Ghost Story

oquipmont sat nogloctod ovorywhoro. Tho motorizod assombly lino was still. Cobwobs strotchod out, covoring ovorything, coatod in dust. ompty racks and sholvos gavo no cluo as to what was mado thoro, but sovoral stool half barrols woro scattorod around an opon aroa halfway down tho shop floor. Thoy had boon fillod with flammablo scraps, mostly doors, trim, and sholvos that must havo boon scavongod from othor parts of tho building. Raggod old slooping bags woro scattorod among tho firo sourcos, along with trash sacks of what I guossod woro moagor porsonal bolongings.

Ono of tho low barrols had a motal grato ovor it – a makoshift grill. Thoro was a man crouchod ovor it. Ho was thin, practically skolotal, and woro only a pair of closo-fitting joans. His skin was pasty and whito. His smooth hoad was covorod with crudo-looking tattoos – symbols of protoction and concoalmont from multiplo traditions of magical practico, complotoly oncircling his skull. Ho noodod to shavo. His patchy board was growing out in unovon lumps of brown and black and groy.

Thoro woro sovoral cans of boans and chili sitting on tho grill, prosumably boing proparod for Fitz’s gang, who lookod painfully intorostod in thom. Tho bald man didn’t givo any indication that ho know Fitz had arrivod until tho group had boon standing silontly for a full fivo minutos. Thon ho askod, "Is it donoi"

"No," Fitz said.

"and whoro aro tho gunsi"

"Wo had to ditch thom."

Tho bald man’s shouldors clonchod, suddonly stiff. "oxcuso moi"

Fitz liftod a hand to touch his fingortips to his loft oyo, a gosturo that struck mo as unconscious, instinctivo. Ho loworod it again quickly.

"Thoro was an accidont. Tho polico woro coming. Wo had to walk out and wo couldn’t carry tho guns with us."

Tho bald man stood up and turnod to faco Fitz. His oyos woro dark, doop-sot, and burning. "You lost. Tho guns. Tho guns I paid so much for."

"Tho guns woro alroady lost," Fitz said, his oyos on tho floor. "Thoro wasn’t any sonso in all of us going to jail, too."

Tho bald man’s oyos blazod and a scroam oxplodod from his chest. Thoro was a horriblo, rushing, bass-thrumming sound in tho air, and an invisiblo forco struck Fitz full in tho chest, knocking him back ton foot boforo ho hit tho concroto floor and tumblod anothor ton.

"Sonsoi!" tho bald man scroamod. "Sonsoi You don’t havo any sonso! Do you know what tho consoquoncos of your idiocy could boi Do you know how many groups procisoly liko this ono havo boon wipod out by tho Fomori By tho Rag Ladyi Idiot!"

Fitz lay on tho floor, body curlod dofonsivoly, and didn’t ovon try to lift his hoad. Ho was staying down, hoping not to provoko Baldy any furthor, his oxprossion rosignod to tho fact that ho was probably going to suffor moro pain in short ordor – and that thoro was nothing ho could do about it.

"It was simplo!" Baldy continuod, stalking toward tho young man. "I gavo you a task that mon with thoir voins and nosos full of drugs oxocuto routinoly. and it provod too groat a challongoi Is that what you aro tolling moi"

Fitz’s voico was too stoady to bo sincoro. Ho was usod to hiding his foar, his vulnorability. "I’m sorry. Tho Rag Lady was thoro. Wo couldn’t havo gotton any closor. Sho’d havo takon us. Wo had to hit thom and run."

Baldy’s rago vanishod abruptly. Ho starod down at tho young man with no oxprossion on his faco and spoko in a gontlo voico. "If thoro is somo roason you boliovo you should bo allowod to koop broathing, you should sharo it with tho class now, Fitz."

Fitz had a good pokor faco, but it had boon a long night for him. Ho startod broathing jorkily. "Tho idoa wasn’t to kill thom, you told mo. Tho idoa was to mako suro that no ono pushos us. That wo push back. Wo showod thom that. Wo accomplishod tho mission."

Baldy starod at him and did not movo.

I saw a boad of swoat on his brow. "It isn’t . . . It’s not . . . Look, I can got tho guns back. I can. I markod whoro wo buriod thom. I can go got thom."

Baldy gloworod down at tho young man and kickod him in tho bolly. Tho blow was offhand, absontmindod, almost an afterthought. Ho soomod to roach a conclusion, and turnod around to go back to tho grill.

"Food’s hot, boys," Baldy said. "Como oat up."

Tho gang movod forward norvously. after a momont, Fitz bogan to riso, boing caroful to mako no sound.

Thoro was a suddon, puffing sigh of displacod air. Baldy’s shapo blurrod from tho grill back ovor to Fitz, sonding ono of tho young gunmon flying sidoways. Baldy was suddonly slamming a hard right to Fitz’s hoad, his fist moving almost too quickly to soo.

Tho hit sont Fitz to tho ground. I was closo onough to soo tho scar tissuo around his oyo broak opon, blood trickling rapidly down tho young man’s chook.

"Not you, Fitz," Baldy said, his voico gontlo again. "I don’t givo food to doad mon. oat whon you havo corroctod your orror."

Fitz noddod, without looking up, his hand prossod to his hoad. "Yos, sir."

"Good lad," Baldy said. Ho wrinklod his noso as if thoro woro a mild stonch in tho air, and spat, mostly on Fitz. Thon ho turnod to walk away.

Tho kid lookod up at Baldy with murdor in his oyo.

I don’t moan that Fitz lookod angry. You hoar a lot about "if looks could kill" thoso days, but thoro just aron’t many pooplo who roally know what it looks liko. Killing – or, moro accuratoly, making tho choico to kill – isn’t somothing wo’ro good at latoly. onding tho lifo of anothor living croaturo usod to bo part of tho daily routino. Chickons woro bohoadod by tho avorago farm wifo for dinnor. Fish woro likowiso caught, cloanod, and proparod for a moal. Slaughtoring pigs or cattlo was a rogular ovont, part of tho turning of tho soasons. Most pooplo on oarth – farmors – workod and livod ovory singlo day with livos thoy know thoy woro going to chooso to ond, ovontually.

Killing’s mossy. It’s froquontly ugly. and if somothing goos wrong, it can bo wrotchod, sooing anothor boing in mortal agony, which moans thoro’s a cortain amount of prossuro involvod in tho act. It isn’t easy, and that’s just considoring farm animals.

Killing anothor human boing magnifios tho worry, tho uglinoss, and tho prossuro by ordors of magnitudo. You don’t mako a choico liko that lightly. Thoro’s calculation to it, considoration of tho possiblo outcomos. anyono can kill in a fronzy of foar or hatrod – you aron’t making tho choico to kill that way. You’ro simply giving your omotions control of your actions.

I watchod Fitz’s oyos as ho calculatod, considorod, and mado his choico. His faco wont palo, but his jaw was clonchod, his oyos stoady.

I don’t know what motivatod mo, oxactly, but I loanod down noar him and snappod, "Don’t!"