The Ghost Runner (18 page)

The ghosts have their arms raised, and the winds swirl the trees around like blades of grass.

Before I can take in what's happening, a bolt of lightning strikes the tree closest to the cluster of ghosts, and it bursts into flames. Thunder, simultaneous with the light, sucks the air out of my lungs and causes me to fall backward onto the dirt.

The ghosts have widened their circle to make way for the quickly growing fire. The flames are leaping upward and outward, driven by the wind and the steady supply of dry leaves, pine needles, and grasses.

I jump back to my feet, and when I glance behind me, I see yet another fire starting—the embers and sparks are airborne, spreading fire like some fast-moving virus, and it's spreading all around me, surrounding me.

I'm running now, racing against the flames, which are now on both sides of me and moving quickly, aiming to join together up ahead and block me from getting back to town.

Where is Roman?

Yet I can't wait for him—I have to get out of here, and I have to find my father, and I have to get to town, to the fire department. I'm sprinting now, in blistering heat, the fire only an arm's reach away on either side of me as I push myself forward. It's hard to breathe in all this heat and smoke, and I close my mind to everything else as I keep going, one foot in front of the other, over and over again until I feel my breath come a little easier, and then a little easier still.

I have to stop, just for a moment, to catch my breath. Looking back, I see that the fire is behind me, towering up like cumulous clouds, powered by high winds. And I know I have to keep moving.

The switchbacks in the trail are no good to me now; I cut a straight path toward town, pushing through the dry brush and dodging branches. Coughing and blinded, I have to slow down so I can feel my way through the woods, but the heat is closing in behind me. I know fire is governed by the laws of physics, yet I can't help but feel as if this one has a personality—angry and vengeful, heading straight for Lithia like some marauding army of invaders.

I can only hope now that the flames can be seen from town, that someone notices the drifting smoke, so the fire department can respond, alert helicopters, evacuate homes. As I turn the corner on the trail I can see the lights of Lithia through the smoke.

I see flashing lights headed this way.

But they may already be too late.

W
hen I first open my eyes, I don't know where I am. All I know is that I'm lying on a hard wooden surface, overlooking a parking lot in town. I turn my head, and I'm looking up at the front door to my dad's apartment building. I smell smoke—it's in the air; it's in my clothes. The memory of last night returns to me.

After escaping the forest, I stopped at the Highland Hills project where I'd left my father. He wasn't there. I called his name and climbed onto the chain-link fence to get a better view of the area, but I couldn't see him anywhere. I guessed he must've seen the smoke and left to get help—but I had a nagging feeling that he hadn't run away this time. His words echoed in my head—
From now on, I'll be here for you, Katie
—and I didn't want to leave, worried he was still there, waiting for me.

But I couldn't wait for him any longer. The fire was roaring down into the valley, the flames already lapping up against the frames of the half-built homes.

And Roman? I still hadn't seen Roman.

When the first fire truck arrived, I told the firefighters that I knew of two people who may be trapped in the hills. They said they would look, but I could tell by their faces that they didn't think anyone could be up there and survive. The police arrived soon afterward; by then, the heat was so intense I could feel the metal of my mom's necklace burning into my neck. They ordered me to go home—I argued, but they threatened me with a trip to the station if I didn't comply.

So I left, running back to town, to my dad's apartment, where I banged on his door, hopeful that he'd returned to his own selfish ways and left at the first sign of smoke. Yet I knew he hadn't. Something had changed in him last night—and it had happened too late. He had kept his promise to me, for once in his life, and it had put him in danger.

Then I stood on his porch and looked up at the hills. He was up there somewhere—I could feel it, yet I was powerless to do anything about it. That's when things get hazy, when my worry and exhaustion overtook me. I remember sitting on the porch, covered in soot and dirt, watching the fire and waiting for the firefighters or the cops to bring him home. I don't remember falling asleep. But somehow I did.

Now, I pound on his door once more but get no response. Where is he?

And where is Roman?

Today the hills are black, the flames gone. The town is surrounded by a light, smoky haze. If it weren't for the smell of charred earth and wood, I might think the haze was simply fog.

I walk back to my cottage, the town silent, everyone sealed inside, avoiding the smoke. At least the fire hadn't reached Lithia—everything is as normal as always, only eerily quiet. My lungs feel tight, and I have to stop every so often, wracked with coughing. When I get home, I realize that I'd left a side window open, and the inside of my cottage is just as smoky as the outside.

I leave the door ajar and open the rest of my windows. I sit down on the front step and think: Now what?

Tonight is opening night. The show will surely go on. I also have to work at the store today. I feel as though something monumental has happened—having almost lost my life in the fire, not knowing where my father or Roman are—but I also know that for nearly everyone else in town, it's business as usual. Most people probably slept through the fires and heard about them only on the morning news.

I have to face the day—and whatever it brings.

I take a quick shower, and as I wash away all the soot and grime, I gain a bit of hope. Maybe Roman hadn't even gone up to the mine after all. And it's very likely that my father did have the sense to come down from Highland Hills; even as drunk as he was, he has a strong sense of self-preservation.

I'll find out more once I get to work, where I can log onto the computer and get the latest news. Clean, and wearing fresh clothes, I rush off to Lithia Runners, where David is waiting.

“Thank God you're okay,” he says. “I've been worried. You haven't returned any of my calls.”

My cell phone is in the cottage, its battery dead. I'm pretty bad about keeping it charged, which renders it pretty useless. But hardly anyone ever calls me anyway.

“Sorry, David,” I say. “I was at my dad's. I saw him up at Highland Hills last night and haven't been able to find him since.”

A shadow crosses David's face. “What were you two doing up there?”

“Jacobs took the property away from my dad. So Dad got drunk, and—” I pause to figure out how to work around Roman and the gold mine. “Well, I was trying to get him home when the fire broke out. We lost track of each other. I think he's probably fine—except maybe for a hangover—but I wish I could find him.”

“Did you try the police?”

“Not yet. They knew he was missing last night, though.”

David already has the phone in his hand. “That's a shame about the land, but something tells me Jacobs isn't too happy about owning it right about now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fire completely destroyed Highland Hills. Every one of those homes burned. It's ironic, in a way—the development provided a firebreak of sorts. The firemen were able to halt the fire there and save the valley.”

“I'm sure he has insurance.”

“Oh, he does. But there's going to be a big investigation before they'll pay, especially with all the controversy surrounding the land. It could tie up his plans for years.”

My mind turns to the gold mine. Maybe Jacobs could be persuaded to unload the land, provided the price is right. I need to see Roman.

I notice that David has lowered the phone back to its cradle and is staring toward the door.

A policeman is standing there, looking at us. At me.

He walks up to me. “Katherine Healy?”

“Yes. What is it?” I feel a surge of hope. “Have you found my dad?”

“Ms. Healy,” he says, “I'm sorry to inform you that we have.”

“You're sorry? I don't understand.”

He holds out a twisted hunk of burnt metal. I take it from him and see that this charred mess had once been a watch. Part of the clasp has been cleaned off, and then I see why: The police were trying to identify it, and they had. The clasp's monogram reads JH. For Jack Healy.

“Do you know if this watch was your father's?”

I nod. “It was. But this doesn't mean anything, does it? He probably just dropped it, right?”

I feel David next to me, his arm around my shoulders.

“I'm afraid we found this on a body up on the Lost Mine Trail,” the policeman said. “I'm very sorry.”

I clutch the watch to my chest, its sootiness dirtying my clean shirt. David tightens his arm around me, and I hear him thanking the police officer as he ushers me to the back room.

“I'm so sorry, Kat,” he says.

I look down at the burned watch, the only thing I have left. “My dad was looking for me up there,” I tell David. “He was trying to save me.”

David says nothing. He knows there is nothing to say, just as we both knew it when Stacey died. Sometimes there is nothing words can do.

“Let's close the store,” David says. “I'll take you home.”

“No.” I shake my head. “It's okay.”

“Are you sure?”

It's hard to explain to David, but I feel more compelled than ever to make my life worth saving, worth dying for. And that doesn't mean going home and hiding in my cottage. It means living.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I tell David, my voice unsteady. I clear my throat and try again. “I'm positive.”

A
s my makeup is applied, I stare at my face, watching it transform—from a young woman weary from fire and the loss of her only remaining parent to a face given new life through paint. My hair, dry and frazzled—my short ponytail had been singed in the heat—is covered now, lengthened with a dark wig and nun's
ha
bit
.

I still can't quite believe that my father is gone. Though he rarely felt like a true father to me, the bloodline was there, as well as a few good memories. The way he would pick me up by my ankles and twirl me around when I was little—and my very last memory, of him standing there, vowing to wait for me to come down from the hills. He may have been a bad man at times, but he wasn't all bad.

I feel especially absorbed into my role tonight: Isabella has only her brother left, and she is fighting to save him as much as she is fighting against loneliness. As for me—I'm still worried about Roman; I've tried to contact him but have heard nothing. In a way, that's good—as he's one of the Lithia Theater Company's premier actors, I'd have heard if something happened. Or that's what I tell myself. Maybe I just can't face the thought of another loss.

Instead, I work on assuming the character of Isabella. The costume, the makeup—it all envelops me in the appearance of Isabella, and now I must envelop the rest of me with the character herself.

There are speakers on the walls backstage so that we can listen to the play and ascend the stairs just before it is time to go onstage. Right now, all we can hear is the chattering of hundreds of people taking their places, flipping through their programs, turning off their cell phones. Everyone backstage moves with high energy—this is the night we have been waiting for.

I feel the energy around me, but inside I focus on Isabella. It calms me, knowing that for the next few hours, I don't have to worry about anything outside of this theater. I must focus on the part.

The speakers grow quiet. Moments later, I hear the Duke speaking with Escalus. He is handing the power of Vienna over to Angelo, played by Tyler. In a few minutes, I will be onstage, and I will be told that my brother is about to be executed.

I stand and take one more reflective look at myself as Isabella. Then I head for the stairs. The lights in the stairwell are dim.

I listen for my cue and then I enter the stage, into the light.

~

The last line of the play—it is almost time. And even though the night has been a long three hours, plus intermission, I feel my energy growing with the thrill of reaching the end of this long, unpredictable journey.

About halfway through, I forgot a line; I completely blanked as I was onstage in a scene with Angelo. As if he could sense it, Tyler calmly continued without even blinking, and then I was fine. Only an expert in Shakespeare would have noticed my mistake.

And now, I kneel in front of the Duke, pleading for the life of the man I believe had my brother killed.

Let him not die. My brother had but justice,

In that he did the thing for which he died:

For Angelo,

His act did not o'ertake his bad intent,

And must be buried but as an intent

That perish'd by the way: thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

The Duke grants my wish. Angelo's life is spared. And, to my surprise, my brother is alive after all, the Duke having spared it in secret.

And then the Duke makes a play for me. I stand there as he talks.

Dear Isabel,

I have a motion much imports your good;

Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline,

What's mine is yours and what is yours is mine.

So, bring us to our palace; where we'll show

What's yet behind, that's meet you all should know.

I do not respond. Shakespeare did not write a reply, perhaps because the audience knows what Isabella would have said. The lights go down. The curtains close. And beyond them, the applause erupts.

The lights go up backstage, with squeals of excitement mixed with relief. People are hugging one another, and I even give Tyler a quick kiss, as thanks for saving me onstage. The curtain rises. In unison, we take our bows, the applause rising. We bow again.

I look out into the vast space, seeing faces, recognizing none. And then, near the front, I see David and Alex, clapping and smiling. Alex stands and approaches the stage, carrying a bouquet of flowers. At the end of the stage, he holds them up, and I feel a nudge from Tyler. I take the flowers and bow again.

The curtain closes, and I remain standing there as the others begin to shuffle back down to the dressing rooms. A few parents have found their way backstage and are hugging their children. I stand alone, staring at the back of the curtain.