Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,49

to do—believe Tess was okay. But, of course, with every passing moment, with every empty stretch of ocean, his growing fear was that she wasn’t. He knew all about the middle ground between life and death and how spirits separated from their bodies. He had been there briefly himself, only to be shocked back to life. He had to accept the possibility that Tess’s soul had come to the cemetery to find her father without realizing what had happened to her body. Folks often showed up bewildered by their own heart attacks or aneurysms. Sometimes they didn’t even comprehend that life was over and had to spend a few days figuring things out. Others knew right away what had brought them down, and they screamed at God and the world from the moment they arrived. They were the ones who held on to family and friends as long as they could. And then there were the folks who had it the easiest of all, letting go quickly and moving right on to the next realm.

So where did that leave Tess? Could she be wandering the streets of Marblehead, totally unaware that she was a spirit? Or, worse, maybe she had already taken the next step, and he would never see her again.

Up ahead, Charlie saw the mouth of the harbor. The sky was dark gray, and the lighthouse flashed its familiar green beam. As they passed the Corinthian Yacht Club, Rick Vickery, the dockmaster, was getting ready to strike the colors and fire the sunset salute cannon.

Tink steered toward the wharf and glided in smoothly. Charlie jumped out. As he tied up, he heard the blast of the guns. “I’ve got to run,” he said.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tink asked. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine. Call me later if you hear anything.”

“Will do,” Tink said.

With that, Charlie took off in a sprint. He knew he would be late. Five minutes, maybe even ten. He raced up State Street, cut through an alley, hopped a picket fence, and dashed across Mrs. Dupar’s lawn. A dog in the window barked as he flew past. A delivery van screeched when he cut across Washington.

It was almost dark in Marblehead. Lights glimmered behind curtains. Smoke spiraled from chimneys. And Charlie ran as fast as he could . . .

For Sam. And for life itself.

TWENTY

HE HAD A STITCH IN HIS SIDE AND HIS LUNGS ACHED AS HE made the last turn down West Shore Drive. When his fists closed at last around the heavy wrought-iron bars of the gates, he rested his forehead for a moment against the cool metal. Then he wiggled the key in the lock, tried to turn the latch, and, for the first time ever, it wouldn’t open. He felt a shot of panic, pulled the key out, jammed it back in again, and twisted it with all his strength. He heard the metal click, and he hurried inside. The main gravel path felt good underfoot, and the wind brought the scent of burning leaves.

He found the utility cart beside the Fountain of Youth and he aimed the little vehicle toward the Forest of Shadows. He steered along the bumpy trail and stopped under the low branches of the blue spruce. He was in such a hurry this time that he didn’t even bother to check over his shoulder.

Instead, he reached under the front seat and patted around until he found the glove holding the ball in its firm embrace. Then he leaped over the old rotting log and dashed through the woods, up a little hill to its crest, past a copse of maple trees, then down beside a waterfall and swirling pool. A sliver of gray graced the canopy of the cedar grove as he tore into the clearing with its perfect lawn, ninety feet long and wide. In the twilight, he could just make out that the pitcher’s mound, rubber, and plate were empty.

“Sam!” he yelled. “Sammm?”

The seesaw and swings hanging from the thick arm of the sycamore were empty too.

“Sam?!”

But there was no answer. Charlie could feel the dread begin to rise—first in his stomach, then his chest. His head began to pound. It certainly didn’t help that he was so tired. Fear flooded through him.

He knew he had to stop himself from thinking the absolute worst. So he crossed a few yards of grass and settled onto the slat of wood suspended by ropes. He leaned back, kicked at the hollow of dirt beneath his

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