Ghost Hand (17 page)

“He has a trust fund,” he said, taking the last bite of his PB&J and talking right through it. “Some kind of out-of-court settlement from when he was a kid. I guess by the time he turned eighteen and finally got access, it was a lot of money.”

“So, Marcus is rich,” I said, “and he lives in a tent.”

“Yep,” Yale nodded, grinning.

I was leaning against an ATV, polishing off a packaged oatmeal cookie, when Marcus came over and handed me one of the black hydration packs.

“Thanks” I said, slinging it on and taking a long sip.

“Follow me,” Marcus said. “We need to talk.”

“Oow, it sounds serious,” I said, “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I—we aren’t—” Marcus stammered, all his cool composure of a moment before completely obliterated.

“Um, that was a joke,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. Except it was only partially a joke. It was probably time to admit to myself that I liked Marcus.

“Right. Good,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“There’s a stream just over there,” he said, pointing toward the woods. “I like the sound. It helps me think.”

And covers the sound of us talking so the others can’t hear. The more I got to know Marcus, the more I realized how calculating he was. His motives were never simple. Marcus was not “what you see is what you get.” What you saw barely scratched the surface.

“Lead the way,” I said.

It didn’t take long for us to reach a burbling, shady stream. Marcus sat down on the grassy bank and I sat next to him. He seemed suddenly unsure of himself, which made me feel pleased and worried all at the same time. I looked across the stream, waiting for him to speak.

“So, mainly, I just wanted to, you know, see how you’re doing,” he said, digging his hands into the grass like it was Berber carpet.

“Oh, I’m great,” I said. “Last time I checked I had smoke inhalation, a concussion, and a hand that likes to reach inside people and yank random shit out.”

Marcus looked up, startled by the heat in my voice. “You didn’t hurt Jason,” he said.

“Maybe not,” I countered, “but I certainly pissed him off.”

“He comes pre-pissed,” Marcus said, smiling. He reached out and took my ghost hand in his, tugging at the fingers of the glove.

“Don’t,” I said, pulling away.

“You know, I honestly don’t think your hand is doing anything bad,” he said, giving me one of his intense stares. “Unusual, yes. But not bad. And you’re obviously gaining control of it. You pulled your hand out of Jase on your own.”

“It was different than before,” I said. “Like my hand knew exactly what it was doing. And what it was looking for.”

“Can I see the bullet?” Marcus asked, almost shyly.

“Sure,” I dug in my front jeans pocket and pulled it out, rolling it in my ghost hand. It gleamed like a tiny, golden missile, nestled in a crease of my glove.

“It’s live ammo, not just a shell casing,” Marcus said, poking it with a finger. “For some kind of hunting gun, I’d guess.”

“Hey, it has something etched into it,” I said, turning it so he could see.

It was a name, Jason’s name, scratched into one side.

“Huh. Did any of the blades have that girl’s name on them?” Marcus asked.

“Her
name
is Passion. And I don’t think so. Not that I noticed anyway. What does it mean? A bullet with his name on it.”

“I don’t think you want to know,” Marcus said, looking away.

“Yes, I do. If it has something to do with my hand, and what it’s doing, and why, of course I want to know.”

Marcus sighed, finally looking at me. “We picked Jason up right before we came to Greenfield, about two weeks ago. His dad runs a game preserve outside of Fort Worth, Texas,” Marcus paused, as if that should mean something to me.

“And?” I prompted, because it didn’t.

“His dad is a CAMFer.”

“Jason’s dad is a CAMFer?”

“Yes,” Marcus nodded.

“But how can that be? His own son has PSS.”

“Now maybe you understand why Jason comes pre-pissed.”

“Yeah, I do.” And here I’d thought I had it bad with my mother. “Where’s Jason’s PSS?” I asked.

“Right leg below the knee,” Marcus said.

“But I still don’t understand. What does this have to do with the bullet and the name?”

Marcus inhaled a huge breath, as if it hurt to, and said, “Before we got Jason out, we did a lot of recon. We hid outside the game preserve at first, but eventually, we went inside the grounds. Jason’s dad is pretty high up with the CAMFers. His preserve is sort of like a lodge for them. They didn’t exactly treat Jason well. Honestly, his dad treats the animals on the preserve better than he treated Jason. Until he shoots them.”

Until he shoots them.
Jason’s dad treated animals he raised for slaughter better than his own son. When I had first felt that bullet, first pulled it out, I’d assumed it was some kind of symbol of Jason’s violence and hate. But it wasn’t that at all. It was a bullet of fear. A bullet with his name on it, etched there by his father. A bullet of belief that his own father might, at any moment, decide to kill him.

“It ended up being pretty easy to get Jason out,” Marcus went on, “because they considered him just another animal. It never occurred to them that he would leave, or that anyone would want to take him.”

“But he’s on their list,” I said, feeling my throat tighten up, rage battling with sorrow.

“For extraction,” Marcus said. “Maybe his dad volunteered him for the list. I don’t know.”

“That’s horrible,” I said, clenching my fist around the bullet. I didn’t want it. I needed to get it away from me, far away from me. How could such a tiny thing hold so much awfulness? I raised my arm, ready to fling the bullet into the woods beyond the stream.

Marcus caught hold of my hand, enfolding it in his.

“I don’t want it!” I yelled in his face, struggling against his grip.

“I know,” he said, “but you can’t throw it away.”

“Why not?” I demanded. It came out more like a sob than words.

“Because,” he said, pulling my hand down, still holding it gently but firmly. “Your hand doesn’t just pull horrible things out of people. It changes them into something else. Something we can use. Think about it. Maybe inside of Passion, the blades were just some kind of burden, but then you brought them out, and they became exactly what you needed most, something to hide you from the CAMFers.”

“I don’t care,” I said, but I did. Marcus had listened to my crazy theory about my hand and people’s burdens, and he’d taken it one step further. And what he was saying actually made sense.

He gently unfolded my fingers from around the bullet. “This,” he said, touching it, “used to be Jason’s fear. But we have to figure out what it is now. What it does. And how we can use it to help rescue the others.”

“But what about Passion and Jason? He’s still as angry as ever. She’s in the hospital. Shouldn’t removing their burdens help them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it will in time.”

“I think I should give it to him,” I said softly, curling my fingers back around the bullet.

“Not a good idea,” Marcus said, shaking his head.

“It’s not ours though. It’s his. And maybe giving it to him is what makes things better.”

“I highly doubt it,” Marcus frowned at me. “You were there when he stuck a loaded gun in your face, right?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“He’s not ready for this. Take my word for it. I think you should keep it for now, until we figure out what it does.”

“Okay,” I sighed, slipping the bullet back in my pocket. I didn’t want to leave the stream. I didn’t want to walk back to the ATVs and see Jason and know what I knew. Not yet.

But then Marcus said, “We’d better get back to the others,” and he got up, and I didn’t have much choice but to follow him.

THE BEST LAID PLANS

In the dark we hiked, silent, dressed in black, and full of nervous energy. Marcus led the way, with me behind him. Then came Nose, and Yale brought up the rear. We’d spent the entire afternoon setting up a new camp and going over our plan, refining it, coming up with alternatives in case this or that went wrong. After an early dinner of canned stew heated on a camp stove, it was time to start the long hike into town. The wheelers were too loud and hard to hide, plus they limited our escape routes to wider roads and paths. On foot, Marcus had assured us, we could melt in and out of the landscape.

My head still throbbed a little, but I’d taken some pain killer right before we’d left. It was slow going tramping through thick, uncut underbrush. We’d taken a route far from Old Delarente Road in case the CAMFers were still using it.

Suddenly, in front of me, Marcus made an “oofing” noise and his flashlight went sailing, end over end, through the air. There was a heavy thud, and a lighter one off in the distance as the flashlight landed and flicked out. I crouched in the dark, my own flashlight tucked in toward my body. I couldn’t see Marcus in front of me anymore. Were we under attack? Had he been ambushed by waiting CAMFers?

“What was that?” Nose whispered from behind me.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back.

“I tripped on a log,” Marcus groaned from a few feet away. “These damn flashlights are too dim. I didn’t even see it.”

“So much for melting into the landscape,” Nose chuckled softly.

“Are you okay?” I asked, shining my flashlight in Marcus’s direction. By the scowl on his face as he sat up from behind a rather large log, I hadn’t kept the laughter out of my question.

“Don’t shine that in my eyes,” he barked, shaking leaves out of his hair.

I lowered the beam.

“We need more light,” he said, standing up and stepping carefully back over the log. “If we could see better, we could move faster.” He glanced down not-so-subtly at my gloved hand.

“Fine,” I said, starting to take off my glove, but then I stopped and looked at Nose. And at Yale behind him. I wasn’t the only one with glow-in-the-dark parts anymore. With everything that had happened, I hadn’t had a chance to ask Yale and Nose about their PSS, let alone have some show-and-tell. But if Marcus was asking me to whip out my ghost hand, maybe it was time. “Why me?” I asked, turning back to Marcus. “Why not one of them?”

“I will, if you will.” Nose smiled, his ski mask wrinkling at his cheeks.

“It’s a deal,” I said. I was finally going to get to see someone else’s PSS.

Nose reached up and pulled off his mask in one quick tug.

I couldn’t help but stare. Bright, blue, beautiful PSS

shone like a beacon smack out of the middle of his face. It illuminated his ebony skin, and dark brown eyes, bathing his short black hair in shades of blue. But it was also disturbing, the way you felt like you were looking straight into his head. In the depths of his PSS nose, you could see where the small dark tunnels of his sinuses began, making you wonder just how far back it all went. It wasn’t gross or anything, not any grosser than my wrist stump. But it wasn’t normal either.

Nose turned his head, showing off his profile and the wonderful nose he’d formed for it. As I watched, the nose changed shapes—a Roman nose, a hawkish nose, a bulbous nose, and finally the hooked nose of a witch, complete with a bumpy wart on the end.

“Show off,” Yale mumbled under his breath.

“Very nice, but we’re kind of in a hurry here,” Marcus added.

Nose turned back toward me and said, “Your turn.”

I reached down and peeled off my glove. I held up my ghost hand, flexed it, and watched them all stare, the reflection of my PSS glowing in their eyes.

“Sweet,” Nose said with admiration, “but no need to show off. We’ve already seen what that puppy can do.”

“Looks like there might be a way to pick your nose after all,” Yale said, clapping Nose on the back and laughing.

“Gross,” I said, lowering my hand. “How old are you, ten?”

“Sorry,” Yale mumbled, looking properly chagrined. I could actually see his expression now. I could see all three guys quite clearly and a good ten to twelve feet in any direction, thanks to the glow of the PSS.

“Won’t the CAMFers see us coming from a mile away though?” I asked Marcus.

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “But if they do it’s likely to scare the shit out of them. Besides, we need to see. It’s worth the risk.”

“What about you, Yale?” I asked. “Three would make it even brighter.”

Yale looked suddenly and completely embarrassed.

Nose and Marcus exchanged a glance, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, Yale,” Nose said. “Help us shed some light on the situation.”

“Shut up,” Yale said, punching Nose in the shoulder.

Marcus and Nose were practically doubled-over with laughter.

I just stood there, confused. Obviously, they had some kind of a private joke about Yale’s PSS. Maybe he was really shy about it.

“Yale’s PSS is—” Marcus began.

“Shut up,” Yale interrupted. He wouldn’t even look at me.

“—located in a rather delicate area,” Marcus finished, smirking like a jack-o-lantern.

“Oh. Ohhhh,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. How could I have known Yale’s PSS was one of “those” parts? And which of those parts was it?

“It’s not what you think,” Nose said.

“I’m not thinking anything,” I lied.

“Please just shut up,” Yale pleaded.

“Let’s just say, there’s not much of a
moon
out tonight,” Nose continued anyway, “
but
if Yale joined us, there would be.”

Moon. But. I immediately got the picture, loud and clear. And when I did I had a lot of trouble holding back a laugh. I’d always thought a PSS hand was a pain in the ass.
Pain in the ass. He he.

“See, it wasn’t that bad telling her, Yale,” Marcus said, turning to lead us over the fallen log.

I tucked my flashlight into a pocket and followed, holding my ghost hand out ahead of me.

From behind me, Nose began to hum “This Little Light of Mine.”

“Shut up, Nose,” Yale said.

* * *

“It’s six after eight.” Marcus informed us.

We’d just arrived at the edge of the woods right behind my house—what was left of it anyway.