Chapter 8 - THE GHOST FROM THE PAST
Sitting in the dim corner of the Syracuse diner, Rose stared down into the dark surface of her coffee cup. The reflection of the fluorescent light bulb wavered in the liquid like a distorted eye watching her.
She reached into her canvas bag, bypassing the stolen hundred-dollar bills, and felt along the fabric lining until her fingers caught the loose thread of a hidden interior pocket. She tore the seam open with her fingernail and pulled out a small, yellowed piece of cardstock no larger than a postage stamp.
On it was a phone number written in grease pencil, paired with a single first name: Caleb.
Caleb Miller. Thirty years ago, Caleb had been her late husband’s partner in the city’s dockworkers’ union before the union bosses were bought out and the docks were privatized. When Caleb crossed the wrong corporate syndicate back in the nineties, he had faked his own death and vanished into the timber country of upper Vermont. Before he left, he had told Arthur—Rose’s late husband—that if she ever found herself drowning in a world she couldn't fight alone, she should dial that number from a public payphone and ask for the harbor master.
It was a long shot—a ghost story from a lifetime ago. But right now, ghosts were the only allies she had left.
Rose waited until the diner began to fill up with the morning breakfast rush, slipping away to the payphone mounted near the restrooms in the back hallway. She dropped a quarter into the slot, her fingers shaking as she dialed the ten-digit number.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times with a hollow, distant click.
Just as she was about to hang up, assuming the number was dead or disconnected after three decades, a gravelly, sandpapery voice answered on the other end.
“The tide is out,” the voice said.
Rose froze, gripping the receiver. “The salt is dry,” she replied, remembering the second half of the secret password Arthur had taught her so many years ago.
A heavy, profound silence stretched across the line. When the man spoke again, all the gruffness had vanished from his tone, replaced by razor-sharp alertness.
“Rose?”
“Hello, Caleb,” she whispered, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. “I’m drowning.”
“Where are you?” Caleb asked without a second of hesitation.
“Syracuse. In a diner near the rail yards. Men from Vance Pharmaceuticals are hunting me.”
“Vance?” Caleb let out a harsh, dark chuckle. “Those corporate vipers have been trying to buy my timberland for years. Listen to me very carefully, Rose. Do not use a credit card, do not get on another bus, and stay away from any major roads. Go to the municipal park behind the diner. Look for a rusted green Ford pickup truck with a broken tail-light parked by the duck pond. The keys are under the floor mat. Get inside, lock the doors, and wait for me.”
“Caleb, I don’t even know if I can drive—”
“You learned how to drive a manual truck on the docks, Rose. Just turn the ignition and hold on,” Caleb commanded. “I’m five hours away, but I’m already moving. Hang tight.”
Click.
May you like
The line went dead.
Rose took a deep, shuddering breath, hung up the payphone, and pulled her hood back down over her face. She walked out of the diner into the freezing sleet, her eyes fixed on the distant trees of the municipal park, stepping forward into the next phase of the war.
