Walking After Midnight (12 page)

„Glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humor.“

Summer didn’t even bother to dignify that with an answer. „We’ve got to do
something
– at least call somebody and tell them where they – the bodies – are.“

He snorted. „Why not just tell them where we are while we’re at it?“

„We should call the police“ – a sharp shake of his head vetoed that idea – – „or Harmon Brothers,“ another shake of his head, „or
somebody“

Frankenstein shot her an impatient glance.
„Those people in there are already dead, Rosencrans. You want to join them?“

Summer shook her head.

„Me neither. So we don’t call anybody, understand? We just keep our mouths shut, our heads low, and hightail it out of the great state of Tennessee.“

„But…“As Summer followed him through an ordinary-size door at the far end of the warehouse, he flicked off the light. The fresh night air struck her like a threat. Outside, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. She looked anxiously skyward, searching for any sign of the helicopter.

„Couldn’t we just stay here until morning?“ Her voice was so small that she barely recognized it as her own.

He shut the door and tested the knob to be sure it was locked. „What do you suppose is going to be different in the morning? Do you think the bad guys vanish in a puff of smoke at daybreak? Not hardly. The bad guys’U still be bad – and they’ll still be searching for us. So shake your booty, Rosencrans.“

„Would you quit calling me that?“ She addressed the question to his back. He was already a dozen paces ahead. Summer hurried to catch up. „Damn it!“

„What’re you swearing for?“

„Fun.“

„Whatever turns you on.“ He stopped in front of an ancient-looking black car and bent, feeling beneath its massive front bumper. The sound of the hood popping open was as loud as a gunshot to Summer’s sensitized ears.

„What are you doing?“ Glancing around, Summer wrapped her arms over her chest. The night had grown cool, but she thought it was nerves rather than temperature that was the cause of her sudden chill.

He opened the hood wide, pulled a coil of wire obtained God knew where from the back pocket of his cut-offs, and bent over the car’s yawning mouth. „Connecting the battery to the coil.“

„Why?“

„Jesus, Rosencrans, don’t you ever shut up? I need to concentrate here.“

„So who’s stopping you?“ But after that she seethed in silence as, following a couple of apparent false starts that had him swearing under his breath, he wrapped one end of the wire around a battery post and threaded it down through the engine. He dropped to the ground, turned rather clumsily onto his back, and scooted under the car. Minutes and a ton more curse words later he was out again, grimacing as he clambered to his feet.

„Get in.“ He shut the hood.

„But…“

„Just do it, would you?“ He came around the car, opened the driver’s-side door, and stood waiting.

„But – this is somebody’s car.“

„No kidding.“

„You’re stealing it.“

„I’m trying to. Only you keep talking.“

„Stealing a car is against the law. You could go to jail.
We
could go to jail.“

„Just get in the car, Rosencrans.“ An ominous glance warned her against continuing to argue. It was clear he wasn’t in the right humor to appreciate dissent. Not without severe misgivings, Summer swallowed her objections and got in.

The interior of the car was clean. A baseball cap and a couple of textbooks in the backseat attested that its owner was probably a male high school or college student. At the thought of making off with some kid’s car, Summer felt another pang of conscience.

„I don’t think we should…“ she began.

„Don’t think, okay?“

He slammed the door behind her and leaned in the open window. Seen up close and personal, his face looked awful. It was impossible to tell whether, under normal conditions, he could be described as a handsome man. Summer tried to recall whether or not she had ever glimpsed a picture of Steve Calhoun, and failed. Surely the papers had carried photos of him, but she simply couldn’t remember.

„Look, this is a ‘55 Chevy. We can start it without a key. I know, because I used to drive one when I was in high school. The transmission’s in neutral. I want you to keep it in neutral till it starts picking up speed down the hill. Then shift into first.“

„But…“

„Don’t talk, Rosencrans, okay? Just do what I tell you. When we get a good clip going, shift into first. Simple.“

„But…“

„I’m gonna be back here pushing. If we do it right, the engine’ll turn over and we’ll have wheels. Wheels that nobody knows we’ve got. We can just cruise right past ‘em out of Dodge.“

„I don’t know how to drive a stick shift.“

„What?“ He looked at her as if she had suddenly started speaking in tongues.

„I don’t know how to drive a stick shift. I learned to drive on an automatic, and that’s all I’ve ever driven.“

„Jesus.“ He rested his head against the top of the window, and closed his one good eye. A second later, he opened it again. „You’re gonna have to learn. Right now.“

„I’ve never been very mechanical…“

„The alternative is that
I
drive, and
you
push.“

„Oh.“

„Yeah, oh.“

„I’ll try.“

„Great.“ He took a deep breath. „Okay, listen. All you have to do, when you get ready to shift into first, is depress the clutch pedal first. See that third pedal over there on the other side of your brake?
That’s
the clutch. Step on it, shift into first“ – he reached in front of her to demonstrate with the black-tipped handle that stuck out of the right side of the steering wheel – „just like this. Hit the pedal, move the stick up and forward. Easy. Try it.“

Summer did.

„See?“ he asked when she had performed to his satisfaction.

„Easy.“ If her voice lacked conviction he overlooked it.

„Good. Let’s do it.“

„Wait!“ Summer hoped the panic that infused her voice was audible only to her own ears.

„Hit the clutch, shift into first.“ He was already walking around to the rear as he called to her.

With both hands on the wheel, Summer was once again tense as a crouched cat. Slowly, laboriously, the car started to move. Gravel crunched. She turned the wheel so that they were aiming toward the gate. The road leading to it was downhill all the way.

The car began to pick up speed.

„Now!“ he yelled.

Move the stick up and forward – a hideous grinding noise – no, step on the clutch first and then… She did it. Through the rearview mirror, she saw that Frankenstein was lurching along in a lopsided jog behind the car. Then the engine coughed to life, capturing her attention.

Alone in an unmarked car, she drove straight on down to the gate.

11

„Death – the last sleep?

No, it is the final awakening.“

– Sir Walter Scott

Being a ghost was not a whole heck of a lot of fun.

Deedee felt as though she were being borne helplessly along by a swift river current. Once she had drifted outside the window, a mysterious force had caught her up, propelling her to destinations unknown at speeds so fast that the stars above and lights below had melded into a gigantic sun-streaked torrent. She bobbed up at scenes from her own life, not of her own will but for some reason she didn’t yet understand. The tiny clapboard house where she had lived as a little girl. The high school where she’d been cheerleader. The recording studio where, two months before she had died, she’d gotten the chance to sing backup for Reba McEntire because the regular girl was sick.

The highlight of her life.

They’d said she was good, the people in the studio. That she had
some pipes.

If she had lived, she might have been a star.

That was what she mourned most about her lost life, she realized. The waste of her God-given talent before it could be recognized. She had had the voice of a honky-tonk angel, yet precious few had ever known it.

A honky-tonk angel. If she was an angel at all, that was the kind she was.

But she didn’t think she was an angel. She wasn’t sure, of course, but when she thought of angels she thought of heavenly beings with golden halos floating over their heads and big white wings and harps.

Angelic
angels. She’d been many things in life, but angelic wasn’t one of them.

Did Heaven have an angel opening for a hard-drinking, fast-living hell-raiser with three-inch nails and blue jeans so tight it hurt her to sit?

Maybe. But it didn’t seem likely.

Instead she thought she might be a ghost. As a kid, she’d always thought being a ghost might be kind of fun. Floating through darkened hallways, moaning in the middle of the night, moving things out of their accustomed place – just in general scaring the socks off people. Fun.

But if she was a ghost, ghosting wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. For one thing, though she seemed to be able to materialize – at least, the warm tingling that every once in a while pervaded her being along with a sense of the matter that was her rushing together and becoming solid made her
feel
like she was materializing – she could not materialize at will.

She just popped up, like a jack-in-the-box, and vanished as quickly. Her mother had been sitting on the tattered tweed couch in the living room of the house where she had grown up, watching
Roseanne.
Deedee had recognized her mother, recognized the poor shabby room, even recognized the program – and felt the tingling. All of a sudden her mother’s eyes had turned toward where Deedee floated by the rocking chair and grown huge. She had screamed – and fainted dead away.

Just about the reaction to be expected from someone who had seen a ghost.

Her old buddy Steve – what had happened to his face? – at least he hadn’t fainted when she’d felt the tingling again outside the boat-storage place. But he hadn’t waved back, either, when she had tried a tentative greeting. Instead he’d just stared at her, real hard. Maybe he hadn’t seen her at all. She couldn’t be sure.

There wasn’t much she could be sure about, anymore.

But she did know one thing: There was some tie, like a huge invisible rubber band, that bound her to earth. In order to get to heaven, she had to break the bond.

But first she had to figure out what the bond was.

12

If Summer had remembered the code, she would have been gone. Out of the whole mess and headed for home. As it was, she sat glowering at the closed gate until Frankenstein opened the passenger door and slid in, panting.

„Nine-one-two-eight,“ he said.

Sulkily Summer punched in the numbers. The gates swung apart, and the Chevy bucked through the opening like a spastic kangaroo.

„Damn it, when you let up on the brake, you have to hit the clutch first!“

„I told you I don’t know how to drive a stick!“

Somehow she got the car smoothed out. A glance in the rearview mirror showed her that the gates had closed behind them. In response to his gesture, she turned left onto the road, retracing their route back through the small town. The lights of the 7-Eleven glowed on the right. Apparently the store was true to its neon advertising:
OPEN
24 HOURS A DAY!

„You got any money?“ He felt in the pockets of his cutoffs and came up empty.

„No.“ They both knew where her money was. In her purse, waiting with her bucket and vacuum cleaner by the funeral home’s front door.

„Check out the gas gauge.“

There was a hair less than a quarter of a tank.

„That’ll get us maybe eighty, ninety miles.“ He glanced at the 7-Eleven speculatively. Summer’s blood went cold as she wondered if, horror of horrors, he was thinking about robbing the convenience store for gas money.

„I’m not going eighty miles.“ That glance of his was the last straw. She had had it. Absolutely had it. She was not being a party to anything else dangerous – or illegal.

He either missed or ignored the implication in her words. „Pull in, will ya?“

„No!“ Summer almost shrieked, and stepped on the accelerator for emphasis. The Chevy sputtered twice, then spurted forward.
„No, no, no!“

„A thousand times no?“ He looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted an extra nose. „What the hell’s the matter with you?“

„I will not be a party to robbing a convenience store!“

„I wanted to stop so I could take the wire out of the engine!“

„No!“