Naive Charles Royce (great novels .txt) 📖

sees the ghost tattoo on his shoulder. She tries to catch her breath, letting out a quick, heavy snort, releasing a tiny bit of mucous onto her upper lip. She reaches for a Kleenex in her purse, while at the same time moving her phone into camera mode. She wipes her lips with her tissue and positions the camera.

((Flash.))

“Shit,” she says, dropping her phone again.

Ghost looks through the windshield, directly into her eyes. He puts his coat back on and walks out of view.

Haylee starts her car and moves it forward off the tracks. Once free, she presses the gas, and the car barrels through pools of water, splashing the second man. The tires screech as she bolts right on Atlantic and hits the interstate to go back home.

“Heeeyyy,” says the other man, waving a white towel at the Mercedes SUV, surrendering to what has just happened.

✽✽✽

Ghost bursts through the door to his boss’s office.

“Sir, sorry, but I need to go home to change. Hose broke off in the rinse bay. Got soaked and I’m cold as fuck.” He takes off his drenched vinyl coat, throws it on the floor. He begins to scrunch up his wet tank top to wring out the water.

The boss looks up. He is a big man with a moustache and failing hair.

“You have twenty minutes.”

Ghost looks at his boss’s desk. A multitude of checks are laid neatly in front of the man.

“I suppose you want your check?” The boss is annoyed by the staring.

“If it’s not a problem.” Ghost is composed, trying not to reveal that’s the only reason why he came into work in the first place.

“Here.” His boss holds out a check. “You have twenty minutes to make it back.”

Ghosts grabs the check and runs out of the office to his right. He takes a left at Clinton and runs toward the C train, folding the check carefully so that both corners line up. He sticks the check in the back of his jeans as he picks up his pace.

Twenty minutes, he thinks, doing the math in his head, Fuck that.

His home is at least twelve minutes by subway across the East River to Jay Street, then a transfer to the F train to 2nd Avenue, and he still has to run about ten blocks to his apartment.

And besides, that’s not the reason I’m leaving, he thinks. Somebody has recognized me.

He sees an unchained bike resting on a stone wall beneath a huge rosette window and a sign that reads Church of St. Luke and St. Matthew. He grabs the bike, hops on, and races in the direction of his apartment.

The wind is cold on his bare arms and shoulders. His son could be in danger. He needs to wrap up loose ends. He has nowhere else to turn.

C h a p t e r   4 9

Ghost puts the key in his front door lock and turns.

“Don’t worry, it’s me,” Ghost says, teeth chattering, in a volume just loud enough for his son to hear. “Can you open the other lock for Daddy?”

A series of clicks reverberate through the hallway, and the door opens.

Ghost grabs the boy, flings him up into his arms. He wraps himself in his son, relishing the warmth and safety. They move down the hallway to the bedroom. Ghost sees the suitcase neatly packed.

“Good job,” he says.

Ghost flips through the suitcase, then opens the dresser drawers, pulls out underwear and socks, throws them into the luggage. He opens the bottom drawer, pulls out 10,000 dollars in stacks of 100’s, throws it in and closes it. He pulls an old corduroy coat from the closet and wrestles it onto his thawing body.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“I need you to be a man today, okay? We’re leaving a little sooner than we planned.” Ghost knows it’s a half-truth. “Now, come with Daddy.”

Ghost grabs the boy’s suitcase and rushes to the living room. His son follows closely behind, still dressed in his “I Heart NY” pajamas.

Ghost stops at the computer table and opens the drawer. The jostle of the commotion wakes the computer from its sleep. The words Confess, I have the letter are still visible, taunting him. He feels a pressure that he’s never felt before, like a vice crushing his soul, his future, his son. He pulls out two plane tickets, takes one, leaves the second one in the drawer.

I can get an earlier flight at the airport, he thinks, shoving the ticket in his corduroy jacket.

Ghost grabs his son in one hand and the suitcase in the other and heads out of the apartment, pulling the door closed with his foot. They run down the stairs and out the front door.

He places the boy down on solid ground and places the suitcase in front of him. He hails a nearby taxi.

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

“Oh, mon cœur, all will be okay soon.”

The taxi pulls up. The passenger window is down.

“Where to?” asks the taxi driver.

Ghost and his son enter the cab.

“JFK!” he replies, as if his son’s life depended on it.

C h a p t e r   5 0

“Micah, I’d like you to meet the private investigator to whom you owe your life,” Shawn motions in the direction of the other man who had just arrived at Shawn’s home.

“Allen Pinchot,” the man says. “Glad to finally meet you.”

They are all seated on the back patio area of the Connellys’ brownstone in Cobble Hill. A nine-foot wall of horizontal teak slats stretches along the back of the outdoor space, with a smooth concrete floor surrounded by manicured grass. Micah sees an empty chair next to the detective.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Micah almost bows as he shakes Allen’s hand.

“Not a problem at all. It’s what we do.”

“Allen’s the one who found out about Jenna’s Wi-Fi,” Shawn explains as they all take their seats in wire-mesh chairs with light green oversize cushions. “Ultimately not our proudest moment, but I think it helped give us an edge.”

Micah isn’t