The next morning, I was found unconscious beneath the tree in the town square, with the onset of hypothermia. I was taken to a store and given something to drink—alcohol, I imagine—which revived me enough that I could say my phone number and my mother’s name.
THE CALL AND THE CONVERSATION THAT CAME NEXT
When my mother got the call, the part of her that had been absent for so many years came back in a flash. What she didn’t know was that this happened the day after E had found, buried among the others, the ghost that had kept her asleep to us for so long.
I found this out years later when, looking for a backpack, I came across a box with photographs and clippings from newspapers about the discovery of several bodies.
All towns are alike, but it didn’t take me too much of an effort to recognize the town in the image as the town of the gunshots.
Had E made more calls? Had he sent a smoke signal that said I’ve found them?
I will never know; nor is it important.
What is important is the interrogation that came after.
Because I told my mother about the ghost town, E’s call, the gunshots.
And about S and the envelopes too. About the booklet of false excuse slips. About the hardware stores, perfumeries, S’s little double, skipping school, and, finally, the Great Carpenter.
As I went on with my story, I’m not sure why, but I started crying, and once I’d started, I cried for several hours. My mother held me close and said that everything would be alright in a voice I didn’t recognize.
At the same time, another interrogation was happening. The one endured by D.
I will never know what D said. What my mother knew was that D would be back. He was wily enough to convince his interrogators. And cowardly enough not to risk going down in history as a heroic ghost. He would be freed. And he could go to hell.