Ghostwriter (9 page)
“Want me to pick you up tomorrow?”
“Nah. I’m calling in to work. I’ll get Stan to drop me off to pick up the car tomorrow.”
It was close to eleven. They had spent the entire day watching football. First the Bears game, then the Packers (cheering
on Philadelphia to win but to no avail), then the Sunday night game which wasn’t that interesting but provided background
to make jokes and continue to eat bad food and, at least for Hank, continue to drink beer.
The big guy usually was pretty good to go after a game, but today he was completely soused. He talked as though he were in
slow motion. It took him a few minutes to find the door handle before he added, “I’m fine. No problem.”
“Call me when you wake up.”
Hank laughed, standing on the curb. He didn’t seem to mind that it was drizzling. Dennis faced him through the open window.
“Sorry about Julie,” he said.
Hank held up his middle finger in response to what he thought about all of that. But that was a twelve-year-old’s response.
Dennis knew his friend still loved this woman who had broken his heart but had nowhere to go with his wound.
Nowhere to go with his grief.
Dennis understood that all too well.
Waiting at a light right before the bridge, Dennis thought about Hank. They’d been friends since their college days at Northern
University. He only had a couple other friends from his younger days, and he only saw them when he had tickets to play-off
games. He was struck by how you might choose your friends, but you didn’t choose who would become part of the fabric of your
life. Most of the time the unlikeliest people stuck around. When he first met Hank, they hardly had anything in common. Little
did he know at the time that Hank would become his closest friend during the course of the next three decades.
He drove along Butterfield Road as it wound past the police station down toward the Fox River and over the bridge, the drizzle
becoming heavier. He flicked on his windshield wipers as his eyes caught something strange ahead.
At the edge of the sidewalk lining the concrete bridge, a small bike leaned against the short wall. And there, in the rain,
was a girl. He noticed the blonde hair. The pigtails.
She stood on the railing overlooking the well-lit northern side of the bridge, the dam fifty yards away.
Just as Dennis slowed his car down, staring through the blurry glass, not believing what he was seeing, he saw the little
girl step off the railing and drop.
W
hat the—
He jammed on the brakes and jumped out, running around his vehicle and vaulting over the stone barricade between the road
and the sidewalk.
Wind blew the rain sideways as he stood at the railing, disoriented and dizzy. For a second he thought about diving in and
saving her. But he second-guessed what he saw.
The railing was lower than he remembered. A car passed his waiting SUV, slowing down to see what was going on. Spotlights
beamed down on the river below, facing the dam and its steady stream of pouring water. The dam itself wasn’t too high, and
the water levels seemed fairly low. He could see the moving water below him, the eerie glow of the lights on the rising foam.
“Hey—you okay?” he called out.
He heard a howling sound, a high, piercing cry. Not a cry of anguish, but one of fear.
“You down there?” he called out, unable to see anyone. “Hello? Hello?”
A car honked its horn behind him. He turned around and waved it on, his forehead wet, his hair damp. Dennis watched the car
move past, then sprinted toward the other end of the bridge. Dark trees guarded each side of the river, shadowed and sinister.
“Hello? Anybody down there? Hello?”
Another car stopped behind him, waiting, then passing.
Dennis peered over the edge and again felt a dizzy foreboding. The darkness seemed to call him, enticing him, urging him to
jump.
He shook his head to get out of the slight trance.
The water looked calmer on this side, but he could barely make out the surface.
Someone on the bridge blared their horn to make him move his car. Dennis jumped back over the median and climbed into his
SUV, driving ahead to the small parking lot on the darkened south side of the bridge.
He rushed back out of his car and down a small incline to the edge of the water. A biking trail wound near the river, under
the bridge. The sound of trickling water falling off the bridge and spattering onto the sidewalk below caught Dennis’s attention.
Maybe she got out of the water. Maybe she’s under the bridge.
Dennis called out a few more times, scanning the water. He walked closer to the bridge that loomed above him. He squinted
in the misty rain as he edged closer, entering the bridge’s shadow, still unable to make out anything.
“Is anybody there?” he called, wondering if he had really seen the girl jump into the river at all.
He paused partway under the bridge. He heard something. A heavy, distorted, wet sound. Not from rain or from the river, but
from something else.
Breathing.
Someone was breathing, the haggard, sick panting of someone not well.
“Who’s there?” Dennis asked.
The sucking sounds continued as he edged farther under the bridge. He stopped for a second, his eyes watering. There was stench
unlike anything he had ever smelled. Something rotten. Something dead.
I’m smelling death. That’s what I’m smelling. That’s what I’m hearing. No…
Two flames glowed at him.
Demon eyes.
He turned and sprinted out, never looking back. He ran up the hill, almost slipping on the muddy bank as he neared his car.
He tore into the car and revved the engine, locking the doors and putting it in reverse even before catching his breath.
Those eyes from the pit of hell. Red glowing embers pulsing with rage and fear.
I didn’t see anything. It’s just my imagination.
As he pulled back onto the road, he looked back at the bridge where the bike had been—where the girl had stood on the edge
and dropped—but saw nothing. He thought about calling the police. But what could he say? The bike was missing and the girl
was gone and whatever was below the bridge…
“No,” he spoke out loud to get some sense of balance and reality. “No way.”
What could he tell the police? After a day of watching football and drinking and taking his drunk buddy home, he saw a girl
hop over the side of the bridge and jump into the Fox River? They’d probably assume he was drunk as well.
Am I?
He took a deep breath and knew he’d seen something. He hadn’t made this up.
The images came back to his mind. The girl was one thing. But what had he seen under the bridge? What had he imagined?
“I’m just tired,” he said out loud, speaking for the sake of his sanity.
A drop of sweat lined his cheek. He opened his window and let the breeze cool him. As he replayed the events that had just
happened, Dennis couldn’t shake the feeling that they had happened once before.
It took just a few minutes to realize the truth.
He hadn’t experienced the events that had just happened.
He had written them.
The big guy staggered out of the car, looking up and down the street. This was surprising. Why would this disheveled, bulky,
anxious man in his thirties think he was being watched?
Cillian wondered what secrets the man held.
The guy wore khaki pants—he always wore khakis. They looked like they never got washed. They were loose except around his
gut, which stuck out past his button-down, un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt. His cap and black glasses made him look ordinary,
forgettable. He walked with a slight limp in his right leg.
Cillian watched the big man go inside and found it interesting that a guy living in Geneva would drive twenty minutes to this
hole-in-the-wall bar. There were plenty of others between where he lived and here.
The tavern smelled like peppers. Peppers and body odor. The air was thick with smoke, the lights dim, a television in the
corner playing an old movie. The bartender appeared bored as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
Cillian ordered a beer, then sat a couple stools down from the big guy. On his second beer, he tried to strike up a conversation.
The man was pounding Budweiser. He noticed the big guy’s right hand shook whenever he picked up the bottle.
“You smoke?” Cillian asked.
The guy looked at him, his flat eyes curious. He nodded but didn’t offer him a cigarette.
“Here,” the bartender said, handing him a pack and giving him a glance that seemed to say, “Don’t mess with that guy.”
Cillian took a drag from his cigarette, doing it for show. He sometimes smoked but didn’t really like it. The beer tasted
worse with the Marlboro in his mouth. He wasn’t here for this anyway. He was here to make a connection with this stranger.
A stranger who provided him a link to Dennis Shore.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
The big guy stared at him intently for a long minute. “Why?”
Cillian shrugged, inhaling the cigarette for effect. “Just a friendly conversation.”
The guy looked ahead, picking up his beer and draining it, hiding his shaking hand.
It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week or more, his blond and gray beard speckled all over his pudgy face. Oily white hair
curled up from the back of his cap. Bumps dotted his neck around his patches of whiskers.
Cillian finished another beer and waited to order another. When he did, he told the bartender to give the big guy one as well.
The guy looked at him again. The look had a dead quality about it—something missing, something blank. The eyes were cold,
dispassionate, the glance appearing slightly off, as though he was thinking of something else.
The guy leaned in toward him. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just bored, chatting.”
“Never seen you here.”
“That’s ’cause I followed you.”
The big guy turned even more white than he already was. “You what?”
“I followed you here. From your house in Geneva.”
“That’s not my house.”
“I’ve seen you there quite a few times.”
“And why were you looking?”
“’Cause I’ve been spying on your neighbor.”
“What neighbor?”
“Ever hear of Dennis Shore?”
“No.”
Cillian told him the truth, all of it. He talked about being a Dennis Shore fan, then being disappointed by the silence and
the treatment. The big guy continued to stare, looking ready to pounce on him if he moved.
“So why do you care what he does?” the big guy asked.
“I’m just curious,” Cillian said. “I’d like to know how he writes, how he gets his inspiration.”
“Inspiration for what?”
“Writing his horror novels.”
“I don’t like curious people.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Cillian paused. “Speak with your neighbors much?”
The big guy shook his head and lifted the bottle to his mouth.
“If you don’t live there, you certainly visit quite a bit.”
“My parents live there.”
“And you?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to watch,” Cillian said. “I want to know.”
“Know what?” The big guy coughed, clearing his throat, his eyes watering.
“I’ve seen some interesting things,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Just—interesting things.”
The big guy licked his lips and lifted his beer. It shook. Sweat dotted the man’s forehead, just above the eyebrows and below
his cap. “What things?”
“All I want is a chance to watch, to spy on your neighbor, to get close to him,” he said. “That’s all I’m interested in. I
won’t bother anyone.”
The big guy looked at him for a long time, saying nothing. “So now—what sort of things are you interested in?”
The smile on the big guy’s lips made Cillian shudder.
Dennis held his wife’s hand on that long drive back from the hospital. They rode in silence, the stereo off, the whisper of
air slipping through the window cracks. He felt like he was in a daze, without anything to say, without anything left to feel.
He needed to be strong for Lucy, but he wasn’t sure how. All he wanted was to take back the last few hours, to rewrite them
with a happier ending. But he couldn’t.
Pulling into the driveway, the garage door whining open, Dennis stopped the car prematurely when he felt Lucy’s hand grip
his and then heard her crying.
“Don’t—I don’t want Audrey to see me—not like this.”
“Okay,” he said, putting the car in park and wrapping her in his arms.
For several minutes, a small chunk of eternity, Lucy wept against him. It was impossible for him to remain strong and fearless.
Tears brushed down his cheeks and fell against Lucy’s thick hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he told her over and over again.
When Lucy’s swollen red eyes glanced back at him, she seemed lost.
“I don’t know why. Why? Why would God let something like this happen? Why, when I prayed? Why, when it was so close? When
we were so close? Why, Dennis? Why?”
But he didn’t have a clue. He had no answer. He only shook his head.
“Do you want to know the name I picked out for her? I wanted Abigail. Abby for short. Audrey and Abby. That would have fit,
you know? Audrey would have liked that.”
“It’s a perfect name,” Dennis said.
“She lived eight months. Eight months. Why, Den? Why so short? Why couldn’t she at least have a chance? Why couldn’t she have
been born?”
Lucy clung to him and continued to weep.
Dennis thought about holding his little baby girl in his hands after the premature delivery. He would never forget her tiny
hands, her little face, the strands of hair on her little head.
She would be part of him for the rest of his life.
Dennis remembered seeing the brilliant orange sunset when they finally climbed out of the car to go inside and tell Lucy’s
parents and their eight-year-old daughter the news. It haunted him with its beauty.