Page 41 of Dream Lake

“Here,” Sam said in annoyance, giving him the drill bit.

For the next couple of minutes, Alex drilled pilot holes in the brick and vacuumed the dust out of them. Sam held the light fixture in place as Alex connected the wiring, inserted sleeve anchors into the carriage lantern, and tapped them into the pilot holes. He tightened it with a few deft twists of a wrench.

“Looks good,” Sam said. “Let me try the other one.”

Alex nodded and picked up the second lantern to hold it against the brick.

“There’s something I wanted to mention,” Sam said casually. “Mark and Maggie set the wedding date for mid-August. And Mark just asked me to be the best man. Hope that’s okay with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, he could only ask one of us. And I guess since I’m the next oldest—”

“You thinkImight have wanted to be the best man?” Alex interrupted with a brief, sardonic laugh. “You and Mark have been raising Holly together. Of course you should be the best man. It’ll be a miracle if I show up at all.”

“You have to,” Sam said in concern. “For Mark’s sake.”

“I know. But I hate weddings.”

“Because of Darcy?”

“Because a wedding is a ceremony where a symbolic virgin surrounded by women in ugly dresses marries a hungover groom accompanied by friends he hasn’t seen in years but made them show up anyway. After that, there’s a reception where the guests are held hostage for two hours with nothing to eat except lukewarm chicken winglets or those weird coated almonds, and the DJ tries to brainwash everyone into doing the electric slide and the Macarena, which some drunk idiots always go for. The only good part about a wedding is the free booze.”

“Can you say that again?” Sam asked. “Because I might want to write it down and use it as part of my speech.”

The ghost, who was in the corner of the room, sat with his head resting on his bent knees.

Finishing the wiring for the second sconce, Sam attached it to the brick, tightened the anchor sleeves, and stood back to view his handiwork. “Thanks, Al. You want some lunch? I’ve got some sandwich stuff in the fridge.”

Alex shook his head. “I’m going up to the attic, doing a little more clearing out.”

“Oh, that reminds me… Holly loves that old typewriter you found. I gave it a couple of shots of WD-40 and reinked the ribbon with a stamp pad. She’s been having a blast with it.”

“Great,” Alex said indifferently.

“Yeah, but here’s the interesting thing. Holly noticed the liner of the tweed case was loose, and there was a little corner of something sticking out. So she pulls it out, and it’s a weird piece of cloth with a flag and some Chinese characters on it. And there’s a letter, too.”

The ghost lifted his head.

“Where is it?” Alex asked. “Can I take a look?”

Sam nodded toward the sofa. “It’s in the side table drawer.”

While Sam put away the tools and vacuumed the remaining dust, Alex went to the table. The ghost was at his side instantly. “Personal space,” Alex warned under his breath, but the ghost didn’t budge.

A feeling of apprehension crawled down the back of Alex’s neck as he opened the drawer and picked up a piece of thin silky fabric, yellowed with age, about eight by ten inches. It was stained in places, the corners dark. A Chinese Nationalist flag dominated the top. Six columns of Chinese characters had been printed under the flag.

“What is it?” Alex wondered aloud, his voice drowned out by the vacuum.

Even so, the ghost heard him, and his reply was soft but audible. “It’s a blood chit.” The term was unfamiliar to Alex. Before he could ask what it meant, the ghost added quietly, “It’s mine.”

The ghost was remembering something, emotions emanating like smoke, and Alex couldn’t help but catch the edge of them.

The world was smoke and fire and panic. He was falling faster than gravity, ricocheting through blue and cirrus-white, the metal skin of his aircraft twisting like a licorice whip as the forces of heaven and hell wrenched at it. His knees pulled up and his elbows cinched into a fetal position, the last thing every fighter pilot did before dying. It wasn’t training, it was the body’s primal recognition that it was about to go through more pain and damage than it could endure.

His heart beat out the syllables of a woman’s name, over and over.

Alex shook his head to clear it, and looked at the ghost.

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