Every hidden thing, p.17
Every Hidden Thing, page 17
He got a curious look on his face, walked to the window—and stopped dead. “He wasn’t just writing with his finger.”
Ella could see it now. Words written on the window in black marker—and the ghost must have written them backward, because they were right-reading from inside.
“Lord Almighty,” Grams whispered. “What does it say?”
Parker stood in front of the window, back to it, blocking Ella’s view. “You sure you want to read this?”
Ella motioned him to move—and he did.
“Read it aloud, Ella Mae,” Grams said. “Don’t leave a thing out.”
Ella moved closer to the window. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.”
Grams rested her elbows on the table and cradled her head like she didn’t have the strength to hold it up.
Parker stood behind her chair, patting her back. “Ghosts don’t carry markers in their pocket. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Houston. This isn’t right—and we’re not going to let someone scare you out of your own home.”
A nice thought. As if justice was truly available for everyone. But what could he do? And when would he change—like every other person they’d known? The older Ella got, the more people had a way of seeing her as a problem, instead of someone who desperately needed friends and community. They grew suspicious—as if her heart was filled with vicious plans. When Ella started junior high—and stopped looking like a little girl—Grams had “the talk” with her.
And it wasn’t about the birds and bees.
It was about how the world really worked. How people would be treating her different around town. Every little girl is cute and innocent—no matter what their skin color. “But when you start looking like a young lady,” Grams said, “folks will treat you different.” Grams had told her stories of things that happened to others, but in time Ella had her own stories.
When she was just a little girl walking through town with Grams, tourist ladies would smile when they passed. They’d bend down and tell her how cute she was in her dress and tiny cowgirl boots. But as Ella’s body changed and she was tall enough to look adults in the eyes, there were no more compliments on her dress. Women tended to hold their purse a little closer. Or they hit the remote clicker on their parked car a second time—making sure the doors were really locked. All because she was growing up—and she wasn’t white? Where was the justice in that?
Parker assumed justice actually existed. For everyone. Obviously he hadn’t experienced suspicious looks from clerks when he strolled down the candy aisle at the mini-mart. They didn’t hover—or follow him—or keep asking if they could help him find something. Parker wasn’t living in the same world she lived in.
“Why aren’t the police here yet?” Parker was back at the window, staring at the message. “You did call the cops, right?”
“We’re fine, Parker,” Grams said. “You best get home before your parents get worried. Land sakes, you don’t even have shoes on.”
Ella looked—and sure enough, Grams was right.
Parker shrugged. “El’s text scared me half to death. There was no time.”
Like it was the most logical explanation in the world. But nobody had ever done something like that for her—or Grams. There was something about him. A strength. Something inside. She glanced at his scarred arm. Maybe whatever happened to him in the Glades had made him into more of a man than any man she knew. And he was only fifteen. Was Parker’s dad the same way?
“We don’t tell a living soul about this—except your parents and Mr. Steadman,” Grams said. “Understood?”
“Not a soul outside the Rockport Resistance,” he said. “Except my best friend Jelly—but she still lives in southern Florida. There’s nobody for her to tell down there—except alligators.”
Naturally he would tell Jelly. Ella was pretty sure he told her everything. But that wasn’t what bothered her. It was that “best friend” bit. Of course Jelly was his best friend. Why wouldn’t she be his best friend? But where did Ella fit? Two’s company, three’s a crowd, right? She shook off her ridiculous thoughts.
Parker headed for the door. “I’d better get home. G’night, Mrs. Houston.”
Ella followed him out onto the porch. A thick fog had left its ocean lair and was creeping around the neighborhood. Fine droplets of mist haloed the streetlight on the corner of Clark Street.
Tears appeared as unannounced as the fog. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we lose Beulah.”
Parker kept his eyes on the plank deck of the porch, pretending he didn’t notice her crying. “I’ll talk to my dad. I have to do something.”
“You’re still set on your stakeout idea?”
“More than ever.”
She stared at him. “Why are you sticking your neck out like this?”
He gave her a puzzled look, like he couldn’t believe she’d even asked the question. “You’re my friend—and you’re in trouble.”
Maybe this was really about him not meeting Devin that night. Maybe he was trying to work off his guilt this way. But she didn’t care. She needed help. “You can’t do this alone. It’s too big.” There was no way he was going to catch a ghost.
“So . . . does that mean you’ll help?” His face looked hopeful. He held out his hand like he wanted to seal the deal.
Maybe the fog had crept into her head somehow. It must have—because without another ounce of thought about all the things that could go wrong, she found herself grabbing his hand and shaking it. Somebody had to keep him from getting himself killed, right?
“We need God’s help on this, El. I need His help.”
She gave him a long look. “We’ve needed His help for a long time. But I haven’t seen God show up. And my grandpa needed His help. But a man named Art stepped up instead. Now Grams needs His help—but instead it’s me picking her up off the tiles after Shadow-man scared her to the floor like a child. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your help, Parker. I do. But you’ll have to excuse me for not having a whole lot of faith in God here. Seems He’s a little too busy to be bothered with my problems—or my Grams’s.”
“El . . . what if God sent Art? What if He’s sending me now?” Parker shrugged like he didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know, Parker. I may not be religious, but that doesn’t mean I doubt God’s existence. Maybe I just doubt . . .” She caught herself. Did she really need to say more? Obviously Parker saw God in a whole different way than she did. She didn’t need to rub his nose in it.
“You doubt . . . what?”
Honestly, it looked like he really wanted to know. “Maybe I just doubt that He cares.”
Parker nodded slowly, but to his credit he didn’t try to defend God.
“One question,” Parker said. “The cross necklace. If you really don’t believe God cares . . . why hold the cross like you do?”
Like she was holding it right now. “Maybe I’m hoping He’ll notice. Or maybe I’m hopelessly superstitious. Now get home, Parker Buckman, before that fog gets you.” She smiled and tried staging a good front, but deep down couldn’t help but think of how sure Grams was about the vapors being deadly. Parker didn’t seem like the type that gave up on a friend—no matter how dangerous things got. And by shaking his hand, hadn’t she just encouraged him to take the next step—one that was likely to be risky? “Hurry. Grams will be nervous.”
“Not until you go inside—and I hear you double-lock that door.”
Even ten minutes after he’d left—when she was sitting in her bedroom—she kept thinking about how Parker was so ready to help. He’d run over in his bare feet when she texted him. Who does that?
A really good friend.
But was she as good a friend to him? Even now, was she using Parker? Allowing him to take chances he wouldn’t be taking if not for her problems?
There was going to be trouble. She sensed it. Grams knew it, too. Why hadn’t she pushed Parker away? Devin Catsakis got too close to Shadow-man. More than ever she believed Parker was right. Whatever happened to Devin was no accident. Why did she shake Parker’s hand—likely committing him to take some ridiculous chances for her? What if he did come face-to-faceless with Shadow-man—and something horrible happened? She stared at her hand. “Dear God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
CHAPTER 35
Thursday, June 9, 10:20 p.m.
THE GHOST STOOD IN THE DEEP SHADOWS along the back side of the Houstons’ guesthouse. There was a small stand of trees here. A perfect spot to do a little recon.
Somebody less professional, less confident, would have been halfway across town by now, looking to lay low or get out of Dodge. But he’d always found there were things he could learn by sticking around. And honestly? He got more of a buzz this way.
He’d seen Do-Right sprint over. Barefoot. Was the kid just impulsive and stupid? Or did he understand that in battle sometimes the quicker and more decisive the reaction . . . the more sure the victory? He couldn’t possibly know that . . . or were his instincts just that good?
Do-Right was one to watch. That much was clear. But once again he’d revealed a weakness. Do-Right would react to help someone else before really weighing out the personal cost. Like running across pavement in bare feet.
It wouldn’t be hard to anticipate Do-Right’s moves. He’d do whatever was best for protecting someone in trouble—regardless of the personal cost. That was some valuable intel.
And just as valuable was the fact that the Houstons didn’t call the police. If they had, he’d have seen lights by now. So instead of calling in the man with a badge and a gun, they called the barefoot neighbor. Classic bad decision-making—but really good to know.
Ten minutes later he watched Do-Right leave and head home. The Ghost had seen enough at the Houston house for now. Moving as silent as the shadows he crept through, he followed Do-Right instead.
Do-Right walked around the back side of his house. His second-story window was wide open, and a thick rope hung from somewhere inside to the ground below. So he’d climbed out the window. Really interesting. Why? So his parents wouldn’t know he’d left? Or did he think it was faster? Which it surely would be if he did it right. The more important piece of info here was that Do-Right left his home base exposed while he was out trying to save the world. Anybody could have climbed that rope while he was gone. A ghost could have stopped in for a little visit.
Now that was a rich thought. To go up to Do-Right’s room? The shock value would be worth the extra risk and effort, wouldn’t it?
Do-Right shinnied up the rope without a sound, then hand-over-handed the rope inside, like he was pulling up a genuine anchor line. He left the window open though—and there was no screen. Why is it people felt so safe leaving an entrance to their home wide open—just because it was twelve feet off the ground? It might keep an animal out, but not a ghost.
The Ghost sensed someone approaching before he saw him. It was a sixth sense he had. And it wasn’t some late-night dog-walker. Instinctively he scanned the area—even though the fog didn’t allow for much range.
The figure appeared almost ghost-like at first. Dark hoodie. Face completely covered in the shadows. And in a hurry. Walked right up the road, constantly checking Do-Right’s house.
Interesting.
The guy was big, in shape, and young. He carried himself with that teenage sense of immortality—like he could handle anything that dared come his way. The Ghost would see about that.
The guy hesitated, then suddenly turned off the road and streaked across the lawn to Do-Right’s backyard—clearly unaware how close that would bring him to the Ghost.
The guy dug a glowing light stick out of his pocket, lifted the lid on one of the trash cans, and dropped it inside.
Really interesting. So this was the guy doing the look-alike burglaries? Total jackpot.
With a look over his shoulder, the guy raced out of the yard again toward the street.
It paid to stick around after completing a mission. Oh, yeah. He almost always learned something he could use later. Something of value. And tonight he was getting pure gold.
Tailing the copycat was easy. Especially since the punk clearly had no idea he was being followed. The Ghost’s light stick was inside his sweatshirt—completely out of sight. No matter how many times the kid looked behind him, he’d never spot him. He loved these foggy nights.
The kid moved fast enough. Peeled off his hoodie and tied it around his waist. He walked right into town. He didn’t look behind him now—obviously feeling safe. An amateur mistake.
Past the first row of shops, the kid cut down toward the T-wharf—then took a sudden left turn to cut behind the first building at the heel of Rockport Harbor.
The Ghost’s rolling anticipation kicked in and knew exactly where the kid was headed—or rather where they were about to meet. The Ghost kept to the front of the building. Sure, there were street lights, but the fog was heavy and the traffic light. He poured on the speed. A quick sprint to the launch ramp and he knew he was far enough ahead of his prey. He dashed halfway down the ramp, crouched at the corner of the building, and waited.
Sure enough. Here came Mr. I-feel-safe-in-town. Picking his way along the rocks just above the high-tide line. The moment the copycat stepped onto the concrete launch ramp, the Ghost bolted for the kid and rammed into him with enough force to send him skittering down the mossy ramp—and headlong into the water.
The kid never saw what hit him. But he sure saw the Ghost when he thrashed back to the surface. The Ghost stood there on the ramp. The light stick out now. Holding it close enough to his face for him to see that he had none.
The kid stood. Water up to his chest. Even in the fog the Ghost could see the kid’s chest heaving. If the kid were forty years older, he’d already be dead of a heart attack. The kid didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
The Ghost stood there for a long moment, just to let the image burn into the kid’s retinas. Slowly he shook the light stick at the kid. A silent warning. Without a word the Ghost turned and strode up the ramp.
The instant he was around the corner he buried the light stick under his sweatshirt, circled the building back toward the T-wharf, and crept onto the rocks along the water. He retraced the very route the kid had taken just before the Ghost baptized him. He hunkered in the shadows to watch—not twenty yards behind the kid.
The kid must have stood in the nippy water another ten minutes before he sloshed up the ramp. Real slow. Looking toward the street, like he expected the Ghost would still be there. He wrung out his sweatshirt. Retied it around his waist. Picked his way along the rocks behind the buildings, still heading for Bearskin Neck.
The Ghost kept just far enough behind him not to lose him—although if he did, it wouldn’t be a big deal. The kid was leaving a water trail behind him that would be easy enough to track, even as dark as it was.
The instant the kid reached the corner of the harbor, he climbed the granite wall and doubled his pace until he got to the gravel lane behind the shops of Bearskin Neck.
The Ghost had no problem keeping up.
The kid was running now and didn’t slow up until he reached the back of one of the buildings. Rockport Dive Company.
The Ghost smiled—and moved in. The kid was still fumbling for his key. Wet pants. Cold hands. It took him a little more time than he’d probably hoped. But it was just perfect for the Ghost. He picked up a piece of gravel. Tossed it at the back of the building.
When the kid wheeled around, the Ghost had the light stick back out. He stood there so the kid would know the Ghost knew exactly where to find him. The kid tore around the building toward the front.
By the time he got inside and dared look out a window, the Ghost would be halfway to Do-Right’s place. This was turning into a perfect night for EOS tactics. First the fat Houston lady. Then the copycat. Two down. One to go. And this next one would prove to be the most challenging—and definitely the most fun. But he would do it. A perfect trifecta. The ultimate hat trick.
And by the time he was done, everyone would know the break-ins weren’t a bunch of kids getting their kicks. If any one of them had doubts there was a ghost in Rockport, they wouldn’t after tonight.
CHAPTER 36
Thursday, June 9, 10:35 p.m.
AS MUCH AS PARKER DIDN’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, the Shadow-man didn’t exactly seem human, either. How was he supposed to catch it? He had to do something. He flopped onto his bed and stared out his open window. He couldn’t exactly see the ocean from here, but on a night like tonight he could picture the waves crashing against the Headland rocks. The salty air was fresh, like it had been fully filtered as it crossed the Atlantic. The air was perfect, the way God created it to be. So totally different from the heavy air of the Everglades.
His mind seemed to be carried on the breeze. He pulled out his phone. Looked up Juneteenth. Sure enough, a whole slice of history he’d never heard about in school. Yes, Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation outlawed slavery, but it took the Union Army time to enforce it in remote areas. Texas was one of the final holdouts, and when slaves were finally freed there on the nineteenth of June, 1865, a holiday was born. Jubilee Day. Juneteenth.
Okay, he’d come up with a plan to make that day special for El. Add that to the list of other plans he had to come up with—like catching Shadow-man.
People were always overthinking plans. Over-analyzing. Quicker to take a poll rather than follow their gut. And that often meant little got done.
Just do something. That’s the way Parker’s dad operated sometimes, too, right? When there was a problem, that’s what Buckman men did. They sorted it out on the fly. They attacked—even if the plan wasn’t perfect.
And that was exactly what Parker intended to do. He had the start of a plan—or maybe just the first step. Ella didn’t seem one bit optimistic about the stakeout. Hopefully Dad would be more encouraging. But the plan, as it was, wasn’t likely to be enough. There were too many places to watch. He needed something more—and he knew where to get it. He checked his watch. Almost 11:00, but she’d understand.
