Keep the Ghost

40. Fingerprint

"Sean!"

Night has fallen by the time I hear her voice again. I wake up with a start, banging my head on the trunk. I lift a hand to rub the pain away, and realize I'm holding the pistol.

"Where are you?" I call.

"I can't find you, just follow my voice."

I heft myself out of the trunk, then land on my good leg. The duffel bag comes with me, strapped across my chest. The gun goes into my pocket, so that I can press both hands into the weeds below, and push myself forward.

I crawl through the track left by one of the wheels, walled in by tall grass. Crickets dive-bomb, some knocking against my face and arms, others buzzing off into the thicket.

I press into the soft surface of an ant pile; I curse, withdraw the hand and shake it violently, skittering past before I'm swarmed with angry insects.

Then I'm clear, and there's a thin black road in front of me. I hear the lumbering motor of a large diesel, and turn to see Morgan sitting behind the wheel of an old Chevy truck.

I look back—the tall grass consumes any trace of the car, proud sprouts jutting up. With one hand on the truck, I hop around to the passenger side and pull open the door. The steel button resists at first, then depresses reluctantly when I push harder. The seat is one long bench, fake leather slippery under my sweatpants.

When I'm in, she takes off.

Morgan seems to absorb starlight, moonskin glowing pale. I watch as she drives, both hands on the thin, hard steering wheel, forehead tensed in concentration. The road ahead is barely lit by the aging headlights.

We drive down a small country highway, a narrow road split by faded yellow lines, reflectors chipped and missing. After a time, she slows near a brick sign that stands guard outside a simple brown building. Ocala County Medical Examiner's Office.

The building sits in an open field in front of someone's unkempt, wild grassland. Morgan drives past, turns right. Another narrow road, this one lacking lines to mark lanes, leads us a few hundred yards behind the office.

"Think we can make it?" she asks, nodding at a wall of plants off to the right. They stand in a tight-packed row like soldiers in formation.

"You mean, can we drive through that? Why would you want to?"

She pulls off the road, heading directly into a patch of ferns, wheels dipping into mud then sucking out with a slurching sound. Morgan curses under her breath when a tire spins uselessly, but in moments we're free. The truck crashes through the walls of green, plants scraping the undercarriage. When I turn to look back, I see nothing but tall weeds.

She turns off the truck. The lights dim, the sound of the engine dies, and all that's left is silence.

"This is it," she says, rolling down her window, thin arm cranking the manual control.

"This is what?" I ask.

"This is where we're sleeping tonight. Come on, I got a truck for a reason." She opens her door, pushing it open with her foot as the wall of flora resists. I do the same, and soon my good leg is pressed into the soft greenery of the wild field.

We meet at the tailgate, which she lowers. I pull myself up, then slide back over the uneven metal bed of the pickup.

I sit in the corner of the platform, with my back pressed to the cabin, knee against the wheel well. Morgan climbs in, rising fully then walking to me. She lowers herself down.

Didn't know she'd want to sit so close. Morgan's legs are pressed to mine, and her arm slides behind my torso. She keeps coming. Brown hair presses against my chest; I can feel the warmth of her cheek. My arm rises instinctively, wraps around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

She's doing it again.

I direct my eyes at the night sky. Coruscant brilliance; the stars are out in force, fistful of gems flung into the void.

Morgan's hand rises to rest on my chest, fingers curling against my shirt. The scent of her thins my blood, makes it electric and wild in my veins. My whole being responds to her nearness, some switch flicked within me.

I wonder what's triggered this latest display. Maybe she feels sorry for me—maybe she knows we're doomed. Like this is an apology for everything having gone to hell.

Or, maybe I got too close when I asked for the truth about Kayla. Maybe this is another way to keep me on the leash.

As I learned, though, 'why' matters least. I can try to pick apart her motivations, unmake and remake her with my mind, but it will never matter. She will do what she wants, and I will let her.

I want it, and she knows.

The closeness makes Morgan much more real. She's small, thin, and fragile. Easy to forget I'm larger than her, easy to forget she's human.

I begin to count my breath, hoping to calm down, but the numbers leave me. The oxygen is rarefied, burns in my lungs.

All this riotous sensation guides itself to one act: I tighten my grip on Morgan's shoulder and pull her closer to my chest. I lower my lips to her forehead and kiss it softly.

Her eyes turn to mine. "You okay?" She's smiling. Her elbow, which rests on my torso, dips downward and rubs against the solid bulge in my sweatpants.

Red heat fills my cheeks. I try to talk, to say something, to apologize, but only stutter out nonsense.

Her hand spreads open across my chest, then trails lower. My skin throbs; I can feel the ridges of her fingerprints as they drag across my flesh. Every nerve ignites.

The fingers slide lower, pushing back the band of the wool pants, exposing me. I stare upwards; the stars seem to be spinning gently.

Morgan's hand wraps around me, soothing, a nurse rehabilitating an injured patient. She is rhythmic, soft, and methodical as she tames me. I breathe a ragged gasp, toes curling—knee hurting—then working to relax, can't tense that leg, the sensation of her cool hand driving me rabid. My fingers clutch her shoulder. The other hand presses against the pitted metal of the truck, drags across it, rust flaking off against my skin.

The moments pass indeterminably. In minutes, or seconds—I don't know—my awareness flares from the little gem at my center to a raging havoc, consuming me. As these spasms gradually subside, a calm hollow takes its place. Morgan withdraws her hand, laughing gently.

"Better?" she asks.

"Better," I answer, sighing heavily.