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"Maybe you could help."
His head bobbed frantically, and I knew that this time he understood me. So I described Amanda Sullivan. But as I did, his eyes clouded with disappointment, and he gave a slow shake of his head. Finding someone was a concept he understood--applying a verbal description to that person was beyond him.
I concentrated on the news article I'd read, the one with Sullivan's photo, and tried to make it materialize. Nothing happened. No problem. My skills on this side might be weak, but I could do it easily enough in my own dimension, so after promising to be right back, I popped into the ghost world, conjured up the photo, and returned to the other side.
"This is a picture of the woman I'm looking for."
He let out a tiny shriek and dove behind me, clutching my leg, face buried against my thigh. I dropped to my knees. He pressed his face into my shoulder. His thin body quaked against mine and I cursed myself. He knew--or sensed--what Sullivan had done. For a few minutes I held him, patting his back and murmuring words of comfort. When he stopped shaking, I shoved the photo into my pocket.
"Forget about her," I said. "Let's get you--"
He grabbed my hand and tugged, his tear-streaked face determined. When I didn't move, he sighed in exasperation, released my hand, and took off. I raced after him.
I followed the boy back through the underground row of cells, up through the hatch door, through the cell block, through a few more rooms, through another guard station and even more heavily armored doors, into a second, smaller cell block. All of these cells were full. The maximum-security ward. He led me to the last one. Inside, reading Ladies' Home Journal, was Amanda Sullivan.
I turned to the boy. He'd ducked back behind the cell wall, so Sullivan couldn't see him.
"It's okay," I said. "She can't hurt you. I promise."
A slow smile, and a nod. He darted out, arms going around me in a tight, fleeting embrace. Then he raced off back down the hall.
"No," I shouted, lunging after him. "Come--"
A hand grabbed my arm. I turned to see Trsiel.
"The boy," I said. "He's a ghost."
"George."
"You know him?"
"His mother was an inmate. He was born here, and died here five years later. Smallpox."
"He lived here?"
"When George was born, the prison doctor was at home. Apparently, he decided not to lose any sleep by coming in. George was born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. His mother's cellmate revived him but the damage to his brain was done."
"So no one wanted him," I murmured.
Trsiel nodded. "He was allowed to stay here, with his mother."
"Why's he still here? Shouldn't someone--"
"Rescue him? In the beginning, we tried, but he always found his way back here, like a homing pigeon."
"Because this is all he knows. And he's happy here." I thought of the boy pretending to open doors before walking through them. "He doesn't realize he's dead."
"Is there any reason to enlighten him?"
I gave a slow shake of my head. "I guess not."
"This"--Trsiel gestured at the building around us--
"won't last forever. When they tear it down, or abandon it, we'll take the child, probably reincarnate him. In such a case, that's the most humane thing."
"In the meantime, leaving him here is the most humane thing." I shook off thoughts of the boy and turned toward Amanda Sullivan. "That is candidate number one."
As Trsiel looked over at her, his eyes blazed. His right hand clenched, as if gripping something...like the hilt of his sword.
