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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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except for the fact that they were still alive and I was headed for a toe tag.
Sure, they'd be able to figure things out eventually, with all the powder tests and databases and interrogation tactics the police used these days. Plus there was the obvious thread leading to whoever had snapped the photo behind the building. But I didn't have time for the modern machineries of criminal justice to creak into action. I'd be deep-sixed in a couple of days at the most, with maybe an extra day thrown in for an autopsy.
"Who's this ' Bootsie '?" Uhlgren said to nobody, holding the snapshot and the letter side by side. I almost materialized so I could make my lips move enough to give him an address. But let him have his fun. It didn't matter to me if Uhlgren was on the trail or not. I had what I needed.
Now it was time to figure out who the white-haired man in the captain's hat was. He was the link between Bailey and the man who had ventilated my chest.
***
9.
I reached San Francisco just before dawn. Usually, the fog and rain there wraps you up and digs its way into your bones. But when you have no bones, the chill doesn't bother you as much.
Nothing compares to being a ghost in the fog. Drifting from marina to marina, I was consumed by a peace I had rarely known, the kind they sing about in "Silent Night." I would have been content to drift for an eternity, succumbing to the pull of tides and shore breezes. But I still had an emptiness inside me, an ache and longing that kept me on task. No eternal peace would be complete without Lee.
There are thousands of boats in San Francisco . I passed over half of them before I found the Lady Slipper . I had hoped at least to learn the captain's name. I didn't think I would be lucky enough to find him sitting in the cabin. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, a cup of cold coffee, a cellular phone, and a revolver were on the table in front of him. He was crying.
The mahogany walls were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed photographs, and a trophy case filled one entire wall, brass and silver gleaming even in the dimness. Two of them were Oscars. I checked one of the photographs. The captain, in his younger days, posing with Natalie Wood. I thought he'd looked familiar. The photo beneath it looked like an autographed portrait of Spencer Tracy, but I didn't study it closely.
Because the captain had picked up the revolver.
His hand trembled, and his eyelids twitched as he kept them clamped shut. He brought the revolver slowly to his head. I understood the darkness that might push someone over the edge. But now I knew the true value of living. I knew what it was like to die with regrets. I was willing to bet the captain had at least one regret .
I materialized. The captain's eyes were still closed.
"Don't do it," I said, my head throbbing from the effort of wearing flesh.
The captain's eyelids snapped open and his finger tensed on the trigger. I thought for a second he was going to blow himself away in the shock of seeing me. Because of the suddenness of my incorporation, I hadn't finished the job. I was milky, translucent.
His mouth opened, and he glanced groggily at the cabin door. I came fully back into human form.
"Who—what?" he stammered.
"I'm the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," I said.
"How did you get in here?" He pushed himself back in the chair. "The door's locked."
I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. Then I made them invisible. I tried to will myself back to flesh again, but I was weak. I panicked, fought, suffered a moment of doubt. He pointed the revolver in the direction of my heart and fired.
***
10.
This time I skipped the Waiting Room. "Jingle Bell Rock" was playing through the speakers, and I wondered if this time around I had been sent directly to Hell. But then I recognized the office. Miss Titanic was standing over me, scowling down.
"Steele, you miserable piece of dirt. How many second chances do you need?"
"I didn't kill
Sure, they'd be able to figure things out eventually, with all the powder tests and databases and interrogation tactics the police used these days. Plus there was the obvious thread leading to whoever had snapped the photo behind the building. But I didn't have time for the modern machineries of criminal justice to creak into action. I'd be deep-sixed in a couple of days at the most, with maybe an extra day thrown in for an autopsy.
"Who's this ' Bootsie '?" Uhlgren said to nobody, holding the snapshot and the letter side by side. I almost materialized so I could make my lips move enough to give him an address. But let him have his fun. It didn't matter to me if Uhlgren was on the trail or not. I had what I needed.
Now it was time to figure out who the white-haired man in the captain's hat was. He was the link between Bailey and the man who had ventilated my chest.
***
9.
I reached San Francisco just before dawn. Usually, the fog and rain there wraps you up and digs its way into your bones. But when you have no bones, the chill doesn't bother you as much.
Nothing compares to being a ghost in the fog. Drifting from marina to marina, I was consumed by a peace I had rarely known, the kind they sing about in "Silent Night." I would have been content to drift for an eternity, succumbing to the pull of tides and shore breezes. But I still had an emptiness inside me, an ache and longing that kept me on task. No eternal peace would be complete without Lee.
There are thousands of boats in San Francisco . I passed over half of them before I found the Lady Slipper . I had hoped at least to learn the captain's name. I didn't think I would be lucky enough to find him sitting in the cabin. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, a cup of cold coffee, a cellular phone, and a revolver were on the table in front of him. He was crying.
The mahogany walls were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed photographs, and a trophy case filled one entire wall, brass and silver gleaming even in the dimness. Two of them were Oscars. I checked one of the photographs. The captain, in his younger days, posing with Natalie Wood. I thought he'd looked familiar. The photo beneath it looked like an autographed portrait of Spencer Tracy, but I didn't study it closely.
Because the captain had picked up the revolver.
His hand trembled, and his eyelids twitched as he kept them clamped shut. He brought the revolver slowly to his head. I understood the darkness that might push someone over the edge. But now I knew the true value of living. I knew what it was like to die with regrets. I was willing to bet the captain had at least one regret .
I materialized. The captain's eyes were still closed.
"Don't do it," I said, my head throbbing from the effort of wearing flesh.
The captain's eyelids snapped open and his finger tensed on the trigger. I thought for a second he was going to blow himself away in the shock of seeing me. Because of the suddenness of my incorporation, I hadn't finished the job. I was milky, translucent.
His mouth opened, and he glanced groggily at the cabin door. I came fully back into human form.
"Who—what?" he stammered.
"I'm the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," I said.
"How did you get in here?" He pushed himself back in the chair. "The door's locked."
I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. Then I made them invisible. I tried to will myself back to flesh again, but I was weak. I panicked, fought, suffered a moment of doubt. He pointed the revolver in the direction of my heart and fired.
***
10.
This time I skipped the Waiting Room. "Jingle Bell Rock" was playing through the speakers, and I wondered if this time around I had been sent directly to Hell. But then I recognized the office. Miss Titanic was standing over me, scowling down.
"Steele, you miserable piece of dirt. How many second chances do you need?"
"I didn't kill
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