Laws of Nature -2 Christopher Golden (ebook reader web .txt) 📖

Then his eyebrows went up. "Oh. That's just Kenny. He's the latest one they killed, but you won't get any help from him. Just keeps singing those old cartoon songs, then drifting off somewhere."

Jack shuddered as the song changed.

Then he frowned.

Jack, move!

It took a moment before he realized it was Molly, calling out to him. Jack turned toward her and saw the Ford pickup truck squealing around the corner, rocketing toward him.

He frowned. It was another ghost vehicle, a phantom Ford. Why was Molly so freaked, he wondered. Then he looked over at Molly. A phantom Molly. She screamed again and ran at him, and just as she collided with him, the world reversed again, everything taking on its true substance, its true flesh.

He went down hard on the pavement, with Molly on top of him and the Ford swerving to avoid hitting them. Even with the swerve, though, without Molly grabbing him, Jack knew he would have been hit. The pickup stopped a few yards along and a guy with scraggly hair and a beard leaned out the window.

"What the hell's the matter with you two?" he snapped in the deep Vermont twang so many of the locals had. Then he scowled and the truck roared out of there.

Jack was so engrossed in speaking to the dead mailman that he forgot he had been looking into the Ghostlands, and that, in that moment, the so-called real world would appear to be a phantom landscape to him. He had thought the actual truck to be a spectral one. Now he looked up at Molly, who was sprawled on top of him, eyes wide with fear.

"You scared the hell out of me," she said breathlessly.

He reached up and stroked the back of his fingers across her left cheek. "You saved my life. Thanks."

Molly smiled sweetly. "What else was I supposed to do? You have the keys to the Jeep."

Jack shoved her off him, both of them laughing softly, and they brushed themselves off. He glanced around, but there was no more sign of the ghostly postal van.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"Help," he told her. "I think I've got us some help." As best he could, he explained his conversation with Garraty, and he described the disturbing sight of the old man's ghost.

"Another one," Molly said softly, a profound sadness filling her eyes.

Jack knew right away what she was thinking. "We can't start taking the blame, Molly. We're here to help, but that doesn't mean we'll be able to. Others may die.

But if we can destroy this pack, other lives will be saved. We can only do what we can do."

"That sucks," she told him.

"Yeah. It does."

Molly held her hand out to him, green eyes flashing angrily now. "Give me the keys."

He did as she asked, and Molly went to the back of the Jeep, popped it open, and hauled the trunk with the weapons in it to the edge of the bumper. Jack was always surprised to see how strong she was.

"Hey," he said, going to her side but not doing anything to stop her. "Do you think that's a good idea? If we're caught carrying guns, we'll probably end up in jail."

Molly glanced at the pavement for a second, then turned to stare up at him, eyes intense. She shook her hair back and held his gaze.

"And if we're caught without one, what then?" she asked, voice steady, almost cold.

Jack couldn't argue with that. They each took a pistol from the trunk and then locked it back up, leaving the more serious armament for later. The other weapons would have been impossible to carry concealed anyway.

They got into the Jeep and Jack pulled a U-turn and headed back up the Post Road toward Buckton. A few minutes passed in silence, but just as the downtown area came into view, Molly slid her pistol into the glove compartment.

"Gonna have to figure out what clothes I can wear to cover that," she said. "Y'know, something that wouldn't look stupid in this weather."

"Me, too," Jack agreed.

But she was still staring at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at her. "What is it, Mol?"

Her eyes darted away a moment, then came back to rest on him again. "When you were talking to that ghost, I heard you say Artie's name."

It wasn't a question. Her words hung in the air between them, almost tangible. Jack did not look at her again, but kept his eyes on the road.

"Word gets around in the Ghostlands," he said, mouth dry. "They knew that I'd lost a friend to the Prowlers. That's all."

Molly said nothing.

Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub was just down the street from Quincy Market in Boston, a mecca for tourists. Jugglers and musicians performed for the crowds and street vendors peddled ice cream and cotton candy. Parents bought their children brightly colored balloons, and young men bought their dates single red roses; both balloon strings and rose stems were clutched tightly in the hands of their recipients.

At nine o'clock that night, it was still eighty-four degrees and the cobblestoned streets around Quincy Market teemed with people. A perfect summer night for tourists and locals alike. Even the side streets were busy with pedestrians traveling to and from the garages and lots where they'd stashed their cars, or to the underground railway stations scattered around the area.

A lot of that foot traffic went along Nelson Street, the side road that passed right in front of Bridget's. It was barely wide enough for cars to pass in both directions. Once upon a time it had been run-down, but as Quincy Market became ever more popular, the store-fronts had spawned successful businesses, including an Italian restaurant, a coffee bar, a florist, and a drugstore. Bridget's had been there before any of them, and it thrived by attracting a newer, younger clientele without alienating longtime regulars. An Irish pub and restaurant could not survive without its regulars.

Though, on nights like this