Ghost Writer(86)

“Why?”

Why? Because I wanted to buy time, that's why. Also because I wanted to know what happened.

“Because you want to.” I might not have the voice of command, but I had the firmness of a mother used to getting confessions out of misbehaving boys. Besides, drawing on my mother tone helped me sound braver than I felt.

It worked. Tim closed the journal and sat back. He still held the gun, but his eyes were no longer focussed on me.

“My father was a hero. He saved the station from falling into enemy hands. He escaped death, against the odds, and got a new life, a new name, a new family.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Except he couldn't let go of the old life. He was haunted by it.”

I kept my eyes on Tim, but what I said next was more for his father’s benefit. “I think he was a basically good person, but he suffered from hypersensitivity which sometimes triggered paranoid delusions.”

“In other words, he was crazy?” Tim snorted. “You know he just about made me crazy? I tried to love him. I tried to cover up his episodes.”

He flung the journal to the floor.

“What does he do? He commits suicide, by taking slow poison, so he has time to tell his teenage son his whole sordid past, then begs him, with his dying breath, to make it right. What kind of father is that?”

“A mentally ill father.” And the acorn didn't fall far from the tree, I thought.

“He was mental, all right, but not at the end. At the end he was quite sane, I think. He wanted me to make everything right, so no one else would know. No one else can know what he did.”

Behind him, the ghost of his father shook his head emphatically.

“That's not what he meant. He wanted to make amends. He wanted the families of the men that were killed to know what happened. He covered up the truth, but he can't rest until people know what really happened.”

Tim shook the pistol at me. Someone, not me, might have been able to take advantage of that. “How do you know what he wanted?”

I took a deep breath. Odds were he'd think I was loony, but the truth was worth a try. “I know because he let me know. I can see him now and he wants you to end this. He wants to find peace.”

Minton nodded. His son shook his head. “You think I'll believe that shit? Hah! Let me guess, you talk to spirits like a ghost whisperer.”

“I wish. If I could talk to ghosts, maybe your father would tell me something that would make you believe me. I see spirits, Tim. I see your father now and he wants you to help him make peace with his ghosts.”

As I spoke, Margolo appeared. He gave me an encouraging nod. He must have warned Gravell. Behind him, the shades of Boreman, Golanger, and Dawes appeared. The temperature in the room dropped considerably as a result, but Tim didn't seem to notice.

“You're crazy or you think I am. Either way, you can make peace with my father.” He stood. “You can join him as a ghost.”

He leaned in and swung at me with the butt of Dippel's pistol, and I suddenly realized that he didn't want to shoot me. I should have taken advantage of that when I could, instead I blocked his blow tried to get away. His second swing connected with my jaw and threw me back onto the bed. Margolo and crew closed in on him, but Tim was oblivious.

He pressed me down, pinning my arms under me. Snatching my pillow, he stuffed it over my face, sending my phone bouncing across the deck. With surreal acuity, I heard the phone skitter and slide to a stop while, in the distance, someone was hammering on the hatch.

Tim hesitated a second, and I managed to get a hand free. Shoving hard, I got a little air and tried to scream, but was cut off. He threw himself across my body, compressing my chest with his knee and catching my arm.

I dug my nails into his hand and managed to steal another mouthful of air when he shifted his weight. Then the pillow was pressed hard against my face.

I tried to kick, but couldn't connect. I tried to rock him off me, and felt ghostly hands trying to help, but I didn't have the strength and neither did they. While I struggled desperately, a calm part of me was thinking, this sucks.

Then I could hear Minton in my head I was sure it was his voice.

“Keep fighting.”

“Hang in there, beautiful.” That was Margolo. “I'd rather haunt you than be haunted by you,”

Fine words, but hang in for what? Gravell was on the wrong side of a locked door, and I was already close enough to becoming a ghost that I could hear them.

“Don't give up now, sugah.”

“We need you, ma'am.”

“Live long and prosper.”

Suddenly, the weight lifted, and I sucked air, able to breathe, but finding it difficult to fill my lungs. I wanted to get off my back and rolled onto the floor, only to be struck by a falling body, knocking the wind out of me again.

“Pardon, Madame Kirby,” Gravell said, pulling the unconscious Tim Neville off me. “I got your message, but had a little trouble with the door.”

Behind him, Naire gave a little wave.

“Good timing,” I gasped, getting my breath back.

“Nick of time, I think.”

He cuffed Tim’s hands behind his back, then reached down and pulled me to my feet. I clung to his shirt front for balance. He put a steadying arm around my waist. I would have collapsed against him and sobbed, but he had brought a security detail with him and he was busy giving orders.