Lineage(97)

“No, no children. From what I heard, he and his ex were merely trying to make amends. They had gotten married young and divorced young, but still lived in the same town. They were having dinner that night as a first date, so to speak.”

Lance frowned. Rhinelander didn’t seem to be anything other than a repeated name on his grandmother’s crossword. Perhaps she’d met him and he’d made an impression on her, since he had worked for his grandfather’s company. Maybe the name somehow seemed important to the torn rigging of her mind and she couldn’t get past the letters she wrote down each time she had pencil and paper.

Harold flipped through another album, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Mary shifted from foot to foot and gave a shrug as Lance looked at her, as if to say, It was worth a shot.

“This is the only other article I have on the disappearance,” Harold said as he handed the new album to Lance.

The column of print offset to the side of the page was just a few paragraphs, but that was not what held Lance’s gaze as his eyes widened in shock.

A black-and-white picture was pasted next to it. He could see light colored hair hanging carelessly over the man’s forehead and an easy smile on his face, the picture obviously one from a happy time in his life. The eyes twinkled at Lance through over forty years of time as he stared at Gerald Rhinelander, the main character from his novel.



The storm had relented somewhat by the time they were back on the highway, headed toward Lance’s house. The rain sprinkled without a break, keeping the wipers at a steady rhythm on the Land Rover’s windshield. The sky remained dark overhead, and had even deepened with the coming afternoon. The waves still rolled over one another on the lake whenever Lance caught a glimpse of them as they drove in silence along the narrow highway.

He’d tried to conceal his surprise at the sight of Gerald’s photo, but both Mary and Harold had noticed. He recovered as quick as he could, telling Harold that the man looked like someone he used to know for an instant. Shortly thereafter, Mary had excused them both, saying that they had another appointment to get to. As an afterthought, Lance left his cell-phone number with the historical director in case he came across anything else that might be of importance. The moment they were in the car, Lance explained what had happened. Mary’s thoughtful silence only added weight to the heavy feeling that had settled over him with each turn his life had taken recently. They hadn’t spoken since leaving town, and Lance didn’t feel like talking anymore. His fingers rested lightly on the wheel and he tried to keep his breathing in time with the stroke of the wipers.

After a while, Mary turned toward him. “What do you think it means?”

Lance sighed. “I don’t know. That I am going nuts?”

“I would say it’s the contrary. That photo proves it.”

Lance looked over at her, and then back to the road. “What do you mean?”

“It’s simple. You saw this man in your imagination, right down to the very last detail, but had never seen a picture of him before. You even went so far as to put him in your novel. He also worked for your grandfather’s company.”

“So.”

“So, there’s a connection. If there was none, then I would say you might be hallucinating. But there is.”

“What you’re saying is, I’m seeing and writing about someone who’s been missing for over forty years, most likely dead.” He paused, letting the idea that had been lurking in the background of his mind for several days finally ease into the light of actual words. “You’re saying I’m seeing a ghost.”

Mary frowned but nodded almost imperceptibly.

The hang-up that he’d already gone over a dozen times came spewing out before he could stop it. “Then why did I see you too?”

Mary jerked a little, as if he had raised a hand to strike her. Her posture stiffened and her frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Before I came to town the first day when we met, I saw you in something that was almost a vision. I was imagining my story—at least that’s what I thought it was at the time—and I saw you. You were the man’s wife who died in the car crash—Gerald’s wife.” Lance watched her face, analyzing how she absorbed the fact he had been keeping from her.

She turned toward the window, and stared at the passing trees. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s not what you think,” she finally said.

“No?”