Gone for Good

45

Philip McGuane poured the brandy.

The body of the young lawyer Cromwell was gone now. Joshua Ford lay out like a bear rug. He was alive and even conscious, but he was not moving.

McGuane handed the Ghost a snifter. The two men sat together. McGuane took a deep sip. The Ghost cupped his glass and smiled.

"What?" McGuane asked.

"Fine brandy."

"Yes."

The Ghost stared at the liquor. "I was just remembering how we used to hang out in the woods behind Riker Hill and drink the cheapest beer we could find. Do you remember that, Philip?"

"Schlitz and Old Milwaukee," McGuane said.

"Yeah."

"Ken had that friend at Economy Wine and Liquor. He never ID'ed him."

"Good times," the Ghost said.

"This" McGuane raised his glass "is better."

"You think so?" The Ghost took a sip. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Are you familiar with the philosophy that every choice you make splits the world into alternate universes?"

"I am."

"I often wonder if there are ones where we turn out differently or, conversely, were we destined to be here no matter what?"

McGuane smirked. "You're not growing soft on me, are you, John?

"Not likely," the Ghost said. "But in moments of candor, I cannot help but wonder if it had to be this way."

"You like hurting people, John."

"I do."

"You've always enjoyed it."

The Ghost thought about that. "No, not always. But of course, the larger question is why?"

"Why do you like hurting people?"

"Not just hurting them. I enjoy killing them painfully. I choose strangulation because it is a horrible way to die. No quick bullet. No sudden knife slash. You literally gasp for your last breath. You feel the life-nourishing oxygen being denied you. I do that to them, up close, watching them struggle for a breath that never comes."

"My, my." McGuane put down his snifter. "You must be a barrel of laughs at parties, John."

"Oh indeed," he agreed. Then growing serious again, the Ghost said, "But why, Philip, do I get a rush from that? What happened to me, to my moral compass, that I feel my most alive while snuffing out someone's breath?"

"You're not going to blame your daddy, are you, John?"

"No, that would be too pat." He put down his drink and faced McGuane. "Would you have killed me, Philip? If I hadn't taken out the two men at the cemetery, would you have killed me?"

McGuane opted for the truth. "I don't know," he said. "Probably."

"And you're my best friend," the Ghost said.

"You're probably mine."

The Ghost smiled. "We were something, weren't we, Philip?"

McGuane did not reply.

"I met Ken when I was four," the Ghost continued. "All the kids in the neighborhood were warned to stay away from our house. The Asseltas were a bad influence that's what they were told. You know the deal."

"Ido,"McGuanesaid.

"But for Ken, that was a draw. He used to love to explore our house. I remember when we found my old man's gun. We were six, I think. I remember holding it. The feeling of power. It mesmerized us. We used the gun to terrify Richard Werner I don't think you know him, he moved away in the third grade. We kidnapped him once and tied him up. He cried and wet his pants."

"And you loved it."

The Ghost nodded slowly. "Perhaps."

"I have a question," McGuane said.

"I'm listening."

"If your father owned a gun, why use a kitchen knife on Daniel Skinner?"

The Ghost shook his head. "I don't want to talk about that."

"You never have."

"That's right."

"Why?"

He did not answer the question directly. "My old man found out about us playing with the gun," he said. "He beat me pretty good."

"He did that a lot."

"Yes."

"Have you ever sought revenge on him?" McGuane asked.

"On my father? No. He was too pitiful to hate. He never got over my mother walking out on us. He always thought she'd come back. He used to prepare for it. When he drank, he'd sit alone on the couch and talk to her and laugh with her and then he'd start sobbing. She broke his heart. I've hurt men, Philip. I've seen men beg to die. But I don't think I ever heard anything as pitiful as my father sobbing for my mother."

From the floor, Joshua Ford made a low groan. They both ignored him.

"Where is your father now?" McGuane asked.

" Cheyenne, Wyoming. He dried out. He found a good woman. He's a religious nut now. Traded alcohol for God one addiction for another."

"You ever talk to him?

The Ghost's voice was soft. "No."

They drank in silence.

"What about you, Philip? You weren't poor. Your parents weren't abusive."

"Just parents," McGuane agreed.

"I know your uncle was mobbed up. He got you into the business. But you could have gone straight. Why didn't you?"

McGuane chuckled.

"What?"

"We're more different than I thought."

"How's that?"

"You regret it," McGuane said. "You do it, you get a thrill from it, you're good at it. But you see yourself as evil." He sat up suddenly. "My God."

"What?"

"You're more dangerous than I thought, John."

"How so?"

"You're not back for Ken," McGuane said. And then, his voice dropping: "You're back for that little girl, aren't you?"

The Ghost took a deep sip. He chose not to answer.

"Those choices and alternate universes you were talking about," McGuane went on. "You think if Ken died that night, it would all be different."

"It would indeed be an alternate universe," the Ghost said.

"But maybe not a better one," McGuane countered. Then he added, "So what now?"

"We'll need Will's cooperation. He's the only one who can draw Ken out."

"He won't help."

The Ghost frowned. "You, of alt people, know better." "His father?" McGuane asked. "No."

"His sister?"

"She's too far away," the Ghost said. "But you have an idea?" "Think," the Ghost said.

McGuane did. And when he saw it, his face broke into a smile. "Katy Miller."