Gone for Good
Page 81

Years pass. Ken and Sheila stay together. Their daughter, Carly, grows. Then one day, Ken is captured. He is brought back to the States, convinced, I imagine, that they’ll hang him for the murder of Julie Miller. But the authorities have always known the truth. They don’t want him for that. They want the head of the beast. McGuane. And Ken can still help deliver him.
So they strike a deal. Ken hides out in New Mexico. Once they believe it’s safe, Sheila and Carly come back from Sweden to stay with him. But McGuane is a powerful nemesis. He learned where they were. He sent two men. Ken wasn’t home, but they tortured Sheila to find out where he was. Ken surprises them, kills them, packs his injured lover and daughter in the car, and then he runs again. He warns Nora, who is using Sheila’s ID, that the authorities and McGuane are going to be on her tail. She is forced to run too.
That pretty much covered what I knew.
The Ford Taurus came to a stop. I heard the driver shut off the engine. Enough with the passive, I thought. If I had any hope of getting out of this alive, I would have to be more assertive. I pulled the eyeshade off and checked my watch. We had been driving for an hour. Then I sat up.
We were in the middle of thick woods. The ground was blanketed with pine needles. The trees were lush and heavy with green. There was a watchtower of sorts, a small aluminum structure that sat on a platform about ten feet off the ground. It looked like an oversize toolshed, built strictly for function. Something both neglected and industrial. Rust licked the corners and door.
The driver turned around. “Get out.”
I did as he asked. My eyes stayed on the structure. I saw the door open, and the Ghost stepped out. He was dressed entirely in black, as though he were on his way to reading poetry in the Village. He waved to me.
“Hi, Will.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Don’t start that crap.”
The Ghost folded his arms. “My, my,” he said, “aren’t we just the bravest little soldier?”
“Where is she?”
“You mean Katy Miller?”
“You know I do.”
The Ghost nodded. He had something in his hand. A rope of some kind. A lasso maybe. I froze. “She looks so much like her sister, don’t you think? How could I resist? I mean, that neck. That beautiful swan neck. Already bruised . . .”
I tried to keep the quake from my voice. “Where is she?”
He blinked. “She’s dead, Will.”
My heart sank.
“I grew bored waiting and—” He started laughing then. The sound echoed in the stillness, ripping through the air, clawing at the leaves. I stood there, unmoving. He pointed and shouted, “Gotcha! Oh, I’m only joshing, Willie boy. Having a little fun. Katy is just fine.” He waved me forward. “Come on and see.”
I hurried toward the platform, my heart firmly lodged in my throat. There was a rusted ladder. I climbed it. The Ghost was still laughing. I pushed past him and opened the door to the aluminum shack. I turned to my right.
Katy was there.
The Ghost’s laugh was still ringing in my ears. I hurried over to her. Her eyes were open, though several strands of hair blocked them. The bruises on her neck had turned into a jaundiced yellow. Her arms were tied to a chair, but she looked uninjured.
I bent down and pushed the hair away. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
I could feel the rage building. “Did he hurt you?”
Katy Miller shook her head. Her voice quaked. “What does he want with us?”
“Please let me answer that one.”
We turned as the Ghost entered. He kept the door opened. The floor was littered with broken beer bottles. There was an old file cabinet in the corner. A laptop computer sat closed in one corner. Three metal folding chairs, the kind used for school assemblies, were out. Katy sat in one. The Ghost took the second and signaled for me to take the one on his immediate left. I remained standing. The Ghost sighed and stood back up.
“I need your help, Will.” He turned toward Katy. “And I thought having Miss Miller here join us, well”—he gave me the skin-crawling grin—“I thought she might work as something of an incentive.”
I squared up. “If you hurt her, if you so much as lay a hand—”
The Ghost did not wind up. He did not rear back. He merely snapped his hand from his side and caught me under the chin. He connected with a knife strike. A choking sound blew past my lips. It felt like I’d swallowed my own throat. I staggered and turned away. The Ghost took his time. He bent low and used an uppercut. His knuckles landed flush against my kidney. I dropped to my knees, nearly paralyzed by the blow.
He looked down at me. “Your posturing is getting on my nerves, Willie boy.”
I felt close to throwing up.
“We need to contact your brother,” he went on. “That’s why you’re here.”
I looked up. “I don’t know where he is.”
The Ghost slid away from me. He moved behind Katy’s chair. He gently, almost too gently, put his hands on her shoulders. She winced at his touch. He reached with both index fingers and stroked the bruises on her neck.
“I’m telling the truth,” I said.
“Oh, I believe you,” he said.
“So what do you want?”
“I know how to reach Ken.”
I was confused. “What?”
“Have you ever seen one of those old movies where the fugitive leaves messages in classified ads?”
“I guess.”
The Ghost smiled as though pleased with my response. “Ken is taking that one step further. He uses an Internet newsgroup. More specifically, he leaves and receives messages on something called rec.music.elvis. It is, as you might expect, a board for Elvis fans. So, for example, if his attorney needed to contact him, he would leave a date and time and post with a code name. Ken would then know when to IM said attorney.”
“IM?”
“Instant message. I assume you’ve used it before. It’s like a private chat room. Totally untraceable.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
He smiled again and moved his hands closer to Katy’s neck. “Information gathering,” he said. “It’s something of my forté.”
His hands slid off Katy. I realized that I’d been holding my breath. He reached into his pocket and took out the rope lasso again.
“So what do you need me for?” I asked.