Momsaid, quietly, “He didn’t see the other car?”
“Hesaw the other car. We were just easier to catch.”
“Hedidn’t sound like he saw the other car.”
“Isaw the car and the old man,” said Isabel. “And I don’t think he had anyeyes. I think he was—”
“OldCharlie,” Mom said with her.
“Look,”said Dad. “You heard Deputy Champion—”
“Campton,”corrected Mom.
“—Campton,fine, whatever. You heard him. He says there’s no such thing as ghosts, and he’sout here all the time. If there were anything to see, he’d have seen it,don’t you think?”
“Iguess,” said Isabel.
“Itwas just an old man who probably speeds through here all the time, so he knowsthe road.” He turned to Mom. “And if he is through here all the time,then Deputy Kramden—”
“Campton.”
“—probablyrecognized the car and would rather give some strangers a ticket than run downone of his good ol’ boys. Hell, he could have been Campton’s father for all weknow.”
Momnodded, but Isabel didn’t think she looked convinced. Dad pulled the Camry backon the road and they drove away from Deputy Campton’s cruiser. Isabel didn’tsay anything for the ten minutes it took to round the bend and find Gallwayahead, electric lights glowing in the dark, but Isabel stared out the rearwindow, watching for headlights; she saw only the night the entire time.
* * *
“Shouldn’twe just go straight to the hotel?” said Mom.
“It’sbeen a weird night,” answered Dad. “And there are people here, and I thinkwe’re all hungry.” The car slid into an open parking spot near the door of thediner, and Dad ratcheted the gearshift into park. “I just want a little dose ofnormal before we turn in. Sound like a plan?”
“Iwant a chicken basket,” said Isabel.
“Okay,then,” said Mom, levering her door open.
Inside,the half-full diner was brightly lit, with lots of chrome accents and leatherbanquets set up in a fifties theme—or maybe the place was really that old, andall this was original. Either way, though, Isabel still wanted her chickenbasket, the smell of the place had her thinking about dessert; she couldn’tidentify it, but there seemed to be cinnamon in the air, and brown sugar, andsomething else just as awesome. There were pies on display beneath the glasscounter by the register, and she suspected one or more of them might be theculprit.
“Three?”said the uniformed waitress, her pink dress and white apron fitting right inwith the decor of the place, though a delicate nose stud and the tribal tattooencircling her upper arm spoke of more modern times. “Would you like a booth,or are you sitting at the counter tonight?”
“Booth,”said Mom, and with a nod the waitress scooped up some menus and headed acrossthe floor. Mom started after her and Isabel followed, eyes still on the piesshe suspected of full-blown wonderfulness.
“Watchwhere you’re going, Isa,” Dad said behind her. Reluctantly, Isabel turned fromthe glass counter, seeking Mom’s back—and recoiled with a gasp, thumpingagainst Dad’s chest. “What is it, hon? Are you okay?”
“It’shim!”
Shecouldn’t look away from the man sitting on one of the counter stools, and ifshe’d had any doubts before, they evaporated when he turned her way andfrowned, watery blue eyes so deep set they were almost hidden even in the brightfluorescent lighting. She pointed. “It’s him! It’s Old Charlie!”
“Ididn’t touch her,” the man said loudly, raising both palms in a hands-offgesture, though they’d been on the counter and nowhere near Isabel. “I don’tknow what she’s on about, but I didn’t touch her.”
“Honey?”Dad took her shoulders and spun her away from the man with the raised hands.“What are you—”
“That’shim,” Isabel insisted. “Old Charlie. I was looking right at him,Dad, and even when he passed us he was looking back at me, and”—she pointedagain—“that’s him!”
“Isthere a problem?” said a new voice. Isabel half-turned to see a pair ofuniformed sheriff's deputies rising from their stools at the far end of thecounter.
“I’llsay there’s a problem,” Mom said from behind them, having left the waitressstanding in confusion by an empty booth. “We just got here, and on the way infrom Eaton someone harassed us and tried to run us off the road. Almost killedus trying to get by.”
Thedeputies had turned to Mom as she spoke, but the old man, hands resting on thecounter again, just stared straight ahead, as if he had no idea he was thetopic of discussion. “Hey, Went?” said the cop closest to him. “I didn’t seeyou come in, but you haven’t gotten through a whole lot of that burger yet. Andyou live up outside of Eaton, don’t you?”
Theold man made no move or reply, just stared even harder. Isabel followed hisgaze to something she hadn’t seen before, a serious break in the theme: agood-sized flat screen high-definition TV behind the counter, right across fromwhere Went sat. The sound was off so as not to disturb the patrons, but theclosed-captioning was on, words flashing across the bottom of a screen showinga football game in progress. The deputy stepped closer, laying a hand on a bonyshoulder. “Hey, Wentworth? I’m talking to you.”
Theold man’s head snapped around. “Huh? Look, I done told you: I don’t know her,didn’t touch her. Dunno what she’s on about, but the game is on. Lemme watch, Igot . . . I’m a fan, all right?”
“Youprobably have money on the game,” said the second cop, looking at his watch.“And kickoff was just five minutes ago. You barely made it.”
“Idon’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Went?”said the first deputy, hand still on the old man’s shoulder. “Did you almostrun these nice people off the road?”
“Well,they were going too slow!” the old man bellowed, even now trying to keepat least one eye on the game. “My TV’s busted, and I was trying to makekickoff. I got—I mean this is worth—look, I’m a fan!”
Thedeputy’s eyes shifted to Dad and Isabel. “Sir, would you like to file acomplaint against this old buzzard here? I’ll gladly take your statement, ifthat’s what you want.”
“Youbet I want,” said Dad. “And I’d like to get the ticket I got cleared up, too!Old Went here was all high beams and honking horn, but your Deputy
