of blood from Dekker’s knife. “Let’s get these cuts taken care of.”
I might have said something like, sure, but then the smell of blood filled my nose, and then my brain scrambled in a weird jumble.
ghosts
I recognized the feeling: the same splits along the seams of someone else’s consciousness I’d experienced before
and teeth like knives and my mouth
when I landed in that other boy’s body
don’t take my mouth please
and then Justin was saying something, but I didn’t get any of it
don’t take my mouth
because gray ate at the margins of my vision, and then everything went
black . . . don’t . . . please
help me
help me
VIII
“Hank, you can’t let him do it.” Reverend Schoenberg forked pot roast and applesauce into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “He goes alone, and Dekker will kill him.”
“I’ll be okay.” I sat beside Uncle Hank. As usual, Mrs. Schoenberg had made a fantastic dinner—pot roast with carrots and potato pancakes with homemade applesauce—only my stomach was too tied in knots, and the food tasted like sawdust.
Not that I wasn’t grateful. A ton of eyes had lasered my back that morning in church, and conversations dried up as we slid into our pew, but no one had to be talking for me to know what everyone was thinking. I was sure everyone had heard about me fainting out at the barn the day before too. Now I had Steri-Strips on my arms, and a train track stitched on my forehead. So, I knew the Schoenbergs had invited us to Sunday dinner as a way of taking some kind of stand.
From across the table, Sarah said to me, “You should be careful. Karl Dekker’s just the type of person who’d arrange for you to have an accident.”
“She’s right, and we know whereof we speak.” The Reverend was a moon-faced man and a theology professor at the Ashburg extension of the University of Wisconsin. He liked books, gossip, and red wine. “You’re lucky Justin was there when you fainted.”
“If you ask me, he was lucky, period,” said Mrs. Schoenberg. She and Aunt Jean had been best friends, and she’d made it her mission to make sure we ate a decent meal twice a month. “But luck doesn’t last forever, Hank.”
“I know that, Miriam.” Uncle Hank accepted more wine from the Rev. “I’ve already talked to Justin Brandt, and he’ll stick close while Christian’s there.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”
Of course, no one paid attention to anything I said. Probably didn’t believe me, given everything so far.
I wasn’t so sure I believed me much either.
The adults talked that to death some more, and then the Revsaid, “So what’s this about a body at the old Ziegler place?”
Sarah perked right up. “Body?”
Her dad waggled his eyebrows. “A
baby
is what I heard.”
“Baby?” Sarah looked at her father and then Uncle Hank. “You mean, like a baby-baby, or a little kid?”
“I don’t know how old and—” Uncle Hank shook his head at the Reverend. “You know I can’t talk about this, Steve. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
The Rev made a horsey sound. “From a million years ago.”
“Maybe not that long. I still can’t talk about it.”
“All right, decades. Anyway, I heard some folks from Madison are on their way up,” said the Rev, like Uncle Hank hadn’t said a word. (He and my uncle had done this before. The Rev wanted gossip, my uncle would say he couldn’t, and then the Rev would just keep going until he got what he wanted.) The Rev splashed more wine into his glass. “Crime scene people is what I heard.”
Uncle Hank shrugged. “Just the forensic anthropologist and her crew. They won’t be here for weeks yet, no real rush on this end. Coroner says the body’s been there for a real long time.”
“No rush?” Mrs. Schoenberg’s eyebrows went up. “If it were my house, I’d want a body out as soon as possible. For that matter, I might just move. The owner isn’t a
I might have said something like, sure, but then the smell of blood filled my nose, and then my brain scrambled in a weird jumble.
ghosts
I recognized the feeling: the same splits along the seams of someone else’s consciousness I’d experienced before
and teeth like knives and my mouth
when I landed in that other boy’s body
don’t take my mouth please
and then Justin was saying something, but I didn’t get any of it
don’t take my mouth
because gray ate at the margins of my vision, and then everything went
black . . . don’t . . . please
help me
help me
VIII
“Hank, you can’t let him do it.” Reverend Schoenberg forked pot roast and applesauce into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “He goes alone, and Dekker will kill him.”
“I’ll be okay.” I sat beside Uncle Hank. As usual, Mrs. Schoenberg had made a fantastic dinner—pot roast with carrots and potato pancakes with homemade applesauce—only my stomach was too tied in knots, and the food tasted like sawdust.
Not that I wasn’t grateful. A ton of eyes had lasered my back that morning in church, and conversations dried up as we slid into our pew, but no one had to be talking for me to know what everyone was thinking. I was sure everyone had heard about me fainting out at the barn the day before too. Now I had Steri-Strips on my arms, and a train track stitched on my forehead. So, I knew the Schoenbergs had invited us to Sunday dinner as a way of taking some kind of stand.
From across the table, Sarah said to me, “You should be careful. Karl Dekker’s just the type of person who’d arrange for you to have an accident.”
“She’s right, and we know whereof we speak.” The Reverend was a moon-faced man and a theology professor at the Ashburg extension of the University of Wisconsin. He liked books, gossip, and red wine. “You’re lucky Justin was there when you fainted.”
“If you ask me, he was lucky, period,” said Mrs. Schoenberg. She and Aunt Jean had been best friends, and she’d made it her mission to make sure we ate a decent meal twice a month. “But luck doesn’t last forever, Hank.”
“I know that, Miriam.” Uncle Hank accepted more wine from the Rev. “I’ve already talked to Justin Brandt, and he’ll stick close while Christian’s there.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”
Of course, no one paid attention to anything I said. Probably didn’t believe me, given everything so far.
I wasn’t so sure I believed me much either.
The adults talked that to death some more, and then the Revsaid, “So what’s this about a body at the old Ziegler place?”
Sarah perked right up. “Body?”
Her dad waggled his eyebrows. “A
baby
is what I heard.”
“Baby?” Sarah looked at her father and then Uncle Hank. “You mean, like a baby-baby, or a little kid?”
“I don’t know how old and—” Uncle Hank shook his head at the Reverend. “You know I can’t talk about this, Steve. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
The Rev made a horsey sound. “From a million years ago.”
“Maybe not that long. I still can’t talk about it.”
“All right, decades. Anyway, I heard some folks from Madison are on their way up,” said the Rev, like Uncle Hank hadn’t said a word. (He and my uncle had done this before. The Rev wanted gossip, my uncle would say he couldn’t, and then the Rev would just keep going until he got what he wanted.) The Rev splashed more wine into his glass. “Crime scene people is what I heard.”
Uncle Hank shrugged. “Just the forensic anthropologist and her crew. They won’t be here for weeks yet, no real rush on this end. Coroner says the body’s been there for a real long time.”
“No rush?” Mrs. Schoenberg’s eyebrows went up. “If it were my house, I’d want a body out as soon as possible. For that matter, I might just move. The owner isn’t a
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