The Ghost Runner (13 page)

O
ver the past couple of days, I've nearly forgotten about the land. My life has been all about catching up—or trying to. I showed up at rehearsal unprepared, which is a big no-no in the theater world, since it affects everyone involved, not to mention the production as a whole. I'm way behind in my reading for school, and I'm watching my bank account dwindle because Kendra has taken over most of my hours at the store. I haven't heard from my dad, and I'm relieved that he's in charge now—I can barely keep up with everything else, let alone the idea of paying all those taxes with only a few dollars in my bank account.

Right now, I'm at Lithia Runners, trying to study for a test in Professor Lindquist's class this afternoon—but it's a busy day, and at least a dozen people have come in for new shoes. Naturally, they have to try on every pair in the store before making up their minds, and they keep me running back and forth for more colors, sizes, brands.

David is off today, and Kendra is managing the register. I feel a tap on my shoulder a few moments after I've sighed (maybe a bit too loudly, I admit) at a customer who couldn't decide between the blue or the off-blue for her running shoes.

“Is everything okay with you?” Kendra asks.

“Of course,” I say. “Is everything okay with
you?
”

“I'm not the one being impatient with customers,” she points out. “Maybe you'd like to catch up in the back.”

“I don't think that's necessary. Besides, you need me out here today. It's busy.”

“I don't need you alienating our customers.”

I look at her. “Since when did David make you the boss? Apparently I didn't get the memo.”

She shakes her head at me, as if I'm being a stubborn child—which I suppose I am—and so I walk away from her. I take a deep breath as I pick up the shoe boxes from the last customer's shopping spree. Before I have a chance to calm myself, I feel another tap on my shoulder, and I snap, “What is it now?”

“Kat.”

I'd know Alex's voice anywhere.

I look up. “Sorry, Alex. Bad day. I thought you were someone else.”

“What's the matter?” he asks.

“Just busy,” I say. “Test in an hour, don't know my lines for the play, running out of money, you name it.”

“How's your dad doing?” he asks.

I give him the same withering stare I gave Kendra a few minutes ago. “You came all the way over here to ask me that?”

Alex gets that strange look in his face again, and my stomach clenches at the thought of another argument. Not now. Not right before my test, and especially not in front of Kendra.

“I know the last thing you want is me asking about your dad—”

“You're right,” I say. “And I'm in a hurry, so can we talk about this later?”

“Wait,” he says. “I have to say this.” He pauses.

“Well, what is it?”

“I saw your dad and Ed Jacobs at a steakhouse together the other night.”

“So? He works for Ed Jacobs, remember? Jacobs is a rich guy—maybe he takes his employees out to dinner from time to time.”

“But it looked like they were close friends, not employer and employee.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don't know. All I do know is that Ed is never up to any good.”

“Maybe you should put your energy back into protesting Ed instead of obsessing over my father.”

“Kat, please. I can't just close my eyes.”

“What do you want me to do about it, anyway? Tell my father he can't eat dinner with Ed Jacobs?”

“I'd just like to know what's going on. I thought you might be able to help. You're involved now, like it or not, because of the land.”

“For your information, I don't own the land anymore. I've turned it over to the Lithia Land Preserve.”

“The what?”

“Lithia Land Preserve. The organization that preserves all the land around here.”

He's staring at me. “Kat, there is no such thing as the Lithia Land Preserve.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It doesn't exist. I should know. I've been trying to start something like that for years.”

I feel my knees buckle under me.

“Kat,” he says, moving quickly to my side. “Are you okay? What's the matter?”

“Ed Jacobs,” I say. “What does he look like?”

“He's bald, heavyset. Wait.” Alex grabs a newspaper from his courier bag and opens it up. “See for yourself.”

On page three of the paper, in an article about Highland Hills, is a photo of the man I met the other day. Not Don from Lithia Land Preserve. The man I met in the Lithia Café is none other than Ed Jacobs.

“Oh, no. No.”

I drop the paper, rush out of the store, and start to run. I hear Alex calling after me, but I don't stop.

~

I run all the way to Highland Hills and burst through the metal gate into the fenced construction site. Men with hard hats and yellow vests watch me, probably too stunned to come over to boot me off the property. Or maybe they already know who I am.

Where is he? I begin to jog around the shells of half-built homes, searching. All around me are wooden skeletons, men with hammers paused in midair, concrete foundations.

I don't see him anywhere.

Two men in hard hats are walking purposefully toward me, so I head back toward the gate. That's when I see him.

My father.

He's standing near the gate, dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, not jeans and a work shirt like everyone else.

He's an executive now. He's just scored the biggest land deal in Lithia County history—and it didn't cost him a penny.

I walk up to him, my breathing short from the run and the anger I can barely hold in. “You lied to me.” I use both hands to shove him in the chest, but he doesn't budge.

I'm no match for him. I suppose I never have been.

It's a horrible thought, but I'm wishing that bullet had found its mark back in Texas after all. Then I wouldn't be here standing on land I have basically just handed over to the biggest developer in the county.

“It's for your own good, Katie.”

“Don't give me that. I want my land back.”

“You know I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can. You took it—you can give it back.”

“Katie, you have to trust me. I'm doing this for us.”

“For
us?
” I spit the words out. “You lied to me and stole my land—how can you possibly say that you did this for
us?
”

“I'm protecting us.”

“How? And what about the land? Who's protecting the land?”

“Katie, the land has value. I've got a deal cooking to sell a portion of it to pay off the taxes and put you through college. Imagine that. You're going to be a full-time student. And I'm going to build us a house, right on our land.”

“Don't you dare call it
our land
. And I don't want a house. I want everything to be left as it is.”

“Well, you need a real home, Katie, and so do I,” he says. “It's time I started looking out for my family. Doing what's best for us long term.”

“I swore to protect this land, Dad. And that's what you had me believing, too. How could you do this to me?”

“Calm down,” he says. “Listen, you need someone to take care of you. You think David's going to do that forever? He's not your father.”

“He's been more of a father to me than you ever have. And I don't need anyone taking care of me. I just need my land back.”

“It's too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“The deal is done.”

“With Ed Jacobs?”

“Look,” he says, “only half of the property is going to be developed. We can protect the rest.”

“That's not good enough. These trees—they're supposed to outlive all of us. You can't let Jacobs destroy them.”

He shrugs. “I don't know what to tell you, Katie. You gave me permission to handle it, and I did. It's all for the best, it really is.”

“I never should have trusted you.”

I turn and start to run again, my anger propelling me up the trail, away from the sounds of hammers and trucks and other beeping vehicles.

What have I done?

What have I let my father do?

All I know right now is that I can't go back to town. I can't face the people who counted on me to save those trees. People like Alex.

Then I hear a voice, and I stop running. Thinking it's my father, I turn around to face him—but no one is there.

I hear a rustling sound and look up at the branches above me; they're moving. In fact, all of the branches as far as I can see are moving. Then I see wisps of white ooze between the trees, coming together into human forms, descending from the pine needles. Within seconds, I realize I am surrounded by ghosts.

The gold miners. They stand in a circle around me, some with shovels, some with axes. I can see straight through them.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

They don't answer.

The ones with axes begin raising them. Then they begin to chop at a large tree in front of me.

And though the men are nothing but tendrils of white mist, I see that bark is flying through the air. They are cutting into the tree for real.

“What is it? What are you trying to tell me?” I demand. Their axes become a blur of pale air, and then I see the tree tremble and weave in front of me.

It begins to creak and wobble.

“Stop,” I yell at them. “You're destroying it!”

But they won't stop.

I hear an incredible crack, and I look up. The whole world is tilting suddenly—or it looks that way, because this tall, ancient tree is tumbling, falling, coming down toward me—and it is too big and coming too fast for me to escape.

With the felling of the tree, my world goes dark, and I don't know if it is because the tree's bulk blocks out all the light or if I'm already dead—all I know is that everything is falling into darkness, with me right in the center.

I
'm walking through downtown Lithia, and in the distance, standing and watching me, is my mom. She is waving to me, beckoning me. I look at my reflection in the window of a shop, and I see that it's the adult me, not the child me, staring back. I'm dressed in my running clothes. I look tall and lean and powerful. And I feel a joy I haven't felt in years as I realize that my mom is here, with me. She is no longer an elusive memory. She is here.

Now.

I run toward her.

As I get closer she opens her mouth, trying to say something. Closer, I realize that she's looking above me, and there is terror in her face.

I stop and look up.

And then I see the tree, bearing down.

Professor Lindquist said once that dreams are real while they last. Has all of this been only a dream?

I try to move but can't—which means this must be a dream. My mom alive, only a dream.

I look to my left, and I see Roman—another person who now exists only in my dreams. He has that confident look that first drew me to him, the hint of a smile on his lips, the promise that is never fully realized. He's holding out his hand to me. I reach out and take it.

And then I realize that maybe this isn't a dream after all but a prelude to death. And if this is the case, maybe death won't be so bad. I will be with my mom and, on some otherworldly level, maybe I'll even be with Roman. In death, all things can be possible. Just like in a dream.

~

I open my eyes. A tree trunk lies next to me—it must be at least four feet in diameter—but, somehow, it's not on top of me.

How did it end up next to me?

I'm sprawled across the rocky trail, and I struggle to sit up. I stare at the tree trunk that should have killed me, wondering how I managed to escape it.

I don't remember moving; I was frozen in place. Then there was the dream. I close my eyes and replay it. My mom. Roman. But it was only a dream.

My arms and legs are scratched and streaked with blood; I'm lying on a bed of rocks. When I stand, my legs are unsteady but, thankfully, unbroken. I hop up and down, partly to test them and partly to burn off the leftover adrenaline pulsing through my body. I still can't believe I evaded this tree. I examine its trunk, its branches, and I realize that it's dead, or well on its way to that point. But I don't remember any wind strong enough to have knocked it over. I examine the base of the tree, looking for axe marks, but there are none. It looks as if it simply tipped, roots and all.

I look around. The ghosts are gone, the winds silent. I have the vague feeling I'm being watched, but, given all the supernatural encounters I've been having, I'll probably have to get used to that feeling.

Alex had said that ghosts appear when they are trying to send a message. If that's the case, the message they're sending me isn't exactly a positive one. What does a falling tree mean? Particularly one aimed at me?

Then I realize where I'm standing. I'm on part of the Horton property. Part of what was formerly my property. Could the ghosts know about the land, that I've lost it? Could they be letting me know how they feel? I can't blame them for their anger; there's plenty of that to go around.

I take a seat on the tree trunk and gaze around at the forest—a forest that will soon be cut down. I imagine this land bare of trees, nothing left but mounds of dry dirt, lifeless and depressing. Maybe the ghosts were right to try to kill me. After growing and stretching toward the sky for hundreds and even thousands of years, these trees are all about to die. All because of me.

I
should be in class right now. And, after that, I should be going to rehearsal. But suddenly these things don't seem all that important to me. In an instant, my priorities have shifted from education and drama to saving thousands of trees, and the animals and birds that rely upon them, and the people of this town who have grown accustomed to gazing up at them.

Professor Lindquist always reminds us of what Gandhi said: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” It's an inspiring message—to stop
thinking
about changing the world and to start
doing
something about it.

And so I'm going to start doing. I'm going to fix my mistake, one way or another.

I'm at Mike Stover's office, waiting politely in the reception area. I even have an appointment this time, though the woman behind the receptionist desk keeps giving me dirty looks. Pushing past her that one time didn't get me on her good side. Receptionists are like security guards, without the badges or the uniforms—but still, they're supposed to serve the same purpose: to keep crazy people like me from bursting into lawyers' offices. I suppose I can't blame her for keeping a close eye on me. But today I have an appointment, so she's got to let me through those wooden doors.

If only I knew what would happen once I got inside.

“Ms. Healy.” She says my name without looking up from her computer screen. “He'll see you now.”

I enter the office, where Mike is typing on his computer. When he hears me come in, he stops and swivels his chair in my direction.

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.” I take a chair in front of his desk, but I'm so anxious that I can barely sit. I sort of perch on the edge of the chair instead.

“Not a problem,” he says. “What can I help you with?”

I explain the situation to him, and as I talk he gazes at me without any expression—nothing that tells me whether what I've done can be fixed or not.

“So?” I ask.

“I'm not sure what you'd like me to do,” he says. “It sounds as if you acted on your own free will.”

“I know I legally signed the property over to my father, but he lied to me to get it. Isn't that illegal?”

Mike sighs. “Perhaps. If you can prove he knowingly deceived you with the intent of defrauding you, you might have a sound legal case against him. But you need proof of coercion. Something in writing, something recorded, witnesses. Absent this, it's going to come down to his word against yours. Plus, he has Ed Jacobs on his side, which means it's
their
word against yours. And those are some pretty powerful people with some pretty deep pockets.”

“So just because they're rich and powerful I lose everything?” I hadn't thought of that. I may no longer owe tens of thousands of dollars in taxes, but I certainly don't have any money to hire a lawyer. I'm not even sure why Mike's talking to me right now, unless he got paid enough by the Horton estate to continue to offer me free advice.

“Besides,” Mike continues, “your father could argue that he was simply trying to help you with your onerous tax burden, which appears to be true, correct?”

“Technically, yes.”

“And he says he's sharing the profits from the land with you?”

“That's what he says. But I can't exactly trust him anymore.”

“Financial conflicts between family members are rarely settled quickly, and they can be expensive to litigate.”

“What are you talking about, exactly?”

“I'm saying it could take years, and it could be so expensive that your tax bill will soon pale in comparison.”

“But I have to stop the land from being developed.”

“I understand, Kat. I do. But because Ed Jacobs is intent on developing that property, we're up against very steep resistance. Ed will have those trees cut down before we get our briefs filed. He's done it before.”

“So there's nothing I can do? Nothing at all?”

“You can always try. But if I were in your shoes, I would look for another solution, something that doesn't involve the courts.”

“Like what?”

“Talk to your father again.”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

“I'm sorry. But that's the best strategy at the moment. Perhaps the only strategy.”

“If only you had found me sooner.” I slump back in the chair, suddenly exhausted. There are so many
if only
s on the tip of my tongue right now I could go on forever.

“That's what peculiar about all of this,” Mike says.

“What do you mean?”

“Our office was in touch with your father a year ago. He told us he would tell you about the property and even bring you out here.”

“He said that?”

“Yes. We tried calling to set it up, but he never called us back. Weeks went by, and then one day he called to say you had disappeared. He wanted us to find you, and I said we would do our part. I put him in touch with a private investigator, but I guess it didn't work out.”

I'm staring at a bird in a tree just outside Mike's window. All I can think about is this bird—how this bird and so many other creatures who depend on the trees and flowers and insects and earthworms will have nothing left, if I can't somehow fix this.

“Kat?” Mike's voice interrupts my thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“Let me get this straight.” I look across the desk at Mike. “Are you telling me my father has known about all of this for more than a year?”

Mike nods. “He didn't tell you?”

“No,” I say. I feel weak, as if all my blood has suddenly left my body. “He didn't tell me a thing.”

~

My mind is in a fog; I can't think straight. All I know is that I need to find my father. I need to know what happened.

I start at Highland Hills, but he isn't there. So I head over to his apartment. He's not there either. I sit on the front steps of the crumbling old Victorian, in which he rents a two-room apartment, and I wait. He has to come back sometime. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's sold off all my land already and left for good.

If it weren't for the land, it would be a blessing to see him gone.

But I still need to find a way to get my land back. Which means I need him. Which means I'm tied to him now more than ever.

Finally, I see him approaching, a grocery bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. I stand up on the steps, as if to block his way. A year ago, I'd never have dared to stand up to him as I'm doing now. But a lot can change in a year.

“How could you?” I ask him.

He walks right up to me and puts down the grocery bag on one of the steps. “Scooter, I told you, this is all for the best. We don't have to sell all—”

“I'm not talking about that,” I interrupt. “I'm talking about how you knew about this land all along. How you never told me.”

I watch his face pale under his summer suntan. “Scooter,” he begins.

“Stop calling me that,” I snap.

“Look, Katie, I knew you wouldn't be able to see things clearly back then. You were struggling—so was I. We both had a lot going on.”

“The only thing I had going on was trying to survive living with you,” I say. “This could have changed everything for me—and you never said a word. Why?”

“I thought you hated me,” he says.

“You were right.” And then, it hits me—something that might have been obvious if it weren't so unbelievable. “The shooting,” I say slowly. “Was that even real?”

“Katie—”

“Or was it a setup?” I demand. “Was it your way of trying to get me out of the picture? So you could take all this land for yourself?”

He says nothing, but his eyes tell me everything.

“You set me up,” I say, no longer asking but accusing. “How could you do that? Your own daughter.”

“It wasn't like that,” he says.

I can't believe what is happening. “What were you going to do, blackmail me? Have me arrested?”

“No—”

“Were you going to try to kill
me
, then? And call it self-defense?”

“I just thought if I could get you to feel a little sympathy toward me,” he says, “if you could just find it in your heart to see me as something besides this monster, then—”

“Then I'd take pity on you and share all my new wealth, is that it?”

“I just wanted—”

“That's why there was never anything about the shooting in the papers,” I say. “Because it never happened. Was it even a real gun?”

I'm trying to remember blood, but I can't—he'd been lying facedown, on his stomach. I'd just assumed he was dead. I hadn't dared to move him. It was all one big performance—my dad the actor, playing dead.

“You weren't supposed to run away,” he says. “I wanted to handle this as a family—to be father and daughter again.”

Even now, he's still acting. “Give it up, Dad,” I say. “All you ever wanted was to steal that land for yourself, and you know it.”

“That's not true, Katie.”

I can't listen to this anymore, and so I walk down the steps past him. I can't bring myself to look at him, but I pause just before I reach the sidewalk.

“You're not getting away with this,” I say. “I'll get my land back somehow. I don't know how, but I will.”

He doesn't answer, not that I expect him to. As I walk home to my cottage, I think back over everything, replaying it in my mind over and over again—that night in Houston, my trip out here to Lithia, the investigator, my dad showing up here, the land, the deed, everything.

I replay the moment he told me it was my mom who gave me my acting genes.

He'd lied even then. She was never the actor of the family. He was, and he had been all along.