'The country-western star?'
A plastic turkey was hurled across the room. 'And to think I bothered to come back to warn the chick.'
'Why does she keep calling me the chick?'
'I guess it's movie star talk,' Tristan said wearily.
'You were a movie star?' Ivy bent down to pick up the thrown turkey. 'So you're pretty,' Ivy said quietly.
'Ask Tristan,' said Lacey.
'Is she?'
Tristan felt trapped. 'I'm not a good judge of those things.'
'Oh, I see,' Ivy and Lacey said at the exact same time, both of them sounding irritated. Ivy paced one way, Lacey the other.
'How did you throw this, Lacey Lovitt?' Ivy asked, squeaking the turkey.
'Can Tristan do it?' Lacey snickered. 'Not with any kind of aim,' she said. 'He's still learning to materialize his fingers, to make himself solid. He's got a lot to learn. Luckily he's got me as a teacher.'
She moved closer to Ivy. Tristan could feel Ivy tingle when she felt Lacey's fingers resting lightly on her skin. Through Ivy's eyes he saw the long purple nails slowly appear on her arm.
'When Tristan slips back out of your mind,' Lacey said, 'he'll look and feel solid to me. But unless he materializes himself, like I just did, he'll be just a glow to you. It takes a lot of energy to materialize.
He's getting stronger, but if he uses up too much energy, he'll fall into the darkness.'
'He'll look and feel solid to you?' Ivy repeated.
'He can hold my hand, see my face,' Lacey said. 'He can-well, you know.'
Tristan could feel Ivy prickling.
'But he hasn't,' Lacey said bluntly. 'He's totally hung up on you.' She picked up a hat and spun it on a fingertip, lifting it above her head. To Ivy she looked like a lavender mist with a mysteriously spinning top hat.
'You know, I could have a lot of fun haunting this place. I could get the old ladies some real publicity come Halloween.'
'Don't even think about it,' Tristan said.
'Forgive me if I forget that you said that,' Lacey told him. 'Anyway, I'm here to give you the skinny.
Gregory's picked up some new drugs.'
'When?' Tristan asked quickly.
'Tonight, just before he got here,' Lacey replied, then said to Ivy, 'Be careful what you eat. Be careful what you drink. Don't make it easy for him.'
Ivy shivered.
'Thanks, Lacey,' Tristan said. 'I owe you-even though you did sneak in and listen to what was none of your business.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
'I'm the one who owes you,' Ivy said.
'That's right,' Lacey snapped, 'and for more than just that! For the last two and a half months I've had to listen to enough heaving and sighing over you to fill three volumes of bad love poetry. And I've got to tell you-' 'Lacey's never been in love,' Tristan interrupted, 'so she doesn't understand-' 'Excuse me? Excuse me?' Lacey challenged him. 'Do you know that for a fact?'
Tristan laughed.
'As I was saying…' Lacey moved closer to Ivy. 'I just don't know what he sees in you.'
Ivy was stung into a moment of silence. At last she replied, 'Well, I know what he sees in you.'
'Oh, please.'
Ivy laughed and picked up a top hat, spinning it on her own fingertip.
'Tristan's always been a sucker for girls with their own way of doing things.'
Tristan lay quietly, listening to Eric's breathing and conserving his own energy, watching the sky outside the bedroom window beginning to lighten.
The numbers on Eric's clock radio glowed: it was 4:46. As soon as Eric showed signs of stirring, Tristan planned to slip inside his mind.
He had checked on Eric Friday night, several hours after his visit to the mall, and Saturday night as well, after Eric came home from a drinking binge. Lacey had repeatedly warned Tristan about time-traveling in a mind confused by alcohol and bent by drugs. But it had been twenty-four hours since Eric's last beer, and Tristan was willing to take a chance to learn just what kind of dirty work Eric had done for Gregory.
He had lucked out when he arrived in Eric's room early Monday, discovering on one of his shelves an old book about trains. Materializing a finger, he had paged through the book, searching for a photo of a train that looked similar to those that ran through Stonehill's station. Now he watched Eric sleep, waiting for his chance to show him that picture and slip in on a shared thought. With a little more luck, he could ride the thought into a memory, the memory of the night Ivy had been drugged and taken to the station.
He waited patiently as the digital clock flashed the passing minutes.
Eric's breathing was becoming shallow, and his legs grew restless-now was the time. Tristan nudged him awake. Eric saw the book on his pillow and pulled his head up sleepily, squinting at the picture.
Train, thought Tristan. Whistling. Slow down. Looks like an accident.
Wasn't an accident. Gregory. Blew it. Chick, chick, chick, who wants to play chick, chick, chick?
Tristan ran through as many thoughts as he could that were related to the picture. He didn't know which thought was his ticket in, but he suddenly saw the photograph through Eric's half-closed eyes. Eric seemed just alert enough to take a suggestion. Tristan pictured as clearly as he could a baseball cap and school jacket, the ones that Gregory had worn that night, the ones that he had insisted Eric find.
Tristan felt Eric tense. For a moment he felt suspended in timeless darkness, then he pitched forward with him, his fist glancing off something hard. He was swiftly thrown backward, making him lose his balance, then was pushed forward once more.
Every muscle strained-Eric was fighting with someone. A sharp punch to his stomach made him lurch. Eric twisted his head around-Tristan twisted his- and saw his opponent: Gregory.
Tristan saw the road, too, as he spun with Eric one way, then the other, beneath Gregory's blows. He thought he was about thirty yards from the entrance to the train station. As he struggled with Gregory his feet kept slipping on small stones at the side of the road. Something sharp bit into his hand. Tristan realized suddenly that Eric was clinging to a set of keys.
'You dumb-ss.' Tristan felt Eric's words slur in his mouth. 'You can't drive my machine. You'll crash us and you'll kill us both. It'll be you, me, and Tristan forever, you, me, and Tristan forever, you, me, and Tristan-' 'Shut up. Give them to me,' Gregory said, ripping the keys out of his hand, leaving his palm raw and bloody. 'You can't even hold your head up.'
Tristan suddenly felt as if he were going to be sick. Trapped inside the body of Eric, he leaned on the Harley, holding his stomach and breathing hard. Gregory fumbled with something on the back of the bike.
He was trying to tie something to it-the jacket and cap.
'We've got to get out of here,' Gregory said to him.
They struggled to climb onto the motorcycle. His leg felt unbearably heavy as he lifted it over the seat.
Gregory shoved him toward the back of the machine, then climbed on the front.
'Hang on.' He did. When Gregory hit the accelerator, Tristan felt his head snap back. His upper jaw crunched down on his lower, and his eyes felt as small and hard as marbles rolling inside his head. In mat brief moment he saw a blur behind him. He turned just as the clothes tumbled off the bike, but he didn't say anything.
They rode toward town, men up the long hill to Gregory's house. Gregory got off and rushed inside. Now me motorcycle was in Eric's hands-Tristan's hands, though he had no control. He raced down the hill again, driving crazily. Suddenly the road snaked out from under the wheels, and Eric was on another path.
Were they in another memory? Had they somehow linked up with another part of the past? The road, with its sharp twists and turns, seemed familiar to Tristan. The Harley skidded to a stop, and Tristan felt ill all over again: they were at the spot where he had died.
