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.We saw them about ten years ago.With a different circus then.And I don’t think that was the first time.I’m pretty sure they were here when the dam was going in.…”“Oh,” I said.“Of course.” And ate another nut.One of those multigenerational circus families.The ringmaster’s microphone reeled back into the stratosphere.He fled the ring in a scatter of sequin reflections, something like an animate mirror ball.I shrugged off a chill.“Jackie?”“Somebody stepped on my grave.”Stewart stole another nut.“Maybe the ringmaster is evil.”I tried to steal it back, resulting in a wrestling match that scattered popcorn across the floorboards and glares across nearby patrons.Casualties of war.To add insult to injury, Stewart popped the kidnappee into his mouth before I managed to retrieve it.“No evil ringmasters,” I said.“I won’t allow it.Screw Ray Bradbury.”“That was a carny,” Stewart said complacently, defending what remained of his popcorn.“And anyway, Bradbury’s not my type.”* * *Later that night, when the city glow was creeping around the edges of the hotel-room blackout curtains brightly enough to compete with my bedside lamp, I lay staring at the ceiling.I was supposed to be reading a book.Stewart was playing a Gameboy, but the beeps were intermittent.I let the paperback fall across my chest.“Hey, Stewart?”“Mm?”“Have you noticed yourself forgetting things?”“Like my car keys?”Smart ass.“No.Like things you used to know.Street names.Your first girlfriend’s favorite color.That sort of stuff.”“I wonder how you’d know if you forgot something,” he said, hitting pause on his game.“I mean, really forgot it.Do you ever think about Alzheimer’s? Or a brain injury? You’d never know what you were missing, would you?”“No,” I said, picking up my book.I hadn’t been paying enough attention to the last three pages and had to flip back until I found something I remembered reading.“Or yes, maybe.I don’t know.I mean, if you were losing time, like not making new memories, probably not.But if you were forgetting things like your husband’s or wife’s name? Then probably.And you might try to cover it up.”He looked at me suspiciously.“Hey,” I said.“I told you I didn’t remember where I’d heard the name.”He stared.I stared back.He glanced down at the Gameboy with a rude noise.“Hey,” I said, to make him throw a pillow, “what was your name again?”* * *Nobody sleeps in Las Vegas, and so neither do I.But if I did, I have to admit, ghosts would have a pretty good means of waking you up.Nothing like a hovering cold spot on the back of your neck to get you out of bed in a hurry.I managed not to shriek, which was good, because Stewart was sort of curled up on my chest watching a Burt Reynolds movie—I know, but far be it from me to complain about my boyfriend’s taste—and I might have shocked him into apoplexy.Instead, I sucked in a breath and disentangled myself—over his protests—before sliding out of bed to face my molester.The ghost looked awfully familiar, as if I had seen him somewhere before.But he was just one of the little ghosts of the dam, harmless and inoffensive.By the rocking and beckoning, he wanted something from me.“Lassie wants something,” I said to Stewart, because the ghost’s demeanor reminded me of a worried dog.“Shh,” Stewart said.“This is the good bit.”“But the ghost,” I repeated, “wants something.”“Oh, and I’m supposed to figure out what?” But he hit the mute button, sat up, and drawled, “Hello, sailor.”I winced mostly out of habit.He wasn’t actually camping it up all that much.“I feel like I know him,” I said, while the ghost stared at me with hemorrhage-spotted eyes.“Jeff Soble.” Stewart stood.Of course he’d know the guy’s name.“Died on the dam.People die all the time, you know.They get unlucky.Something random and stupid goes wrong.”“I know,” I said.We both knew.You don’t get to be a genius until you’re buried and sung over.Stewart and me, we died young.Looking at Stewart, I realized I didn’t remember how I’d died.I opened my mouth to ask, scratching idly under my eye patch, and realized something else [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]