The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(45)

I just rolled my eyes. At least we weren’t talking about the fact that I’d been found in a basket.

“MO-SES!” Tag said my name in a deep, echoing “God voice,” reminiscent of the old Charlton Heston movie, The Ten Commandments. Gigi had loved Charlton Heston. I’d spent an Easter with her the year I was twelve and we’d had a Charlton Heston marathon that made me want to smear red paint above everybody’s door and burn all the bushes in Levan. Come to think of it, I had smeared paint all over Levan, many times. It was all Charlton Heston’s fault.

Tag laughed when I told him that. But the laughter faded, and he slumped back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Then he looked at me, measuring me. “If I die, what will happen to me?”

“Why do you think you’re going to die?” I asked, sounding like Dr. Andelin.

“I’m here because I tried to kill myself several times, Moses.”

“Yeah. I know.” I pointed at the long scar on his arm. “And I’m here because I paint dead people and scare the livin’ shit out of everyone I come in contact with.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I know.” But his smile faded immediately. “When I’m not drinking, life just grinds me down until I can’t see straight. It wasn’t always that way. But it is now. Life sucks pretty bad, Moses.”

I nodded, but found myself smiling a little as I remembered how Georgia had lectured me every time I said something similar.

“Georgia’s laugh, Georgia’s hair, Georgia’s kisses, Georgia’s wit, Georgia’s long, long legs,” I murmured. I’d gotten comfortable with Tag and I repeated the list out loud, much to my embarrassment.

“What?”

I felt stupid but I answered him honestly. “Five greats. I was listing five greats. Just something someone used to do whenever I complained about how bad life was.”

“Georgia?”

“Yeah.”

“She your girl?” he asked.

“She wanted to be,” I admitted, but wouldn’t admit how I had wanted her.

“And you didn’t want that? Not even with her hair, her kisses, and her long, long legs?” He smiled, and I liked him, in spite of myself. But I didn’t say anything more about Georgia.

“You still want to die?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Depends. What comes next?” “More,” I answered simply. “There’s more. That’s all I can tell you. It doesn’t end.”

“And you can see what comes next?”

“What do you mean?” I couldn’t see the future, if that’s what he meant.

“Can you see the other side?”

“No. I only see what they want me to see,” I said.

“They? They who?”

“Whoever comes through.” I shrugged.

“Do they whisper to you? Do they talk?” Tag was whispering too, as if the subject were sacred.

“No. They never say anything at all. They just show me things.”

Tag shivered and rubbed the back of his neck, like he was trying to rub away the goose flesh that had crept up his back.

“So how do you know what they want?” he asked.

“They all want the same thing.” And strangely, they did.

“What? What do they want?”

“They want to speak. They want to be heard.” I hadn’t ever put it into words, but the answer felt right.

“So they don’t speak but they want to speak?”

I nodded once, affirming that Tag was correct.

“Why do they want to speak?”“Because that’s what they used to do . . .” I hesitated.

“That’s what they used to do, when they were alive?” Tag finished for me. “Yeah.”

“So how do they communicate?”“Thoughts don’t require flesh and bone.”

“You hear their thoughts?” he asked, incredulous.

“No. I see their memories in my thoughts.” I supposed that was even more bizarre, but it was the truth.

“You see their memories? All of them? Do you see everything? Their whole lives?”

“Sometimes it feels like that. It can be a flood of color and thought, and I can only pick up random things because it’s coming at me so fast. And I can only really see what I understand. I’m sure they would like me to see more. But it isn’t that easy. It’s subjective. I usually see pieces and parts. Never the whole picture. But I’ve gotten better at filtering, and as I’ve gotten better, it feels more like remembering and less like being possessed.” I smiled in spite of myself, and Tag shook his head in wonder.

“Are there any dead people here now?” Tag swiveled around looking right and left as if maybe, if he turned fast enough, he could catch a ghost unaware.

“Definitely,” I lied. There was no one nearby, nothing to mar the quiet or the space except the branch outside my window that tapped and scratched against the glass and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes against the linoleum as someone hurried past my door.

Tag’s brows shot up, and he waited for me to tell him more.

“Marilyn Monroe thinks you’re hot. She’s blowing in your ear right now.”

Tag’s finger immediately filled his ear canal as if a bug had flown in and was buzzing incessantly, trying to get out.