Laws of Nature -2 (10 page)

Her mind flashed to Bill Cantwell, asleep in the next room while Jack was away, and she blushed at her image in the mirror. With the support of her cane, she walked to the closet and pulled out an old striped robe that had once belonged to her mother. It was frayed at the hem and around the belt, but her only other robe was a thick terrycloth thing that would have melted her in the heat and humidity of July.

After cinching the belt around her waist, Courtney opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The door to Jack's room was closed, and she found her thoughts skittering into territory better left alone. Courtney had not had a serious boyfriend since before the accident ten years earlier that had damaged her leg and killed her mother. Dates, certainly, though with the pub she rarely made time for them. And there had been a man a few years ago whom she thought might become someone special. That relationship had withered on the vine.

Now there was Bill. He meant a lot to her, and there was a serious attraction between them. They'd confessed as much to each another, but things had not progressed further, burdened, as she was, with the knowledge that Bill was not human.

How could she be involved with a man who was not a man? The question had lingered night after night as she tried to wish it away. Bill was technically an animal, and yet that did not make him any less the man she knew and cared for deeply. Or so she told herself.

But what about right now?
she thought.
Behind that door, is it Bill lying there in Jack's bed, or is it the Prowler?
She knew that the creatures had to focus to retain human appearance, and wondered if that meant that during sleep they changed. Courtney chided herself for her thoughts, however. She knew that there was no man and beast where Bill was concerned. They were one and the same.

With her free hand she rubbed at her eyes, still burning from the rough night's sleep. Then she walked down the hall and into the kitchen. She was startled to see Bill sitting at the kitchen table, and let out a tiny gasp as she recoiled from the sight of him.

His eyes went wide in innocent dismay. "Wow. I know I look pretty scary in the morning, but I didn't think I looked
that
bad."

"No," she said hurriedly. "No, Bill, I just . . . the door was closed so I thought you were still sleeping."

He smiled. "That's a relief."

Courtney smiled in return. She hobbled to the coffee maker and poured herself a cup that he had made. Despite what Bill had said, Courtney thought he looked pretty good in the morning. He wore navy blue sweat-pants and a New England Patriots T-shirt that was torn at the collar. His eyes sparkled.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked, unintentionally echoing her own thoughts from moments before. It made her self-conscious, and she glanced away from him.

"I did all right. Jack's mattress is hard, but it's comfortable enough. What about you?"

"Not so well," she confessed. "Worried about Jack, I guess."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, we're telling the truth, are we? Well, then I admit it, I slept pretty poorly myself."

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "Is the bed too hard? You can sleep on the pull-out if you want. I'm sure Molly wouldn't mind."

Bill's smile was sweet and knowing. "I slept poorly because you were right on the other side of the wall. It was kind of a distraction, knowing you were curled up in there."

Taken aback, Courtney could only blink and stare at him.

The smile disappeared from Bill's face. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I just . . . being here with you . . ." He looked a bit appalled with himself and ran a hand through his hair.

The overall effect of his awkwardness was decidedly charming. Courtney leaned forward and reached for his hand. She slipped her fingers into his and placed her other hand over his. Bill glanced up expectantly, still obviously uncomfortable with what he had said.

"It's all right," she told him.

"Now's not the time," Bill said. "We've got Jack and Molly to worry about, and the pub and all. Bad timing."

"Is there ever good timing?" she asked, half to herself and half to reassure him. She searched his eyes. They were the part of him that never changed, no matter how he appeared outwardly. "Anyway, I'm glad you told me that. It makes me feel good, especially when I've got that early-morning glamour thing going.

Let's just not get ahead of ourselves, okay?"

With a deeply sincere expression, Bill nodded. "Agreed. Do me one favor, though?"

Squeezing his hand once, pleased by his response, she leaned closer to him. "Name it."

Bill grinned. "Sit up straight. I can see right down your shirt, and it's really distracting trying not to look."

"You're awful!" With an expression of mock horror on her face, Courtney clenched a fist around the top of her robe and nightshirt and clasped it tight to her chest as she sat back and fixed him with a stern gaze.

"Why awful?" Bill protested. "I told you, didn't I? I could have just snuck a few peeks and never mentioned it. But that wouldn't have been very respectful, now, would it?"

Courtney narrowed her eyes and studied him, trying to hold back the smile that played at the edges of her mouth. The hot summer wind blew through the kitchen and the moon-and-stars clock on the wall ticked off a few seconds, until finally she just shook her head and laughed.

"What am I gonna do with you, Bill Cantwell?" she asked, a trace of her mother's brogue slipping into her voice.

"I wish I knew," Bill replied, no trace of flirtation in his voice, gaze locked upon hers. "The suspense is killing me."

"Why don't we start with breakfast? You can cook, can't you?"

"Are bacon and eggs all right?" Bill asked.

"It'll do," Courtney told him.

Bill stood up, went to the refrigerator, and began to putter around as he prepared to cook them breakfast. It was nice.
Very nice.
Courtney tapped the length of her cane against her knee, watched him, and was filled with wonder at the peculiar turns her life had taken.

Abruptly, as he put a pan on the stove, Bill stiffened. His eyebrows knitted together as he turned toward the window and sniffed the air. Then his expression went completely blank and he turned his attention back to the carton of eggs on the counter.

"What?" Courtney prodded. "What was that? What did you smell?"

The question broke down a wall between them. In the time since she had discovered he was a Prowler, they had never discussed it, either directly or indirectly.

Now this seemingly innocent question put all the cards on the table. She was recognizing what he was, that he had senses far more acute than her own. Bill blinked in surprise, then shrugged.

"Nothing," he said. "Just smelled something nasty, that's all. Garbage truck going by, maybe."

He went back to cooking, and for a while, Courtney just stared at his back. Garbage pickup was on Wednesday. Bill knew that. Whatever it was he had scented on the wind, he didn't want to tell her about it.

As far as Courtney was concerned, that could mean only one thing.

Jack and Molly weren't the only ones in dangerous territory.

It was after eight o'clock when Jack came slowly awake. There was no air-conditioning in the room, and the morning was warm, the air close and moist. After a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

On the bed opposite his, Molly lay curled into a ball, wild red hair splayed around her head, falling over her face. Her green eyes were wide and watching him.

Jack felt a rush of heat to his face as he wondered how long she had been doing so.

"Morning," he said.

"Hi," Molly replied, her voice a cracked, early-morning whisper.

"Been up long?"

"Not really."

"Was I drooling?" he asked. Molly smiled. "Not much. I was just sort of lying here, thinking. You snore, by the way."

"No, I do not," he said, head still on the pillow, no desire to move. "What are you thinking about?"

"Pretending."

Jack frowned. "How do you mean?"

Molly's body unfurled beneath her covers as she stretched, catlike, eyes still on him.

"People pretend all the time, don't they?" she asked. "I mean, we pretend we're not afraid to die, or that we're not hurt when we are. We pretend we know so much; that we know everything, really. But we don't. We live in a world where things like Prowlers exist, and who knows what else, and we pretend not to be afraid of the dark."

After a moment's pause, Molly sat up in bed, hair tumbling over her shoulders, the covers falling away to reveal the soft sheath she had slept in. There was a sadness about her that belied the intensity with which she spoke. Apparently, she had been doing a lot of thinking this morning while she waited for him to wake up.

"God, Jack, we live in a world where what people pretend to know - so they can hide their fear - is so huge that we can't even tell anybody what's real. Nobody will believe us because they're terrified what it would mean not to pretend anymore."

He was not at all sure what she was getting at, but Jack could see how grave Molly felt these thoughts were. Concerned, he slipped out of bed in the T-shirt and gym shorts he'd slept in to avoid any embarrassment, and went to sit by her.

"I can't argue with any of that," he confessed. "But we can't change the world, Molly. At least you and me aren't pretendin' not to know all that stuff."

Her smile was bittersweet. "Yeah. I guess."

What are you pretending not to know?
he wanted to ask her. But he did not dare, for fear of what she might answer.

"You know what frightens me?" she went on. "When I think about it all, the ghosts and the Prowlers, and then I wonder - if those things exist, what else is out there? What if we've just scratched the surface of what's really there?"

Jack laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. The contact was electric, and he could see that she felt it, too. He thought she might have shuddered.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "But let's take one monster at a time, okay? Besides, I'm not afraid. I've got you watching out for me."

Her smile was uncharacteristically shy. "You're something else, Dwyer."

Molly stood up quickly, as if trying to escape the intimacy of waking up together. The sheath she wore was straight and featureless, but he still caught himself looking at her a little too long.

"I'm gonna jump in the shower," she said quickly. "Then we can grab some breakfast."

"Sounds good," Jack replied.

Molly gathered up her things for the shower and went into the bathroom without meeting his eyes again. Whatever was between them would remain unspoken.

Artie's memory and spirit haunted the space that separated Jack from Molly, and so they would pretend, just as Molly had described, that those feelings did not exist.

But he wondered what else she pretended, if she was aware that her dead boyfriend's ghost watched over them.

He heard the shower turn on. A fog fell over his thoughts, a stillness with only a buzzing beneath the surface where all his questions and worries lay buried.

Though it happened almost unconsciously, that expulsion of the concerns weighing upon him was the only way he could deal with them at the moment. His questions would be answered and his worries played out, but only over time.

A voice from behind him broke the silence.

"She's pretty amazing, isn't she?"

"Ah!" Jack lunged across the bed, rolled, and came up on the other side, heart thudding in his chest, lungs heaving with panic.

Artie Carroll's ghost was across the room, hovering several inches off the ground. He looked as he had the night he died, his straggly blond hair down to his shoulders, his hooded sweatshirt ripped at the neck, hightop sneakers untied, the laces dangling beneath him, trailing on the floor. He had that innocent
who-me?
expression on his face, the one that had allowed him to get away with so much over the years.

"Damn it, Artie," Jack rasped, his voice sounding like the patter of water in the shower. "Don't
do
that! You scared the crap out of me."

The ghost held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry, Jack, but think about it. What, am I supposed to knock?" He mimed knocking on the air. "Hel-lo?"

Jack's breathing had returned to normal, though his heart still tapped a rapid rhythm. He rolled his eyes at Artie's familiar tone and shook his head. The guy was impossible to stay mad at.

"Just . . . try to . . . manifest or whatever it is in front of me instead of behind my back, okay?" he asked.

"Right," Artie said, lips pursed doubtfully. "Like that's going to be less freaky for you. You're just gonna have to get a thicker skin, y'know? Why is it you strong guys are always the jittery ones?"

"I'm not jittery."

"Yeah, and politicians aren't corrupt. Actually, I wouldn't mind so much that they're corrupt if they'd just be more up front about it. Wear a 'for sale' button or something, y'know? If you're going to be greedy and sell your soul, stop being so afraid to get caught. They're all such babies about it. Talk about cowards.

Between the votes they've been paid off to cast, and the ones they cast 'cause they're too afraid of backlash from the religious right or whatever to actually vote how they think, I bet most of them don't ever cast a vote that really represents their own thought process. It's such a dirty business. No wonder there's - "

"Artie!" Jack snapped, his voice hushed, even though he was fairly certain Molly couldn't hear him over the shower.

The spirit's eyes widened, and Jack shuddered to see the eternal blackness within them. The rest of him was insubstantial. The morning sun passed through him, his body as gossamer as the curtains that hung over the windows. But those eyes . . .

"Sorry, bro," Artie said. "Just got carried away. Most of the folks over here in the Ghostlands don't have much patience with talk about their old lives, the world, y'know? Hurts too much to talk about what they've left behind."

Jack felt a stab of guilt, feeling as though he'd robbed Artie of the small pleasure of arguing. "Another time, okay? When Molly's not around, we can debate all you want."