“I agree to your terms.”

“You know that I can haunt you?”

“I know, but I’m not afraid of you.”

Bold words, but as I’d already found out, Therriault could make as many untrue statements as he—it—wanted to. Statements weren’t answers to questions. And anybody who has to say they’re not afraid is lying. I didn’t have to wait until later to learn that, I knew it at thirteen.

“Are you afraid of me?”

I saw that cramped expression on Therriault’s face again, as if he was tasting something sour and unpleasant. Which was probably how telling the truth felt to the miserable son of a bitch.

“Yes. You’re not like the others. You see.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes I’m afraid of you!”

Sweet!

I let him go. “Get out of here, whatever you are, and go to wherever you go. Just remember if I call you, you come.”

He whirled around, giving me one final look at the gaping hole in the left side of his head. He grabbed at the door-knob. His hand went through it and didn’t go through it. Both at the same time. I know it’s crazy, a paradox, but it happened. I saw it. The knob turned and the door opened. At the same time the overhead light blew out and glass tinkled down from the fixture. There were a dozen or so mailboxes in the foyer, and half of them popped open. Therriault gave me one last hateful look over his bloody shoulder, and then he was gone, leaving the front door open. I saw him go down the steps, not so much running as plunging. A guy speeding past on a bike, probably a messenger, lost his balance, fell over, and sprawled in the street, cursing.

I knew the dead could impact the living, that was no surprise. I’d seen it, but those impacts had always been little things. Professor Burkett had felt his wife’s kiss. Liz had felt Regis Thomas blow on her face. But the things I’d just seen—the light that blew out, the jittery, vibrating doorknob that had turned, the messenger falling off his bike—were on an entirely different level.

The thing I’m calling the deadlight almost lost its host while I was holding on, but when I let go, it did more than regain Therriault; it got stronger. That strength must have come from me, but I didn’t feel any weaker (like poor Lucy Westenra while Count Dracula was using her as his personal lunch-wagon). In fact I felt better than ever, refreshed and invigorated.

It was stronger, so what? I’d owned it, had made it my bitch.

For the first time since Liz had picked me up from school that day and taken me hunting for Therriault, I felt good again. Like someone who’s had a serious illness and is finally on the mend.

44

I got back home around quarter past two, a little late but not where-have-you-been-I-was-so-worried late. I had a long scrape on one arm and the knee of my pants got torn when one of the high school boys bumped me and I went down hard, but I felt pretty damned fine just the same. Valeria wasn’t there, but two of her girlfriends were. One of them said Valeria liked me and the other one said I should talk to her, maybe sit with her at lunch.

God, the possibilities!

I let myself in and saw that someone—probably Mr. Provenza, the building super—had closed the mailboxes that had popped open when Therriault left. Or, to put it more accurately, when it fled the scene. Mr. Provenza had also cleaned up the broken glass, and put a sign in front of the elevator that said TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER. That made me remember the day Mom and I came home from school, me clutching my green turkey, and found the elevator at the Palace on Park out of order. Fuck this elevator, Mom had said. Then: You didn’t hear that, kiddo.

Old days.

I took the stairs and let myself in to find Mom had dragged her home office chair up to the living room window, where she was reading and drinking coffee. “I was just about to call you,” she said, and then, looking down, “Oh my God, that’s a new pair of jeans!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Maybe you can patch them up.”

“I have many skills, but sewing isn’t one of them. I’ll take them to Mrs. Abelson at Dandy Cleaners. What did you have for lunch?”

“A burger. With lettuce and tomato.”

“Is that true?”

“I cannot tell a lie,” I said, and of course that made me think of Therriault, and I gave a little shiver.

“Let me see your arm. Come over here where I can get a good look.” I came over and displayed my battle scar. “No need of a Band-Aid, I guess, but you need to put on some Neosporin.”

“Okay if I watch ESPN after I do that?”

“It would be if we had electricity. Why do you think I’m reading at the window instead of at my desk?”

“Oh. That must be why the elevator isn’t working.”

“Your powers of deduction stun me, Holmes.” This was one of my mom’s literary jokes. She has dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. “It’s just our building. Mr. Provenza says something blew out all the breakers. Some kind of power surge. He said he’s never seen anything like it. He’s going to try to get it fixed by tonight, but I’ve got an idea we’ll be running on candles and flashlights once it gets dark.”

Therriault, I thought, but of course it wasn’t. It was the deadlight thing that was now inhabiting Therriault. It blew the light fixture, it opened some of the mailboxes, and it fried the circuit breakers for good measure when it left.

I went into the bathroom to get the Neosporin. It was pretty dark in there, so I flipped the light switch. Habit’s a bitch, isn’t it? I sat on the sofa to spread antibiotic goo on my scrape, looking at the blank TV and wondering how many circuit breakers there were in an apartment building the size of ours, and how much power it would take to cook them all.

I could whistle for that thing. And if I did, would it come to the lad named Jamie Conklin? That was a lot of power for a kid who wouldn’t even be able to get a driver’s license for another three years.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m old enough to have a girlfriend?”

“No, dear.” Without looking up from her manuscript.

“When will I be old enough?”

“How does twenty-five sound?”

She started laughing and I laughed with her. Maybe, I thought, when I was twenty-five or so I’d summon Therriault and ask him to bring me a glass of water. But on second thought, anything it brought might be poison. Maybe, just for shits and giggles, I’d ask it to stand on its Therriault head, do a split, maybe walk on the ceiling. Or I could let it go. Tell it to get buzzin’, cousin. Of course I didn’t have to wait until I was twenty-five, I could do that anytime. Only I didn’t want to. Let it be my prisoner for awhile. That nasty, horrible light reduced to little more than a firefly in a jar. See how it liked that.

The electricity came back on at ten o’clock, and all was right with the world.

45

On Sunday, Mom proposed a visit to Professor Burkett to see how he was doing and to retrieve the casserole dish. “Also, we could bring him some croissants from Haber’s.”

I said that sounded good. She gave him a call and he said he’d love to see us, so we walked to the bakery and then hailed a cab. My mother refused to use Uber. She said they weren’t New York. Taxis were New York.