Page 44 of Dream Lake

If the ghost’s image accurately reflected what he had been in life, he’d had the build for a pilot, lean and supple, with enough developed muscle mass to counteract blackouts from the punishing maneuvers of a dogfight. “Kind of tall to be a pilot back in your time,” Alex said.

“I could fit in a P-40,” the ghost said distantly.

“You flew a warhawk?” Alex asked, fascinated. In his boyhood, he had once built a model of the distinctive shark-toothed World War II plane. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.” The ghost was lost in thought. “I remember being shot at,” he eventually said, “and pulling so much g-force that I’d feel the blood leaving my head and everything would get blurry. But I’d hold it until the guy on my tail either gave up or passed out.”

Alex fished his phone from his pocket and opened the mobile browser.

“Who are you calling?”

“No one. I’m trying to find out if there’s some way to identify a pilot with the serial number on this thing.” After a minute or two of searching, Alex found a page of information. He frowned as he read.

“What is it?” the ghost asked.

“Out of luck. No master list. They were issued in bulk from different U.S. and Chinese sources. Some of them were reissued to new pilots after the first ones died. And since the serial numbers were considered classified information, the lists they did have were probably destroyed.”

“Look up Emmaline Stewart,” the ghost said.

“Not on this phone. The connection’s too slow.” Alex scowled at the tiny glowing LCD screen. “I need a laptop for this.”

“Go to theBellingham Heraldsite,” the ghost insisted. “They’d have to have something about her.”

Alex went to the Web site and worked the phone for a minute. “The online archive only goes back to 2000.”

“You stink at research. Ask Sam. He could find out everything about Emma in about five minutes.”

“People in their eighties,” Alex said, “don’t usually leave an Internet trail. And there’s no way I’m asking Sam—he’d want to know why I’m interested, and I don’t want to explain.”

“But—”

“You’ll see Emma soon enough, when Zoë brings her to the island. And if I were you, I wouldn’t get too excited. She’s an old lady now.”

The ghost snorted. “How old do you think I am, Alex?”

Alex gave him an assessing glance. “Mid to late twenties.”

“After what I’ve been through, age gets pretty damn relative. The body is just a fragile container for a soul.”

“I’m not that enlightened,” Alex informed him. After attaching his phone to the portable speakers, he went to the box of garbage bags and pulled one out.

“What are you doing?” the ghost asked.

“Going through more of this junk.”

“Sam’s computer is downstairs,” the ghost protested. “You could ask to borrow it.”

“Later.”

“Why not now?”

Because Alex had to feel like he had some kind of control over his own damn life. The encounter with Zoë that morning, and reading the old typewritten letter, had unsettled him. He needed a break from free-floating emotion and drama and unanswered questions. The only thing he could think of was to do something practical.

The ghost, reading the volatility of his mood, retreated and fell silent.

As a series of Tony Bennett duets played in the background, Alex went through boxes of tax documents, old magazines, broken dishes, moth-eaten clothes, and toys. The floor was littered with dead insects and dirt. Behind one dilapidated box, Alex found an ancient mousetrap with a dried-up rodent carcass. Grimacing, he used a wad of plastic to pick it up and throw it away.

Opening a box, Alex found a stack of leather-bound account books and ledgers. A plume of dust rose as he pulled out the first book, making him sneeze. Kneeling, he sat back against his heels, thighs slightly splayed for balance. He read a few of the brittle age-darkened entries, all of them neatly written in faded black ink.

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