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Christian separated the baby from Jessy； wrapped it in a blanket； and held it up to the window。 If its first sight was of the French Quarter； it would know its way around those streets forever…should it ever need such knowledge。 Then he knelt between Jessy's limp legs and looked at the poor torn passage that had given him so many nights of idle pleasure。 Ruined now； bloody。
So much blood to go to waste。
Christian licked his lips； licked them again。
Christian's bar was closed for ten nights。 Christian's car； a silver Bel Air that had served him well for years； headed north。 He drove up any road that looked anonymous； along any highway he knew he would not remember。
Little Nothing was a lovely baby； a sugar…candy confection of a baby with enormous dark blue eyes and a mass of golden…brown hair。 Someone would love him。 Someone human； away from the South； away from the hot night air and the legends。 Nothing might escape the hunger for blood； might be happy； might be whole。
Toward dawn； in a Maryland suburb full of fine graceful houses； dark grassy lawns； long sleek cars in sweeping driveways； a tall thin figure draped in heavy black clothes stooped； set a bundle down on a doorstep； and went slowly away without looking back。 Christian was remembering the last night of Mardi Gras； and the taste of blood and altars was in his mouth。
The baby Nothing opened his eyes and saw darkness； soft and velvety； pricked with sparkling white light。 His mouth drew down； his eyebrows came together in a frown。 He was hungry。 He could not see the basket that cradled him； could not read the note in spidery handwriting pinned to his blanket： His name is Nothing。 Care for him and he will bring you luck。 He lay in the basket snug as a king cake baby； pink and tiny as the infant Christ in plastic； and he knew only that he wanted light and warmth and food； as a baby will。 And he opened his mouth wide and showed his soft pink gums and yelled。 He yelled long and loud until the door opened and warm hands took him in。
PART ONE
Fifteen Years Later
Chapter 1
The night wind felt wonderful in Steve's hair。
The Thunderbird was huge。 It always drove like a fucking monster； but tonight Steve felt as if he were piloting some great steamboat down a magic river； a river of shimmering asphalt banked by pine forest and thick； rioting expanses of kudzu。 They were somewhere far outside Missing Mile； somewhere on the highway that led up to the Roxboro electric power plant and； beyond that； the North Carolina…Virginia border。
Ghost was asleep beside him； his head hung out the window on the passenger side； his pale hair whipping in the wind； his face washed in moonlight。 The bottle of whiskey was prepped between Ghost's legs； three…quarters empty； in danger of tipping despite the limp hand that curled around it。
Steve leaned over and grabbed the bottle； took a healthy swig。 〃The T…bird has been drinking；〃 he sang into the wind； 〃yes； the T…bird has been drinking 。 。 。 not me。〃
〃Um；〃 said Ghost。 〃What？ What？〃
〃Forget it；〃 Steve told him。 〃Go back to sleep。 Have another drink。〃 He drove faster。 He'd wake Ghost on the drive home； to keep him pany。 Now he wanted Ghost to stay asleep awhile longer； there was bad business ahead。 Dangerous business。 Or so Steve liked to think of it。
Ghost took the bottle back and stared at the label； trying to focus on it。 His pale blue eyes swam； narrowed； sharpened only slightly。 〃White Horse；〃 he read。 〃Look； Steve； it's White Horse whiskey。 Did you know Dylan Thomas was drinking at a pub called the White Horse the night he died？〃
〃You told me。 That's why we bought it。〃 Steve crossed his fingers and tried to will Ghost back to sleep。
〃He drank eighteen straight whiskeys；〃 Ghost said； awed。
〃You drank eighteen straight whiskeys。〃
〃No wonder my brain is sailing with the moon。 Sing to me； Steve。 Sing me back to sleep。〃
Just at that moment they crossed a bridge that seemed to bow under the weight of the old brown T…bird； and Steve saw moonlight shimmering on black waters； so he raised his voice in the first song that came to mind： 〃Silver southern moon 。 。 。 for ten years I thought I was born of you 。。。。 Silver moon； I'll be back someday 。。。。 〃
〃That's not the way it goes。 I should know； I wrote it。〃 Ghost's voice was fading。 〃Oh； silver southern moon 。 。 。 tell me your sweet lies； then let me。 drown deep in your eyes 。。。。
〃Somedaaay；〃 Steve joined in。 He and the whiskey sang Ghost to sleep； the whiskey with its somnolent amber song； Steve with a voice that cracked when he tried to hit the high notes。 Behind them the river passed in silence； the lowest…hanging branches brushed the water； and the leaves rotted on the bough。 The moon spread like butter on the black river； and Ghost's eyes closed； with his head pillowed on the hump between the seats； he began to dream。
They bypassed Roxboro； but Steve saw the power plant on Lake Hyco； lit up all glowing green and white like a weird birthday cake； its million pipes and wires and glass insulators and metal gewgaws reflected in the lake。 On the way back； if Ghost was awake； they'd drive up there to a hill Steve knew and look out over the pastures and the lake and all the glittering Milky Way。 An hour or so after passing out Ghost was usually raring to go again。 His dreams gave him new strength。 Or made him laugh or cry； or sometimes scared the shit out of him。
Steve put his hand on Ghost's head； smoothed back wisps of hair from flickering closed eyes。 He wondered what was unfolding beneath his hand； beneath the thin bone； inside the orb of ivory that cradled Ghost's weird brain。 Who was born and murdered and resurrected inside that skull？ What walked behind Ghost's eyelids； what lithe secret phantoms tapped Ghost's shoulder and made him whimper deep in his throat？
Ghost often dreamed of things that were going to happen； or of things that had already happened that he couldn't possibly know about。 These premonitions could e when he was awake too； but the ones that came to him in dreams seemed to be the most potent。 More often than not they were also the most cryptic。 He had known when his grandmother was going to die； but then so had she。 Though surely painful； the knowledge had given them the time they needed to say goodbye。
Goodbye for a while； anyway。 Ghost had inherited his grandmother's house in Missing Mile； where he and Steve lived now。 Steve had spent plenty of time in that house as a kid； watching Miz Deliverance mix herbs or cut out cookies with her heart…shaped cutters； building forts in the backyard； sleeping over in Ghost's room。 Even now； five years after her death； Steve sometimes thought he felt the familiar presence of Miz Deliverance in a room； or just around a corner。 He imagined this was something Ghost took for granted。
Suddenly unnerved by the prospect of touching Ghost's dreams； Steve put his hand back on the wheel。
They drove past a graveyard full of softly rotting monuments and flowers； an abandoned railyard； a barbecue shack whose sign advertised GRAND OPENING EVERY FRI AND SAT NITE。 A rabbit darted across the ro