Keep the Ghost

32. Reunited

Time spent with a gun pointed at my head is not like normal time. It passes in increments that shouldn't be defined as "seconds," because that implies each interval can be measured separately from the rest. This is a tumbling stream of cubed moments, a shambling mess of static and broken thoughts. The mass of these will sit in my memory like hot coals, untouchable and immovable, scarred into my experience.

Cole and I stand, sweating, rubbing the wounds we've inflicted on each other. Occasionally, between heaving breaths, he shakes the gun and jabs it in my direction, like he's going to shoot. The panic this generates in my mind is so consuming, I have to look down and check my clothes to make sure I'm not shot.

At some point, we hear a car pull into the driveway. Cole keeps the gun pointed in my general direction as he walks to the living room window, pulls back the curtain and stares outside. I consider running, but the pain in my skull and leg dissuade me.

Can't see from here, but I hear the faint thud of a car door slamming, then the jingle of keys as someone approaches the door. Cole walks over and opens it before the keys are turned.

He steps back, and Morgan enters the house—silent, face ashen, black purse tucked under one arm. Gleaming black shoes emerge from granite slacks and tap the ground with authority.

Cole lets the gun fall to his side, seemingly staggered. His eyes are wide, mouth open, skin sickly pale behind splotch-pink blemishes.

"I mean, I knew," Cole stammers. "I was pretty goddamn sure you were alive, you know. But seeing you...I spent years thinking you're dead, then the past year convinced I'm crazy for thinking you might be alive." He raises spread fingers to his head, touches his forehead and pushes the hand outward.

"You're right here. That's you, that's my Lauren. The woman who ruined my life!" He shouts this as he holds the gun sideways and levels it at her chest. He's a few feet away, pistol halving the distance between them.

Morgan only stares, unflinching. "Shoot me and lose your son forever," she says.

Cole bends over as though struck again, but keeps the gun pointed at Morgan. "It's a boy?" he croaks.

"A healthy three year old," Morgan answers. She hooks the purse around her arm, holds it near her body. "He's somewhere safe, leading a pampered life."

"We tried for years to get you pregnant, and you stole him! All you ever want is to hurt me," Cole says, voice ragged.

Morgan doesn't respond to this.

I sense motion in my peripheral vision; the moment before I turn to glance, Morgan's eyes flit to mine. She says nothing, but I remain still. Something passes by the glass panes in the back door, momentarily blocking the sun.

"What's his name?" Cole calls, straightening himself out again.

She's still silent. Her face is porcelain, but there's a sheen to her eyes. A wet light.

"Tell me his name!" Cole shouts.

The back door opens, silently, slowly. Jack emerges, crouches low and pulls himself behind a half-wall that divides the kitchen. The door hangs slightly open.

Morgan's voice cracks, and a single tear tumbles to the floor. "I want to be with him too, Cole. But I can't, not with my life like this." She stares down for a moment, then sniffs wetly and runs a clenched hand under the offending eye which leaked the tear.

He seems to soften at this. "Then let's go together. Let's go get our son, Lauren. Come home to me."

Morgan's face craters with emotion, dimples tightened and lips pressed to one another. "It's all been a big mess. We can go together, I'm tired of running. I want to be with him."

Cole half-laughs, crying now. "You know I don't believe that," he says.

I almost can, for a second. Something in her voice.

"He could be in your arms tomorrow," Morgan says softly. "Even if you find him without me, it will take years to do the paperwork, to do the paternity test. With me, he could be yours instantly."

Cole chuckles humorlessly. "I'd be an idiot to trust you."

"Then don't," she answers, voice dead. "Arrest me, I don't care. I miss my son. Nothing is worth being separated from him."

The weapon dips, rises, then dips again, falling to his hip. "I'm taking you up on that." His voice is hoarse, traumatized smile forced onto his face.

Cole pulls a leather holster from his pocket, places it over the gun, and hooks this into the small of his back. After a dig through his pockets, he produces a pair of handcuffs.

But by the time he's completed this motion, Morgan's purse hits the floor. Cole looks up from the black leather bag to her hand, which clutches a snubnosed revolver. It's aimed at his head.

Morgan's emotion-wracked face is wiped clean, a fresh mask in place. She looks to the darkened space where Jack hides, and nods. He emerges, crouching low, bundle of rags in hand. The stick-thin man moves in soft bounds, taking big steps on the balls of his feet.

By the time Cole turns, one of Jack's arms is around his neck, and the other is pressing a wad of rags to his mouth. Cole struggles, arms flailing even as he keeps his eyes on the weapon in Morgan's hand.

Cole's shouts are muffled through the wet rags. He spins, but Jack leaps on his back. Cole stumbles to one knee; Jack pushes his legs into the ground and lunges forward, toppling the sheriff and dragging him down. They become a tangled mess of arms and legs, neither distinguishable from the other.

Gradually, though, one set of limbs slow. Cole's shouts slur into a long moaning syllable. His hand taps weakly at Jack's forearm, then finally falls to the floor with a hollow smack. Cole's gun is pulled from its place in his pants; Jack slides it across the stone floor.

Jack rises and wipes his hands on his jeans. The shirt is half-pulled from his chest, collar distended, and sweat covers his face. He lifts the ether-soaked rags and takes a quick whiff, whimpers, then leans down and presses the rags back to Cole's drooling mouth.

"We can use him," Jack says. "It'll be perfect."

Morgan lowers her gun. She hesitates a moment, considering something. Then: "Do it. What about the one you've already got?"

Jack sighs slowly, gazing at nothing. "We'll ditch it. This is better—he's still breathing." Then he barks an empty laugh. "Wonder if I can get a refund."

Then they both turn and stare at me. I'm missing something, and I don't know what, and it's apparent they're aware of this.

"Get him out of here," Jack says to Morgan.

She hesitates, then nods.

"What?" I asked. "Where do I go? Why?"

"I'll tell you after," Morgan says, walking over to Cole. His eyes open, bleary, and he moans. An arm twitches off the floor, seeming to rise after Morgan's leg. Halfway there, though, it falls back to the tile.

She walks to the window, peers down the street. "He drove here. Check his pockets, please."

Jack does so, kicking the moaning man's hands out of the way and reaching into his blue jeans. Keys emerge, jingling. "Says Dodge," he remarks.

Morgan nods, then walks to the table and picks up the keys to the Mercedes. She flings these at me; they bounce off my chest and land on the ground, where I pick them up.

"Take our car someplace quiet, and wait there until I call you," she orders. "And whatever you do, under no circumstances are you to open the trunk. Do you understand?"

I just nod.

"Go!" she commands again. "Go now." Then she sees the look in my eyes, and softens for a moment. "I'll explain when there's time. I promise."