The Ghosts We Hide Page 4

  Cassie and Henry were outlaws. The thought made her laugh. She’d never had so much as a parking ticket. People had died though—a lot of people—and she’d played some part in the disaster.

  The air was cold in the gap between the helmet and her jacket. She was a citizen of this country, unless the President had revoked that citizenship. She didn’t know. She could be labeled a terrorist. The last few years in Mexico, there were moments she could almost forget everything that had happened to world. Except she had a permanent reminder things were different; one who lived in her head.

  “If you want to rest, I’m fine driving for a while,” Henry said.

  “No. I’m good. I wouldn’t say no to coffee though if you have any ideas.”

  Henry was her ghost; the disembodied spirit of her lover. Not disembodied entirely. He lived on within Cassie, and not in a metaphorical sense. They’d only had one night of being physical lovers together before things changed. Now they could interchangeably run the body Cassie called her own, although Cassie was more proprietary in their compromise, remaining in control most of the time. This allowed Henry to extend his perceptions outward, a psychic force capable of detecting people, hidden or not. In doing so, he could glean some pieces of their intentions, and if necessary, take action to remove any threat. He’d not been forced to defend them in over a year, but he almost always wanted to burn. It wasn’t up to him; there was another mind sharing the cramped headspace with Henry and Cassie.

  Another compromise to be made with desires of its own to be accounted for. A spirit of fire, an entity without language, without clear mentation. One that resonated with some parts of their life experiences with the power to unlock latent energies in all matter. The one that burned.

  “There’s a house. A shack up the road and down a path. Empty. A summer house. They might have a few things we can borrow,” Henry said, as distant and fuzzy as if he were talking in his sleep.

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  It wasn’t always this way. They could share perceptions more directly—commingle their consciousness—but they rarely did so. Individuality, even in the closest of relationships, was necessary to stay sane. On occasion, Henry created a projection of himself, a phantom for Cassie to interact with, but not touch. It was an illusion visible only to her, but it helped sometimes to remember they were different people; to remember what his face looked like.

  Henry’s body had been destroyed in the fire they’d started when they’d wiped out a large chunk of Las Vegas. For all Cassie knew, it might have been a nuclear explosion. The details of the energies unleashed were unknown to her, despite having been part of the joint intention triggering the burn. After Vegas, they were in one body. She, him, and the fire. There were never enough answers to how any of this worked. They had no grimoire, no kindly sorcerer to show them the way. Instead, they muddled through, carving out survival.

  The beach house was the type of bungalow that would have looked good on Airbnb, with cheerful yellow exterior and a restored 70s feel. Cassie stashed the bike in the backyard and let herself in. She trusted Henry’s determinations and, having a touch of the telepathy herself since they’d merged, she could verify that they were in fact alone. Her abilities were inconsistent, but they were real. Though, how much of it was her own power and how much was Henry, she couldn’t say. She found coffee and a coffee pot, but the electric was turned off in the house. She guessed this wasn’t because of an overdue bill; things were abandoned. Was there anyone left to keep the lights on?

  “A little help?” Cassie asked Henry.

  “You bet.”

  Cassie put a pot of water on the stove and let Henry direct the force within them at the metal. He could have concentrated on the water, but despite being liquid, the excitement could sometimes move too fast and evaporate the contents rather than warming them. Metal had more resistance. Gentle touch, Cassie warned. Gentle so as to not melt the damned thing. The bottom of the pot glowed red and the water boiled.

  French press coffee without the press. It’d be drinkable, but nothing compared to what a barista could have done in the old days. Cassie poured the water carefully over the coffee filter filled with grounds she feared might have been well over two years old. Once she smelled it, it didn’t matter how old it was, she was going to drink it.

  While the coffee steeped, Cassie checked cabinets for food and anything else useful. Canned goods would be great. They were traveling light, trusting there’d be an abundance of opportunity to find whatever they needed. So far, they’d been correct.

  Cassie walked around the house, not looting, not scavenging, but taking in what the occupants’ lives might have been like. They had nice art—real art, not prints. She missed her apartment decorated with her mother’s paintings. Oh, so many things had been lost.

  “Time to get back on the road,” Henry said.

  “I know. It’s just that…”

  “I know. I feel it, too. Normalcy. You know, I never had a place of my own. Not really.”

  “I know.”

  Despite her own loss and pain, Cassie felt Henry missing the comforts of a life he never had. Before Cassie, he’d been homeless most of his adult life, inadequately housed or loved most of his childhood. His aches and longing were a part of her now, too.

  They got back on the road and motored onward. The gulf breeze warmed as the sun came up and the waves were a gentle crash. Cassie took in the beauty and had to let it go. There was someone out there who might have answers for her—for them—and even if it was a long shot, she had to keep moving.

  ***

  The bike gave her trouble on these bumpy roads as pavement gave way to gravel which gave way to dirt. Cassie felt like she was back in Mexico. Even Henry advised caution as they crawled at 15 miles per hour down roads, hugging steep ravines, and back up the other side in equally treacherous climbs.

  A red truck was parked in deep muddy ruts on the side of the road. This was it. She left the bike next to the truck short of the mud glut ruts and headed down the trail. At the end of this road should be a friend. An ally in this mad world. Unless something had happened to him. He’d been smart before, and Cassie hoped his smarts had kept him safe.

  Fall leaves crunched beneath her feet. This trail was used, but not maintained. The truck was both used and maintained; someone was here, even if it wasn’t Don. It would be getting dark soon and she didn’t want to be wandering around in the woods when it did. Each night, every mile northward had been colder than the last. Cassie didn’t have to feel it if she didn’t want to—not with Henry—but still. Seasons were changing. A metal cellar door, painted green, poked out of the grass. The structure was underground.

  Cassie knocked on the door. No buzzer, no camera, nothing indicating this door was ever meant to receive visitors. “Henry, is there somebody in there?”

  “He’s there. He’s uh…indisposed.”

  “Can you see him? What’s he doing? Show me.”

  “Naw. Give him a minute to finish.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “God.”

  “What? Alone in the woods. Let’s just chill. Want a fire?”

  “No. I want—”

  “Try knocking again now.”

  “So soon?”

  “Like I said, a man alone in the woods. Who is he trying to impress?”

  She knocked, putting force into it. After a few moments, Cassie heard a voice from the other side.

  “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “Don, it’s me, Cassie.”

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up,” the man who might be Don shouted through the door.

  “Cassie. It’s Cassandra Lima,” she shouted. “Fuck, dude. Just open the door,” she muttered mostly to herself.

  With that, the door opened. Don. It was Don. He’d lost weight and hair on his head, but he still had the generic, doughy white guy look she remembered from the first day he’d shown up at her job looking for info
on Henry. He wore overalls with no shirt and looked a bit similar to a pig farmer—a far cry from the private detective he used to be.

  “Cassie! Dear god, you came!” Despite there never being more than a handshake between them before, He gathered her in a hug.

  “Easy there. It’s good to see you, too.”

  “Were you waiting long? I was working downstairs and barely heard you knocking. Then I figured it might be…well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Come in.”

  Don led her down a dusty set of stairs, autumn leaves blowing in, but the deeper they went, the warmer it became. The stairs opened to an industrial-looking foyer, tool boxes open and scattered on the floor, a pile of muddy clothes in the corner.

  “Ignore all this crap please. I’m used to being alone with my mess.”

  “It’s cool. I get it. I’d have called, but you know, no phone.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You are welcome. I’m amazed you came. I’d almost given up thinking I’d see you again.”

  Through the locked foyer, Don had a reasonable living space. Kitchenette, small living room set up as a rec room.

  “Have a seat. Want a drink?” Don held up a bottle of clear liquor.

  Cassie thought about this. Alcohol. She hadn’t had a drop in a year. She felt a warning from Henry. Yeah, loosening inhibitions were dangerous for them. “Any nonalcoholic drinks?”

  “Sure. How about tea and something to eat?”

  “Yes and yes,” she said while he fussed over finding a cup for her. “You were down here the whole time?”

  “I beat the Vegas incident by three days. You know, I almost convinced myself I was a bit psychic about it.”

  “Shit. That’s wild. What happened to your partner?”

  “That guy was awful. If it weren’t the for the money, I would never have worked with him.”

  She gazed at the old tech ham radio. “When did you build this?”

  “I admit, I was a bit of a prepper even before 2017. But hey, it was the thing to do, and it paid off.” He brought over the tea in a mug with the legend Live, Laugh, Love written on it. “You’re different than before. Not just a couple years older. Something happen to you?”

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

  “There’s a lot of theories. Well, there were. You were on the TV for a while, while there was still TV to be seen. It was crap propaganda and I knew it. You’d never heard from anyone that knew anything firsthand. You four weren’t the only ones that they tried to gather up. There were manhunts, and god damn, with all the marches and caravans, it was fucking crazy.”

  “Do you know where the other two are? The cop and the girl? Were they caught?”

  “I knew that they existed, but I never even met them. No idea what happened to them. My contacts went dead silent and I was mostly trying to keep myself out of it. I was small potatoes, but I knew things.”

  Cassie nodded and sipped her tea. “What do you even do out here?”

  “Oh, I eat, sleep, shit. I read a lot. I’ve got quite the little library if you’re interested.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hey, how did you get here?”

  “Motorcycle. Long story. I left it by your truck. Think that’s okay?”

  “I’ll go put a tarp over it. I do have a guest room. Never had a guest in it, if you want to sleep off the road there. I’d talk your ear off.”

  Cassie accepted the offer of the room. She needed rest. After the long ride, she still felt a sway of motion, like she’d been on a boat. The guest room lacked decoration, but the cot was inviting, even with its lumps and squeaks. Henry, I have a horrible feeling. She had to remember only speak to him within her thoughts or else appear to be talking to herself. She made a mental note: Don’t look crazy.

  I always have horrible feelings, Henry said.

  She acknowledged his anxiety. We’re getting back into the shit, you know? We were out of the shit, but now we’re going back in.

  He responded to her calm tone with a subtle shift. He was steady, now. Things are different this time. No one is chasing us. If we don’t find anything useful out here, we can go back to Mexico by air. Or anywhere else we want. Say the word, and we have an escape hatch, babe.

  “Okay,” Cassie said before she succumbed to the comfort of the thin mattress.

  ***

  The next day, Cassie felt rested. Her body thanked her for sleeping on a bed rather than the ground. The days of riding had taken a toll physically. Her back ached. Her butt hurt. Her arms were sore. She was strong, but fuck if she wasn’t glad to have found Don so easily.

  Do you trust him? Henry asked.

  Were you waiting all night to ask me that? Cassie replied while changing clothes.

  Maybe. Who cares? I trust him. I wonder if he would have even turned me in, had he found me before you did.”

  You were so mad that I was taking Black Star money, Cassie said.

  I know. That was silly, Henry said.

  I love you.

  I love you.

  “I love you,” she said again, sending her whole heart this time.

  His reply was a warmth so strong it brought a moan to her lips. He filled her with his love. Eyes closed, she rose to her tiptoes, a moment from floating into the air, feeling the depth of their affection—erotic, platonic, all-embracing. She came back down with a sigh.

  “Shit,” Cassie said.

  So you’re saying I’ve still got it?

  “Fuck yeah.”

  They heard Don clanking around somewhere in the building. “We should go say hi,” she said.

  Yeah. He’s been up for hours. Tinkering around on some broken shit. Trying to fix you something nice on clean dishes. He’s really sweet.

  Cassie walked into the kitchenette. Don was over the stove and smiled at her.

  “Smells amazing,” she said.

  “It’s a warmed-up bowl of oatmeal, but it’s all yours. I ate earlier.”

  She sat at the small table and started into the humble meal. The water made it taste metallic, but it was good once she loaded in butter and sugar.

  Don took a seat across from her. “I have to ask, why did it take you so long to get out here?”

  “I…my mother. She’s the only family I have left—at least on the outside.”

  “Ah. If you don’t mind my asking, where did you go?”

  “We were in Mexico. We left the same day as the news hit. It’s funny because it was her idea; she showed up with the car already loaded. She’d crossed the border when she was a child. The irony of urgently crossing back down was not lost on either of us. My brother though, he took his wife to Eden.”

  “Hard trip?”

  “We made it. I guess that’s all that matters,” she said, trying not to think of that night but watching inwardly as Henry went there.

  Cassie and her mother had known the border agents would be looking for her, so they parked in the desert and planned to finish the trek on foot. Henry had listened as they laughed about it and shared old family stories about life in Mexico. But of course, they were approached by agents. Henry had been ready. Cassie’s mom was not.

  “Listen, listen,” she cried, bravely putting herself between Cassie and the men in the jeep.

  “Put your hands up!” they yelled over a megaphone.

  The sound triggered a memory of the last time Henry had heard those same instructions.

  “Easy, baby,” Cassie had warned.

  No time, Henry had replied.

  Henry had flowed outward from Cassie in a disembodied wave of heat, encased a protective bubble around her and her mother, before he found in the bodies of the agents. Hotter, hotter. Move, you bastards. Burn, Henry commanded the molecules of their flesh and organs. The flashpoint was localized, their insides burst into flame before their skin, causing a bubbling vomit from the driver. The jeep continued rolling forward with its engulfed passengers unable to even scream.

  “Yeah, well, if things were so great in Mex
ico, why did you come back?” Don asked.

  “Can’t a girl keep her secrets?”

  “Fair enough. I haven’t had much conversation with the locals, so I admit I’m a little rusty. Say, there’s something I have that might capture your curiosity.” He got up and went into the adjacent living room, picking around at the bookshelf there.

  “Oh?”

  “Despite my utter failure at locating Henry back when I was on the payroll, I was—am—a pretty good investigator.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “That’s kind of you, but doubts would be reasonable. So there I was, an occasional government contractor, no stranger to skunk works projects when ole BSI contacted me for the job. Before and after acceptance, I did a bit of digging into them. Due diligence, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I did a Google search or two.”

  “No disrespect, but even at its hottest, the tools available for internet sleuths couldn’t find everything. BSI was the child of another project—something that started out small. Humble beginnings. Self styled psychonauts on the tail end of the 70s.”

  “Interesting,” Cassie said. She hadn’t known any of this.

  “They had a mansion up in the northeast. That’s where the experiments started. That’s where they found Wiseman.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Among other things, I am in possession of a curious artifact. Want to see it?” After knocking several figurines and an incense burner off the shelf in the process, he finally found what he was looking for.

  Inside Cassie’s mind, Henry said, This is dangerous. He sent over images of red, flashing danger lights.

  It was your bright idea to come back. Remember that, she replied.

  Duly noted. Henry signaled that he was sighing and the alarms turned off.

  Don came back with a sealed plastic bag which he placed on the card table. Inside the transparent bag was a little blue diary, half stained brown as if it’d been dipped in chocolate.

  “Take a look.”

  “Is that…?”

  “Yup. Blood. A woman’s blood.”