Faces in the Fire by Hines Read Free Book Online Page A

he’d done that, he was waiting for something else to happen.
    Dreading it, yes, but waiting.
    The woman spoke again. “I’m Corrine,” she said. “I suppose we should get that out of the way.”
    He nodded. “Nice to meet you, Corrine. I’m Kurt.”
    â€œAnd what’s your story, Kurt?”
    He smiled. “Still working on it.”
    â€œGuess that’s as much as I’m gonna get right now, huh?”
    â€œTrust me, you really don’t want to know.”
    She smiled. “You think I’m worried about you escaping from a prerelease program?”
    The waitress brought his coffee; he watched Corrine across the table as the hot, dark liquid sloshed into his white ceramic cup. Well, what was the harm in telling her? Maybe that’s what the ghost wanted.
    When the waitress left, he spoke, avoiding her eyes while he did so. If he looked into her eyes, the whole thing would dissolve like sugar.
    â€œI had a brain injury several years ago. Since then, I . . . well, I can hear ghosts. Ghosts in the clothing of dead people.”
    Her jaw tensed for a moment. “And what do the ghosts say?”
    He shrugged. “They ask me for help. Finding relatives, giving messages to others, that kind of thing.”
    â€œAnd you like doing that?”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œWhy don’t you like it?”
    â€œNo, I mean I don’t do it. I . . . ignore them.”
    She sipped from her glass of water. “You don’t do it.”
    â€œI go to estate sales, auctions, buy all the clothing that belongs to dead people so I can listen to the ghosts inside,” he said. “But I don’t talk to them. I don’t answer them. I don’t help them.”
    She leaned back in the leather booth, shifting her weight to get more comfortable. Kurt waited, listening to the sounds of metal utensils clanking on plates all around them. The comfortable sounds of dining.
    â€œWell,” she finally said, “it would seem you’re one sick puppy.” She raised her glass of water to him in a toast, smiled, and took a drink. “Welcome to the club. I’m the president.”
    â€œWhat qualifies you to be the president?” he said.
    â€œCancer, for one,” she said. “But that’s not the half of it. You got an e-mail account?” she asked.
    Odd question, but they were in odd territory. “Yeah.”
    â€œGet spam?”
    â€œWho doesn’t?”
    â€œWell,” she said, “you can thank me for that. You’re about to have breakfast with a woman who sends out a million e-mails every week for fake degrees, online prescriptions, and—what’s a delicate way to say this?—male enhancement. Bon appetit.”
    He waited for a few minutes, and was about to ask her about the tattoo when she looked at it herself, as if reading his intentions.
    â€œThose numbers on my arm. I didn’t even know they were there, but—they’re kind of what brought me here.”
    â€œWell, if you don’t mind going a bit deeper into the twilight zone,” he said, “one of the ghosts told me I was supposed to give you a ride. Just before you showed up. So—no offense—I’m a little worried this is all some kind of hallucination. The brain injury I told you about.”
    She shook her head. “Oh, I’m real, Kurt. I’m so real it hurts.”
    The waitress brought their food. Kurt took a bite of steak, picked up his ceramic mug, drank from the hot, dark liquid. It looked like black tar, he thought. Like the boxes in the shipping container. Maybe he was hauling nothing more than some strange Chinese coffee. He closed his eyes, exhaled loudly.
    â€œSo about the numbers . . .” he said, opening his eyes and focusing on her once more.
    â€œI don’t know much about them.” She forked a bite of hash browns into her mouth. Part of the gravy dribbled down her chin, and she