EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the eighth chapter of an 18-part story that The Augusta Chronicle will publish in Your Life on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
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STORY SO FAR: While on a visit to a neighboring farm, Ben wonders about the mysterious Joe Pastore. He can't be the same person he met in the fog - because Joe Pastore is dead. At the same time, Ben is falling in love.
Most of the household spent the afternoon at the track again. And once again, dinner was a noisy affair among guests and friends. Ben sat at one corner of the long table, hoping Rachel would speak to him and knowing that he was a mutt for thinking she could ever see him as anything but a kid. As the conversation veered onto polo, Ben pushed his chair back and slipped through the screen door.
The chatter of voices faded as he scuffed across the grass. He walked aimlessly, hands shoved deep in his pockets and his gaze on the ground until his path was blocked by a fence. From the barn, just a few yards to his left, Ben heard a horse's hoof thump against wood. Unable to resist, he looked back toward the house. Sure enough, one of the brightly lit kitchen windows framed Rachel's head and shoulders like a portrait.
"Pretty, huh?"
The hair on the back of Ben's arms stood up. To his left stood the kid from the fog.
"The sunset. Pretty, isn't it?" He nodded toward the west.
Ben tried for the same casual tone. "So, you must
be related to that guy who killed himself. Joe Pastore?"
The boy narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you heard about that?"
The warmth of the day was seeping away, and Ben felt a chill creep over him. He was suddenly frightened, and now the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, too. "Yeah," he said. "So I guess you're a relative ... Because you can't be him."
"If you say so."
"What's your name, anyway?" Ben asked, raising his chin.
"Joe."
"Joe what?"
"Pastore. Joe Pastore."
Ben ignored the uncomfortable jolt behind his ribs. "Yeah, sure."
"Yeah."
"Funny guy," Ben said.
The guy - Joe - grinned, and something behind his gaze seemed to flare like flames and then subside.
Standing so near him, Ben felt an even deeper chill in his bones, and he thought he caught a whiff of smoke, like cold ashes. He wanted to say, 'Okay, so you're a ghost,' but his throat closed up and he could not make himself speak. If this was a joke, it wasn't funny. He followed Joe's gaze to the barn, thinking, It was the barn that caught on fire. Joe Pastore died in there.
"It's a bum deal for guys like us," Joe mused.
Ben tried to repress a shiver. "What do you mean, guys like us?"
"Well, we ain't the Brennans of this world, living large."
Ben thought of the big house with bare floors and dark patches against the wallpaper where paintings used to hang, echoing rooms nearly bare of furniture ... He shook his head. "I don't think they're rich, if that's what you mean - "
"Yeah, sure," Joe interrupted. "They pull this humble routine like they're just plain folks, but this place is actually full of stuff you'll never have in a million years."
In spite of himself, Ben glanced at the house again, and his heart squeezed at the sight of Rachel. Even as he watched, she tipped her head back and laughed. It was like watching TV with the sound off - she was an untouchable star behind glass.
"Yeah, they're the purebloods and we're the mutts," Joe went on, his cold, harsh voice twisting like a knife in Ben's heart. "They like to keep a few around to show how nice they are, but it's an act."
Ben tried to think back to Brennan at dinner, asking him if he wanted to go out for ice cream later on. He shook his head; his mind wasn't working properly. Dizzy ... sick to his stomach. He dug his fingernails into the top rail of the fence as he held himself upright. He wasn't arguing with a ghost. He couldn't be.
"It's not an act," he quavered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "They're nice people."
"So long as you behave," Joe scoffed. "First time you mess up, you're out of here, believe me. Believe me," he said again, but this time his lips didn't move: Ben was looking right at him, but the guy's lips didn't move. Ben simply heard the words hissing in his brain.
To his shame, Ben felt his knees tremble. He started backing away.
"I don't believe you."
"Don't trust him, that's my advice," Joe called after him. And then he snickered, a sound like flames crackling.
Ben stumbled away, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Joe, but the laugh followed him through the gathering dark.
As Ben stepped off the grass and onto the drive, he kicked something small and hard, and a silvery glint caught his eye. He bent down and picked up a cheap disposable lighter. Hands shaking, he fumbled his thumb down over the striker.
The flame flicked on, and he let it go out. Nervously, Ben flicked the lighter on and off a couple of times, like the fireflies that were beginning to blink in the shadows.
Then he shoved it in his pocket and kept on walking, determined never to talk to that guy again. Especially if he was a ghost.
(To be continued)
TEXT COPYRIGHT 2003 JENNIFER ARMSTRONG; ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT 2003 C.B. MORDAN
REPRINTED BY PERMISSION OF BREAKFAST SERIALS INC.
Previous Chapters of 'The Winner's Circle'
• Chapter 1: Welcome to the Wind Rider Farms
• Chapter 2: Hoofbeats in the Fog
• Chapter 3: The Lashing Whip
• Chapter 4: Meeting Rachel
• Chapter 5: A Horse Race Isn't a Horse Race ...
• Chapter 6: The Face on the Wall
• Chapter 7: Fearless, generous, and kind
• Chapter 8: A Ghostly Warning
• Chapter 9: An Accusation
• Chapter 10: Haunted by Doubts
• Chapter 11: Evening Up the Score
• Chapter 12: A Meeting at the Track
• Chapter 13: Race-Day Revenge
• Chapter 14: And They're Off!!
• Chapter 15: The Broken Circle
• Chapter 16: Fire!
• Chapter 17: Death of a firebug
• Chapter 18: Final chapter
