The Ghost of Danny McGee, page 13
“Hmm?” Sam tears herself from her thoughts.
“That girl. Sadie’s kid. And Taps’s kid. The whole idea of it. Like, those people have all the money in the world, right? And what they want to do with it is go back to puberty. Make themselves have crushes on each other. Like, that’s the most romantic thing they could think of.”
Sam considers for a moment, rubbing the cold from her hands. “There is something romantic about it,” she says slowly. “Being twelve. Having a crush. Remember? Everything’s so new and embarrassing. It’s all right on the surface.” She mimes swelling emotions at the base of her throat. “I guess they thought they could get that back. Maybe, when you’re in your forties, it would feel good to have that back.”
They have stopped walking on the trail. Elias cocks his head at her. His hair is silvery in the moonlight, his eyes drifting. “Would you do it?”
It isn’t a question she has considered much. The prospect feels too impossible; they are too close to it all. “No. I don’t think so.” Sam studies her hands. Scratched and peeling, the nails dirty and broken. “But I didn’t think I’d come back to work here this summer, either.”
He nods, glancing off through the trees, toward the rippling glow on the lake. A gust runs through the branches and makes them shiver. “It’s small here,” he says. “It’s safe.”
After a pause, he looks back at her and smiles. He cups her hands in both of his own and blows a hot puff of breath over them, warming them. The gesture is so absurdly intimate that they both snort and giggle. Elias peers at her over his knuckles.
The two of them shared a few messy, drunken moments last summer. There was some flirting, some fumbling in the back of parked cars. It was easy. They are young and attractive, and their world is small, and it would be just as easy to fall back into that same comfort now, if it weren’t for his brother. Sam smiles and takes her hands back. The moment passes, and they continue along the trail, quiet again.
The next day is muggy and overcast, the sky a flat, distant gray. In the morning, the air feels heavy, sluggish. Even the Hummingbirds are hushed through breakfast.
Campbell sends Nick and his shadow out to place an order of frozen food at the Smith’s Ridge market. They take the old Camp pickup and stop at Lobster Point on the way back, where Nick turns the truck down a dirt trail through the brush. They jerk and rattle downhill to the foot of the dam, a flat, muddy shore. Here, the rush of water falling over the spillway muffles the sounds of Camp, the laughter and splashes carried across the lake. Sam steps out of the truck and wanders to the water’s edge. She lights a cigarette.
The little shack at the head of the pool is not as decrepit as it looks from above. It has an industrial-looking steel door, padlocked. Hefty concrete channels direct the flow of the stream through the base of the building; Sam can hear the shush and splatter of it echoing through the foundation. She wonders what happens, or happened, in a fish hatchery, what it looks like on the inside.
“How ’bout it, freckles?” Nick calls behind her back.
Sam laughs. That afternoon at Sardine Flat has become their secret, a dark, private joke. It was a sort of tipping point, she knows now—it’s easy to let one secret bleed into another. She walks back across the mud and sits on the tailgate beside him, and they share the rest of the cigarette.
Nick is a clumsy kisser. The stubble on his jaw leaves blotchy red rashes on her face and throat. In the back of the pickup, they knock knees and bump heads and laugh childishly at each other. Sam likes the way he looks at her when he props himself up on his elbows. She likes the silliness of it, the ashy breath and smiles. She tugs his T-shirt over his head and the lanyard around his neck comes off with it. The keyring falls to the truck bed with a clatter.
“Do you . . . ?” His eyes trail over her. The end of his question wanders off. He has a hand under her shirt, his belt buckle undone. A blanket of dead pine needles prickles against Sam’s back.
Sam shrugs. They could—there is something crass and intriguing about the idea of it, here in the dirty truck bed under broad, sober daylight. Then again, she thinks, sex has a nasty way of changing everything, nudging the scales from silly to serious. She isn’t sure she wants this to become real. As she leans in to kiss him again, a staticky buzz from the cab of the truck makes them both flinch.
Nicky. Campbell’s voice leaps out at them. Nick, you there?
They hold their breath, waiting. A few seconds pass in silence before he turns his attention back to her.
The radio buzzes again. Nick, pick up.
“Christ.” He huffs as he shoves himself upright. On his knees, he slides open the rear window of the cab and reaches through to find the radio. Sam sits up, hastily tugging her shirt back into place. The truck groans with their movement.
Nick locates the radio and drags it back through the window. “What’s up, boss?” He has his back to her. Between bony shoulder blades, Sam notices a long, jagged white scar.
The radio crackles. Where are you? You need to get back here.
“We’re on our way.”
Is Sam still with you?
Nick’s brow furrows. He looks at her anxiously, and Sam frowns back.
“Yeah. She’s right here. We’re just coming over the bridge.” He shrugs. “What’s going on?”
Hurry up, come straight back to the office. Campbell’s voice through the static is biting, urgent. Both of you.
“All right. Be there in five.”
For a second or two, they look at each other. Nick sniffs and wipes at his nose. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, moving to buckle his belt.
“Are we going back?”
He freezes, belt extended in one hand, and blinks at her. “What—Do you want to . . . ?”
“No.” Sam clears her throat. “We, uh, we should get going.”
She watches him carefully scoop up his keys and hang them over his neck. The little black tube on the keyring settles into the well of his chest; it rises and falls with his steadying breaths. He catches her looking at it. “Relax. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says again. “I probably just double-scheduled someone, or something. You know how he gets about that.”
The change of pace has her dizzy. Sam ties her hair up. Not sure what else to say, she asks: “Where’d you get that scar on your back?”
His laugh is dry, affected. “I don’t know. Always had it.”
Nick stops the truck again at the top of the trail. They get out and lean against the front bumper to share another cigarette, wordless, gazing out over the water under the gray sky. On the far end of the lake, the ski boat turns circles, buzzing like a wasp. Cheers and whoops ring on the stiff air.
They park beside the barn and hurry up the trail to the office. Heavy voices drone inside—Sam can hear them through the screen door as she follows Nick up the porch steps. She steps into the room behind him, and a sudden, tense silence strikes her like a wall. Richard Byron is here, leaning against the surface of the desk with his arms crossed.
Campbell stands up rapidly. “Where the hell have you two been?” The anger in his face is bizarre, entirely out of character. Scattered around the room, the rest of the assistant directors stare blankly at them.
Nick blinks. He looks like he has been struck motionless. “We stopped for a minute. What . . . ?”
“When I tell you to come, you come,” Campbell spits through gritted teeth. He pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and shakes his head, wincing. Restrained, softer, he gestures at Sam. “Come here, kid.”
She steps toward him, feeling the heat of everyone’s gaze. Her thoughts run wild. She wonders if this is about her—about her and Nick, maybe. Did someone see them at Lobster Point? Or is it her fault the horse died, after all? Campbell reaches out and places his hands on her shoulders. Something horribly sad in his look sinks into her, fills her with dread.
“What’s going on?”
Richard Byron clears his throat. Still under the weight of Campbell’s hands, Sam turns to him. He uncrosses his arms, shifts his stance, and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish we didn’t have to tell you this, Sam, but you need to know.” His eyes meet hers, and he sighs. “Poppy Warbler is dead.”
week six
Sam
He leads her away from the office with a hand on the back of her neck. The clouds overhead are breaking. A broad sunbeam cuts free from the sky and strikes across the surface of the lake, sparkling in the spray of the ski boat. They step down from the porch and follow the trail toward the mess hall.
“Do you understand all that?” Byron asks her. Slow and clear, the way she might talk to her campers.
Sam nods. “So, she’s not really dead.”
“Technically, no.” He sighs. “But, practically . . . Well, she’s gone, Sam. Her heart gave out. Her body just quit. There is no bringing her back.” He pauses and clears his throat. His hand lifts from her neck to wipe a speck of something from his lip, a bit of falling dust or a fleck of spittle. “I think she wasn’t honest with us about the state of her health when she applied to the program. She never should have been cleared for the consciousness transfer at all. Her body couldn’t take it.”
“But her brain is fine.”
“You could put it that way. She is still conscious, and her consciousness is still here, with the camper. For now. We can keep her supported for the time being, but . . . I can’t say how long that’s going to last. She’s comatose, essentially. Everything is gone but that one little sliver of being. And we have no control over that sliver.”
They are starting down the mess hall steps, now, toward the lawn. All around them are shouts and laughter, splashes, the buzz of the boat’s motor. Horses clop in single file along a trail not too far off. They pass the announcement benches and settle onto the picnic table under the bell tower. Byron sits outward, facing the lake, with an arm propped up on the table behind him. He is so much calmer, Sam thinks, than the last time they talked like this—measured, professional.
Sam struggles to find her voice. This is too much to understand. It occurs to her now that if there is a line between science fiction and reality, they have landed on the wrong side of it. The sky sinks down onto her; the air is too thick in her lungs. A staticky hum rings in her ears. “Can’t you just grow her a new heart? I mean, you grew her a whole new body.”
He smiles. “It doesn’t work like that. I am not her healthcare provider. Neither is Phoenix Genetics.”
“But . . .” She examines the grass between her feet. “She’s here, now. She’s fine, right? I mean, she’s at archery right now.”
He looks at her steadily. Watching, patiently waiting for her to finish her thought.
“So, she doesn’t have to die, does she? Just because her other body is gone—”
“Right.” Byron stops her. Again, he smiles. “That’s what I thought you were going to say. That’s where this whole thing gets a little sticky.” His arm on the table is wrapped around her. One hand pats her opposite shoulder. “You have to realize—it’s not her other body. It’s her body. It’s her. The kid here at Camp is just . . . Well, let me put it this way: you know why we always call them ‘campers,’ right?”
Sam shakes her head.
“We always do. Even before Camp, before the consciousness transfer, when they’re just pieces of meat. We refer to them as ‘campers.’ We don’t say that word, that other C-word. You know why?” He pauses, then answers himself. “Because they are not alive. They are not conscious. Cloning human beings is illegal—that’s not what our campers are. They’re just empty bodies. When they’re here, when they’re conscious, they’re still not really conscious. The consciousness still belongs to the client. Now, in this situation, the client is gone, medically speaking, and the camper is still here. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Sam nods. The motion is a strain, her head heavy on her neck.
Byron leans closer to her. His eyes, she realizes, are bloodshot. Self-medicated. “It’s not our job to create an afterlife, Sam.”
Again, Sam nods. The truth of what he is saying, the reality of it all, is lagging, trudging through thick mud to reach her. Poppy. Her camper, whose plump cheeks were still smudged with sunscreen when she last saw her an hour ago. Gone—but not really. Not yet. “So, what? What now? Are you going to kill her?”
A bitter, dark laugh escapes him. “No, sweetheart. No one is killing children here.”
Children. A third C-word, Sam notes.
Byron looks up, searching the cloudy sky. After another heavy sigh, he says, “If Poppy makes it through the next few days, chances are she’ll make it to the end of the summer. I need you to do two things, Sam. I need you to take care of her, watch her. Look out for headaches, nosebleeds, anything unusual. If her condition changes in any way, we may see some physical signs in the camper.” He pauses, then goes on deliberately: “And I need you to make sure this does not leave Camp. If word gets out about this, it won’t look good on us. We’re already taking heat from Hugo Baker being here. You keep an eye on the other counselors, okay? If anyone is thinking about talking, I need you to stamp it out. Fast.”
Sam isn’t sure how she is supposed to stop secrets from leaving Camp—she isn’t sure how secrets would ever leave Camp in the first place. No one has seen their phone in weeks. She agrees, hot and uncomfortable with his arm around her. “What happens at the end of the summer?”
“At the end of the summer, she’ll go back to the facility. Just like the other campers. The consciousness transfer will be withdrawn. After that, it’s up to her family and doctors. Not us. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You know . . .” His voice drifts, suddenly lighter. “A couple summers ago, I built a little cabin out there.” He nods sideways, toward the trees on the other side of the lawn. “Up the hill. There’s this perfect little fishing hole. It’s far enough from Camp that I don’t get in the way, and far enough from Smith’s Ridge that they can’t find me if they need me.” A deep chortle bubbles in his throat, a coughing laugh. “Sometimes, when things get really crazy, I feel like I could go out there and just disappear. You know that feeling?”
“Yeah,” Sam answers honestly.
He blinks, and the faraway gaze drains from his expression. “I don’t, though. I can’t. Because I’m responsible for all this.” A gesturing hand indicates everything he is responsible for, swaying vaguely toward the grass, the lake, the sky. “We have responsibilities we can’t dodge, Sam. You and I both. Especially now.” Byron clears his throat and nods to himself. “I want to set up regular meetings with you, okay? Let’s keep each other in the know on this whole thing. That all right with you?”
Wary, all the more confused, Sam nods.
“That’s a girl. You’re the best counselor we have, you know. Honestly, if Poppy Warbler wasn’t already your camper, I’d have Gus switching around cabin assignments right now so she was. I trust you, understand?”
The way he says the word trust sends a cold sensation down Sam’s spine, as if he has poured a handful of lake water over her head. It makes her think there is more behind that word. Much more. Trust is the door to a room full of dark, ugly secrets, and Richard Byron plans to unlock it, swing it open, guide her inside with a hand on the back of her neck.
He leans toward her. Sam doesn’t think to move away. Byron kisses her on the cheek, lingering just long enough for her to feel the wiry scratch of his beard against her jaw. Her skin prickles—with a nauseous sort of jolt, she recalls laughing, stubbly kisses, hardly a handful of minutes ago. The hum in her ears grows louder. Then he claps her firmly on the shoulder. “Well, I’ve got to finish debriefing with the ADs. You just take your time, okay? Get yourself oriented before the lunch bell rings.”
“Okay.”
As he is leaving, she stops him. “Chard,” she says, and winces—they aren’t supposed to use the nickname to his face.
He laughs. “Yes, Sammy?”
“I just . . . Why drag it out? Why don’t you send her back to the facility now? Not that I want her to go, but . . .”
Byron chews on his lip and pockets his hands—playful, boyish. “She paid for the whole summer,” he says, then turns and carries on toward the mess hall steps.
By dinnertime, everyone knows. The news travels in a hushed, blanketing buzz. Sam hovers over Poppy for the rest of the day, watching her for a change, for some kind of sign. Nothing is different. She is herself, just Poppy, wild hair and scabby knees. She throws a fit over the chicken nuggets at dinner.
Sam manages to avoid talking to anyone about it until after campfire, after she has finished the bedtime story and finally turned out the lights. She leaves the cabin in a hurry, without her flashlight. As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, she is violently sick. She is going to vomit. She dashes off the porch and stumbles over the dark trails to the lawn. Bracing herself against the cool stone of the bell tower, she chokes, gags, but all that comes forward is a loud, dry sob.
Someone followed her. Light footsteps pad quickly closer on the lawn, then a warm set of arms wraps around her. Rosie sinks onto the grass with her, and Sam lets herself be held. The ropes have been cut, the floor has dropped out from under her feet; she is in free fall, grasping at air.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” she gasps.
“Yes, you did,” Rosie tells her. “You did, and so did I. So did she.”
It’s a sobering reminder. Sam runs her hand over the grass beneath her, digs her fingertips into the earth. She could leave. Resign, run away, go back to Paris. She chose to come, and she could choose to leave. It’s only summer camp.
Rosie, as if following her thoughts, whispers, “You’re not going to quit, are you?”
