Ghost Writer

Chapter Four: Understanding

"So what brought you to Tashmore Lake this summer?"

Anna shoved her hands into her pockets, trying to figure out how not to answer the question. Mort hadn't been lying when he said he found a great deli in New London and they had enjoyed a lengthy lunch filled with small talk. But now that they had discovered their similar likes in music, books and movies, it was apparently time for the tough questions.

"What brought you to Tashmore Lake?" she countered, even though she was certain of his answer.

"I'll tell the truth if you do."

Anna nodded in agreement.

"I got a divorce and gave up my house to my cheating ex-wife."

Anna swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. "I had a nervous breakdown."

Surprisingly, all he did was nod his head, a sympathetic look on his face. "I almost reached that point. I was really depressed - slept all the time."

"My mind shut down on me. I was working a case of arson in an apartment building where a lot of children were killed. It was like all the ghosts converged on me and I closed up. For four days I sat in a corner and didn't eat, sleep or talk."

"What made you come out of it?"

"I don't know." Anna thought back to the day when she emerged from the stupor. "They just all left. There were no more voices or ghosts. It was just…"

"Quiet."

Anna felt her eyes well up and the cobblestone street of New London disappeared from her view. She hadn't found a single person since her breakdown that had treated her with understanding. Even her sister approached her as if she were waiting for some sign that the mental break was unfixable. Everyone treated her with pleasant words but the concern and apprehension were always on their faces. Everyone, that was, except Mort.

"Hey," he had reached out and touched her elbow without her even realizing he had moved closer to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Anna hastily wiped away the tears. "You didn't upset me. Quite the opposite really."

"Ah," he nodded in understanding. "I'm guessing then you haven't found a lot of support from your friends and family?"

"They try, I know that, but the way they keep acting around me it's like I've been permanently broken and no one can fix me." Anna shrugged and laughed slightly. "And I don't even feel broken."

"Some people can't forget things even when it's in your best interest if they do."

"Tell you what, Mort, the next time I hear someone talking about what happened to your missing wife, I'll give them a swift kick to the shin. And you forget that I told you about my nervous breakdown."

"That sounds like a really good deal, although a sharp 'mind your own business' might work better than a kick to the shins."

Anna grinned back at Mort and shook his outstretched hand. "Deal." She was surprised but quite content that after the handshake Mort laced his fingers with hers and kept her hand in his the rest of the walk to his Jeep.

Mort was trying to come up with an excuse, any excuse, to keep Anna at the cabin. They had spent most of the day together and night was starting to fall. He knew that she had to leave soon if she was going to make it back to her sister's house before it became too dark to ride a bike. However, he did have a Jeep Cherokee that the bike could fit inside if it did get too dark.

"I had a really nice time today, Mort."

"Me too." He had to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting with them. He hadn't had this kind of companionship for a quite a while. Someone who understood what it was like to stand on that fine edge of sanity. There was no judging between them, just simple acceptance.

Anna was playing with the handlebar brakes and staring at the gravel under her sneakers. "My, uh, sister and brother-in-law are having a cookout this Saturday, if you want to, uh, to come."

"What's your sister's opinion of me?"

Anna smiled mischievously. "If she says anything I'll tell her to mind her own business. Besides, I invited you. I…I want you there."

Mort really tried to stay away from the people of Tashmore but his drive to see Anna again was greater than his need to be antisocial. "What time would you like me to be there?"

Anna's facial muscles twitched as she tried to hide the wide grin that was trying to break out. "Any time after three would be fine."

"Do I need to bring anything?"

"No," Anna shook her head, "Just you."

"I can do that."

The grin she was trying so hard to hide finally managed to break free. "Great. I'll see you on Saturday then."

"Yup." Mort waved to her as she climbed onto her bike and headed down his driveway. He stood outside for a few minutes and watched till she was out of sight and still continued to stand there. He didn't want to go inside just yet. The cabin felt too empty. He felt too empty. Laughing at himself for indulging in high school-type feelings for Anna, he turned and opened the screen door of the porch. That was when he heard the squeal of tires and the crunch of metal.

Without thinking, he ran into the cabin and dialed 911 to report a possible car accident and gave his address. He knew his cell phone, or anyone else's for that matter, wouldn't get reception all the way out here. After the call was made, Mort jumped in his Jeep and sped down his driveway, cursing himself for letting Anna ride her bike home. He should have offered to take her home.

He could see flares in the growing darkness and parked at the end of his driveway before getting out of the car. He searched the darkness for a second car, praying there was a second car that was involved but all he saw was the mangled silver mountain bike under the carriage of a four door sedan. The driver was wailing something Mort couldn't understand or just didn't want to understand. He also didn't want to get too close to the prone form lying on the side of the road but his feet took him there anyway.

The heavy beat of his own heart blocked out the sound of the hysterical driver and the sirens in the distance. All he could focus on was the pale face of Anna. She looked like she was peacefully asleep, except for the gash down the side of her face. The clothes on the right side of her body were torn, shredded on her arm and leg. Mort struggled to breathe but couldn't even remember how.

"This is your fault."

"What?" Mort looked up to see who had said that. The driver was flagging down the ambulance. Then Mort saw him. He was crouched over Anna, peering up at Mort from underneath that black felt hat.

"No, not you again."

"Yes, Mr. Rainey," John Shooter stood up to his full height and leveled Mort with a stone cold glare. "It's me again. And this," he pointed down at Anna's still body, "is your fault."