Keep the Ghost

48. The American tourist

Revelations unfold slow as I drift downstream, staring blankly ahead. Something Kayla said at the start of it all comes back to me, takes on new meaning. Her last words, in fact.

"You guys are going to miss me so much. See you at my funeral."

She thought she'd come back—like it was all some wonderful game. I wouldn't get the death penalty, because we'd all learn she never died in the first place. It was no problem to frame me.

But, it's not a game to Jack and Morgan.

Stupid, selfish girl. She was trying to play Jack, make the whole city into her stage. Just what an attention-starved girl, fresh out of high school and no longer the center of attention needs: to be on everyone's mind.

How would you have done it, Kayla? Jump out of your own casket at the funeral?

And I had a crush on her, once. So blind. I held her death like a torch against Jack, proof he was a psychopath. Kayla's naivety made her just as crazy as him, though. They deserve each other.

Jack stood to lose a lot, without much gain. Except, maybe the bag of money she carried across the gulf, the money she borrowed as paycheck and credit card loans.

What was it Jack told me? 'Kayla didn't know the value of a dollar.'

And if Kayla's body never came to light, it all may have been saved. Morgan convinced me she'd driven away, and the police may have accepted the idea she drowned.

Even in death, Kayla wouldn't stick to the plan. The body was found.

And, what about Morgan? The murder weapon has been here all along. Could have shown it to the police, could have freed me.

I've played that game of Xs and Os, though. No one can turn Jack in without facing retribution.

And they never told me what Kayla did. I guess it was kinder to just let me think Jack was responsible. Morgan's doing, surely. All the times Jack might have told me, and she jumped into the conversation to cut him off.

I take the plastic bag, heavy with Jack and Kayla's combined blood, and carefully pick the knife up from the floor of the boat—making certain not to put my fingerprints on it. I switch the batteries out of Kayla's phone and return everything to the cylinder the way I found it. Morgan's protection against Jack goes back in the bag.

Somewhere in the distance, dogs bark, breaking my trance. Is it the bark of a bloodhound, tracking me? The old man probably told the police about his boat; they could be close.

Torn between turning the engine on and running for it, or sticking with stealth. I watch as the channel of water narrows, widens, and intersects with others. With my camouflage shirt and dull gray boat, I opt for silence, drifting along with senses on alert.

Occasionally, buried deep within the volume of the crickets, I think I hear the crackle of a radio. But, the dense barrage of sounds from the swamp make me question my own hearing—not sure if I can trust myself.

Then I catch the sound of the dread predator: the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades. The noise doubles in volume every few seconds, coming from behind. I direct the boat to the bank, underneath a particularly expansive tree, and clutch its roots with one hand. Leaves shelter me, broad scales the size of my hand.

The blades buffer the air for what seems impossibly long; first coming from the behind, then ahead, then seemingly from every direction equally. Eventually, though, as my hand cramps from holding against the constant pull of the current, the noise fades. I let go and continue my journey.

They're near.

Ahead, I spot a strange nook in the water. The channel bends but the outside edge is distended, creating a small cove. The cove is brimming with trash: a broken hot water heater, a plastic tarp, and large plates of dulled metal. The flow of the river drags me toward the refuse, and my boat will join the sad heap soon. Some naturally gathered dump, drawn here by a quirk in the current.

I tug the drawstring and the motor putters to life; I accelerate gently, pushing myself away from the nook and into the clear water. As I float away, though, I turn and examine the trash.

Something rounded and metal is jutting from the water, forced upright by the current, bobbing as water wafts through. It looks suspiciously like the top half of a metal canoe.

A canoe. Ideas rush unbeckoned, formless and nameless. Not a proper plan, but something. An inkling, the barest seed of a strategy.

I reach for a root, grab it, and pull with my whole body. With my good leg hitched around the bench where I rest, I bring the boat behind a shallow outcropping, on the same bit of land with the garbage. I toss the duffel bag and hiking cane to the shore, then my backpack, then crawl up—one foot dipping into the water as I pull myself on hands and elbows over the mud. I turn back and pull the boat halfway on the land with me, straining with both hands, upper body slick with sweat.

My landing place is a long, narrow strip of hard mud, and I see another stream about twenty feet away. The outcropping is surrounded by flowing water, but a half-dozen trees guard it from above.

I stop, resting on the cool ground. There is evidence in my boat that would go a long way to convincing the police I didn't kill Kayla. I could turn myself in, now, and put my fate in their hands. It could work, conceivably, once they heard my entire story.

But I don't want to. It would put Morgan in danger. Morgan, the only person to actually help me through any of this. And they'd take her money, as well.

Mostly, though, I don't want to be Sean Reilly again. I try to picture school, home, a career. I can't.

Everyone thinks I'm dead, and that's okay. I was scared of the void, of the loneliness, at first—but there's a peace in the nothing.

I've let go, now. Sometime in the truck, after Morgan's arrest, it all fell away. To be a ghost.

I rise. Something dull and brown moves at one end of the peninsula. I stand, hiking pole ready, and hobble a few feet over.

Three alligators, each longer than I am tall, rest on the bank just a few yards away. If they see me, they register nothing, and only sit sedate in a small patch of fading sunlight.

I freeze when I imagine I hear the helicopter again. Something is buzzing, something far in the distance. The mechanical scream is higher pitched, though, and the direction is different.

It's not a helicopter this time, I realize. It's a boat, somewhere nearby. They've nearly found me.