far end. busted-off pieces and all. set a little movie ticking away inside his head. Him and his dad. the round flat snout of the metal detector sniffing at the floor, his dad watching the dial on the box up at the top. He'd tagged behind him, keeping a carefully calculated distance to show that he wasn't really worried about any horrible shit happening, like ghosts or hoboes-either or both-raving down the big staircase with knives and hard-ons. The older kids in school had told him back then that that was what 'boes did to you, if they caught you snooping around where they had their fires and did all the rest of their hobo business. The knife up to your throat while they pulled down your pants with their other dirty, black-nailed hand. Ghosts he hadn't been so sure about back then, as a kid. Could ghosts get hard-ons? Something poking up under the white sheet, like a pup tent?
That showed how long ago he'd been a kid. Nowadays, kids that young didn't know from ghosts in white sheets. Now they wore hockey goalie masks and had chain saws and knives on the ends of their fingers and shit. And even the little kids laughed their asses off, or said" Wow, gnarly " at stuff like that when they watched them on their folks' VCRs. That was the way things went. It made him feel old to think about it already, and he was just goddamn seventeen.
The smell of the musty air inside the building, cooped up and baked by long days of sun-he remembered that, too. And dust motes drifting in and out of the thin slices of light coming through the window boards. And the quiet.
He and his dad hadn't found any treasure with the metal detector. Now that he'd thought about it, he'd realized his old man hadn't really been expecting to but had just been in some goofy screwing-around mode. The only thing had been a silver dollar, an old Standing Liberty cartwheel that had fallen down in a crack between the floorboards, and that his dad had pried out with his jack-knife blade and given to him. It was under his clean socks now, in a drawer of his bedroom dresser, back home. They had never come back out to the place, after that one time.
"Hey," he called again; nobody had answered him from before. Maybe the guy was asleep, or passed out still. Or dead-his old man had told him the guy looked pretty close to it. Being in this place with some fuckin' corpse wasn't an idea he wanted to think about. "You here? Come on, man."
Silence. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light that he could see a couple of blankets, a deflated ghost, crumpled in the middle of the lobby's floor. He recognized them as the ones his dad usually kept in the Peterbilt's sleeper. That was probably his dad's thermos beside them; he'd said something about leaving the guy some water.
Well, shit … Doot walked farther into the lobby, looking around him. The guy wasn't here. Maybe he'd crawled outside. And pounded the nails back in that held the boards over the door? Not likely.
He stood by the counter that had been the old clinic's reception desk. There were marks, like somebody had dragged his arm through the dust on the marble top, and one clear handprint.
"Just tell me where you're at, okay?" He raised his eyes, listening to his voice bounce off the carved, interlocking beams of the ceiling. He held his breath; when the echo faded, he heard the other sound. Someone else breathing.
Around the end of the counter, Doot saw him. The guy was sprawled out on the landing up the big staircase, shoulder and head against the wall, one hand flopped down the steps. Blood leaked through the bandages wrapped around the guy's chest.
The guy moaned when he raised him up. Doot squatted on the stairs below him, trying to get the weight onto his own shoulders. It flashed on him then that maybe he was fucking it up, maybe the guy had one of those injuries where if you tried to move him, you'd just killed him right
That showed how long ago he'd been a kid. Nowadays, kids that young didn't know from ghosts in white sheets. Now they wore hockey goalie masks and had chain saws and knives on the ends of their fingers and shit. And even the little kids laughed their asses off, or said" Wow, gnarly " at stuff like that when they watched them on their folks' VCRs. That was the way things went. It made him feel old to think about it already, and he was just goddamn seventeen.
The smell of the musty air inside the building, cooped up and baked by long days of sun-he remembered that, too. And dust motes drifting in and out of the thin slices of light coming through the window boards. And the quiet.
He and his dad hadn't found any treasure with the metal detector. Now that he'd thought about it, he'd realized his old man hadn't really been expecting to but had just been in some goofy screwing-around mode. The only thing had been a silver dollar, an old Standing Liberty cartwheel that had fallen down in a crack between the floorboards, and that his dad had pried out with his jack-knife blade and given to him. It was under his clean socks now, in a drawer of his bedroom dresser, back home. They had never come back out to the place, after that one time.
"Hey," he called again; nobody had answered him from before. Maybe the guy was asleep, or passed out still. Or dead-his old man had told him the guy looked pretty close to it. Being in this place with some fuckin' corpse wasn't an idea he wanted to think about. "You here? Come on, man."
Silence. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light that he could see a couple of blankets, a deflated ghost, crumpled in the middle of the lobby's floor. He recognized them as the ones his dad usually kept in the Peterbilt's sleeper. That was probably his dad's thermos beside them; he'd said something about leaving the guy some water.
Well, shit … Doot walked farther into the lobby, looking around him. The guy wasn't here. Maybe he'd crawled outside. And pounded the nails back in that held the boards over the door? Not likely.
He stood by the counter that had been the old clinic's reception desk. There were marks, like somebody had dragged his arm through the dust on the marble top, and one clear handprint.
"Just tell me where you're at, okay?" He raised his eyes, listening to his voice bounce off the carved, interlocking beams of the ceiling. He held his breath; when the echo faded, he heard the other sound. Someone else breathing.
Around the end of the counter, Doot saw him. The guy was sprawled out on the landing up the big staircase, shoulder and head against the wall, one hand flopped down the steps. Blood leaked through the bandages wrapped around the guy's chest.
The guy moaned when he raised him up. Doot squatted on the stairs below him, trying to get the weight onto his own shoulders. It flashed on him then that maybe he was fucking it up, maybe the guy had one of those injuries where if you tried to move him, you'd just killed him right
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