pushed the padlock through two links and snapped it closed. Clutching the key I tested my work; I squatted, jumped, pulled, squeezed. The chains held right—there was no way he could break free.

I tossed the key into the water, watched it disappear with a tiny plunk.

It wasn't a perfect plan. Someone might come along the beach and call the police. If I was still in control I would wave them off, tell them it was one of those charity things—that I had to stay chained to the post until my friends donated a thousand dollars for cerebral palsy research. I would tell them who I was. Hey, I'm sort of famous, I'm allowed to do crazy things.

For the first time, though, I was hoping Grandpa would take over sooner rather than later. The plan was for me to be long gone by the time the tide came in and this freezing water filled my lungs. Once Grandpa took over he'd call for help. Hopefully no one would hear him, or they wouldn't be able to cut him loose in time. Then the three of us would blow away together, with me chuckling until my mouth was gone. If not, if he made it out, then bully for him, he would win another fifty years of life.

“Eighty-six years you had. You couldn't let it go at that. You had to take my years, too.”

My phone rang. I fished it out of my jacket.

“Where are you?” It was Summer.

“The beach.” I left out the part about being waist-deep in the water, chained to a post.

“What beach? What are you doing at the beach?”

“Didn't you get my message?”

“I saw you called, but I didn't listen to the message. I can barely hear you.”

“I'm right near the water. I'm at the pier where Kayleigh died.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I'm going to stay here with her.”

There was a long pause. Then I thought I heard sniffing.

“In the phone message I invited you to join me if you ran out of time.”

Summer laughed spasmodically through her tears. “That's very thoughtful of you.” I heard the blubbering of a nose being blown. “God damn it Finn, don't quit yet. We still have time.”

“You do,” I said. “I'm out of time. I want to choose where I end up, you know?”

Another long pause. “I'm scared. I don't want to be alone.”

“You're not. Lean on Mick. He'll stick by—”

The snakes ran under my skin; pain and cold receded. At the last instant it occurred to me that Grandpa could simply call 911 with the damned phone I was clutching. I strained to open my trembling hand.

The phone plopped into the water.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Grandpa shouted a moment later. He threw one shoulder forward, then the other. “You must have slipped an extra key into your pocket when I wasn't...” He fumbled through the pockets he could reach, although I had no idea how he thought I could sneak something into a pocket without him noticing. “Ah, God, you stupid asshole.”

I rotated toward the doorway in the back of my head one last time, and Grandpa's ranting grew dim, then was snuffed out by the sound of the wind as my new home rolled into view. I hadn't had to strain at all this time, as if Deadland was welcoming me with open arms.

I squeezed out of my body like I was greased, dropped into the surf, and stuck there. I'd half-expected the water to wash me toward shore; I'd forgotten how still this world was. The water was a still-life, the whitecaps sculptures made of cottage cheese.

I'd never felt so alone.

I'd have Grandpa for company soon, though. We'd have plenty of time to work through our differences. I was almost looking forward to it.

I rotated to face the horizon, which was beautiful in a stark, grey metal way. The sky flickered like an old-time film of a sky.

Not so bad,
Annie had said. Maybe it got better.

There was no sign of Kayleigh. Here and there in the shallows half-submerged dead were visible; a few lay on the beach like sleeping sunbathers. The wind carried snippets of their mutterings to me.

I held phantom hands in front of my face, looked closely, saw flecks of myself whisking off.

How long should I hold out hope that Summer might join me? A month, maybe? I would have to keep track of the days so I would know when to abandon hope. Were there days here?

The mindless words of the dead seemed to be all around me. I would start talking like that soon. It was part of the emptying out. All of the words came out of you. Everything came out of you.

I jolted from my stupor. I listened more intently, praying I hadn't misheard, straining to hear one voice amidst dozens.

She wanted the red bike, didn't want to get a girl color. It had to be her. My sister was here.

“Kayleigh?” No answer.

Anxiously I studied each of the dead in turn. None was Kayleigh, unless she was one of the unrecognizable lumps.

Can you draw
me?

I was locked in on her voice now; the rest had receded into the background.