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ea。
For a moment he felt the floating giddiness that always came when he woke in a strange bed。 Then； slowly； the world fell into place around him。 There was the softness of a mattress under his back； the weight of blankets。 There was the deep regular breathing of Steve beside him； and the warmth of Steve's skin； and Steve's smell that had gone strange in the past couple of days。 It made Ghost wonder whether Steve's insides had been thrown off balance somehow。
Steve usually smelled of beer； but now； often as not； the harsh odor of whiskey was on him instead。 And dirty hair； but that was normal because Steve's hair was getting long and he said it was a royal pain in the ass to wash。 But now Steve's clothes were dirty too； and there was some strange secret smell that made Ghost lift his head and flare his nostrils； trying to scent it out； to pin it down。 It was the smell of exhaustion； the smell of frying brains； the smell of despair。
It might mean that Steve was only clinging to some remote edge of sanity。 It might mean Steve was about ready to say Fuck this shit； man； and give up altogether。 Steve still loved Ann； but it was a wretched kind of love； a love that made him hate himself for feeling it。 Steve was just blaming himself now。 He had reason to blame himself。
But Ghost knew guilt could be traced back forever； blame could be laid every which way； and what good would it do？ Whose pain would be lessened by it？ Steve had done what he had done； and because he was Steve； he could not have done it any other way。
Steve had always been like that： he would go through the fire； would never shy away no matter how hellish it was。 When the pain burned off him； he seemed stronger； more pure。 But sometimes it nearly killed him。 And sometimes he tried to quench it by drinking； which only made the flames burn higher and hotter。
Why couldn't Ann understand how Steve was？ The rocker with a hundred midnights stored in his heart for nobody to 'find； sure； he was tough； but he d/d hurt； and somehow you had to soothe that pain while pretending you couldn't see it。 Ghost stared into the dark。 Sometimes he thought he was the only person who understood Steve at all。 They had been together so long。 But what good did that do Steve？
He remembered what Ann had said the day he went over to her house。 The night is the hardest time to be alive； she had told him。 And four A。M。 knows all my secrets。 She had wanted something； or someone； to get her through the night。
Zillah with his green eyes had gotten her through part of one night； anyway。 But what saved her from four A。M。 now？ What had she thought about on those nights when she prowled around the trailer on Violin Road； maybe knocking and not being let in； maybe afraid even to knock？ What was she thinking now； as she rode a southbound bus； as she roamed the dark streets of the French Quarter； breathing the mist of beer and the essence of time？ Did she know yet where Zillah lived； was she staring up at his window； whispering words he would not hear？
What was getting her through this night？ And what would get her through all the nights yet to e； as the poison fetus grew inside her？
Ghost sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed。 He caught a whiff of himself。 His clothes were as dirty as Steve's； though not as beer…stained； they had only the things they'd been wearing when they took off for New Orleans。 Tomorrow they would have to go and buy a couple of fresh T…shirts。 Something classy； like the oyster bar shirts that said SHUCK ME； SUCK ME； EAT ME RAW。
The wooden floor was cold。 Moonlight dappled Ghost's feet。 He stood up slowly； easing his weight off the mattress； trying not to wake Steve。 There wasn't much chance of Steve waking up； though。 Earlier tonight Steve had declared his intention to drink a pitcher of Dixie beer in every bar on Bourbon Street。 When they didn't have Dixie； he settled for Bud。 As far as Ghost could recall； they had gotten about halfway before he was able to drag Steve back to the room and dump him into bed。
Ghost had had his share of those pitchers too。 He was still swaying a little。 He steadied himself against the doorjamb and crossed the threshold into the hall。
He and Steve had the first room at the top of the stairs。 Next to that was the room belonging to Arkady's mysterious guests； beyond that was the bathroom； where Ghost was headed； and at the end of the hall was Arkady's bedroom。
As Ghost passed the open door of the second room； he saw moonlight filtering in through a dirty window。 The cold glow spilled over the rumpled sheets and blankets on the bed； made the floorboards gleam； threw the closet door into shadow so that Ghost couldn't tell whether it was open or shut。 At the foot of the bed； drooping halfway to the floor； a small twisted shape hung。
Ghost's breath caught in his throat。 As he stared at the shape； it seemed to twitch。 Ghost took two quick steps backward。 Were the occupants of this room really the ones who had killed Ashley？ Could Arkady be that perverse？ Was the twisted shape another of their victims； a child with all the life sucked out of it； hanging bonelessly？ Or was it some voodoo creation of Arkady's； some dried effigy that would e to life and jerk toward him in a horrible parody of dance？
Ghost stood in the doorway a moment longer； pulling his hair over his face； staring through its pale curtain into the room。 He didn't want to know what the shape was。 He wanted to pull the door shut； go on down the hall to the bathroom； and get back to bed。 With Steve asleep beside him； he would not be afraid。
But he had to know what was going on here； whether this was a safe place or not。 Before he could think about it any more； he made himself walk to the foot of the bed and prod the shape with one finger。
A pillow； wadded into a hard little knot。 That was all it was。 For a second he was glad Steve was in the other room passed out； not here to see him getting spooked over a pillow。 Then he wished Steve were here； even though he knew Steve would call him a pussy。 Steve hadn't been laughing at much of anything these days。 Even tonight。 Usually when they went on a real bender； they would start remembering stuff they had done when they were kids； making stupid jokes； imitating each other。 〃Fuckin' shit； Steve； you sure are sucking down that fuckin' brew；〃 Ghost would say； and Steve would reply imperturbably； 〃Yeah； but I can feel the spirit of the beer inside me。〃
But tonight Steve had swilled his beer silently； staring into its golden depths； at the mirror behind the bar； at the colored lights out on Bourbon Street。 When he met Ghost's eyes； he would not hold the gaze。 But before Steve looked away； Ghost had seen stark terror in his eyes。
Ghost picked up the pillow and smoothed it out。 As he was about to toss it back onto the bed； he saw the strands of hair clinging to the linen。 He picked a few of them off they were brittle； translucent…and held them up to the moonlight； trying to see their color。 Some of the strands were clear ruby…red。 Some were bright bleachy yellow。 Neither color looked natural。
Over to his right； the closet door creaked and swung halfw