Timmy looked over at Bradley and shook his head, his face filled with despair. "I can't remember. I can only see the sun above him in the trees, shining down in my eyes, when he was hurting me," he said. "I can't... I can't remember him."

"That's okay," Bradley said. "You were very brave. You have helped us a lot."

"Can I go home now?" he asked.

"Well, I think we still have some things to figure out," Mary said. "But would you be willing to come home with me? Just for a little while."

"Well, I don't know," he said. "My mom says not to go with strangers."

"Your mom is a very smart woman," Bradley said. "But I think she would agree it would be safer for you to come with us, than stay by yourself in the woods."

He looked slowly around the woods, and then looked at Mary and Bradley.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "Mike, um, Mikey Richards lives at my house."

"Mikey?" Timmy said, relieved. "Oh, if he's there, I know I'll be safe."

Chapter Eleven.

Snow was piled up against the side of the barn and the main area of the farmyard had been cleared with the scoop on the tractor. The snow pile was almost as tall as the white fencing that surrounded the pasture next to the milking barn. Black and white Holsteins calmly pulled hay from a large round bale sitting in a metal hay feeder. A grouping of bird feeders behind the house were filled with sunflower seeds and there were several ears of dried corn nailed to flat boards for the squirrels to enjoy. A symphony of roosters crowing, chickens cackling and cows mooing filled the morning air.

Mike glided through the barnyard of his family's farm. The scene was so familiar. He remembered pulling on rubber boots and sloshing his way through calf-deep mud to reach the barn and do the morning ch.o.r.es. He had actually enjoyed the earthy sweet scent of cow manure.

But this morning it was his mom who was walking back from the chicken coop with a wire basket of brown eggs in her arms. He fell into step next to her. She paused for a moment and slowly looked around.

"Hey, Mom," he said.

She looked confused. "Allen?" she called to Mike's dad. "Allen, did you hear that?"

His dad came out of the barn, a grain bucket in his hand.

"Alice? Are you okay?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I thought I heard something," she said. "I thought I heard someone call mom."

He walked over to her. "Are you hearing him again?" he asked softly.

She nodded, and brushed a stray tear away. "Yes, I could swear I heard him," she replied. "You know, just saying *Hey, Mom,' like he used to do. I guess I'm just hearing things."

Allen put his arms around his wife and hugged her. "Memories. You're just hearing memories. But we have some great ones to remember."

Taking a deep shaky breath, she tried to smile. "Yes, he was always getting into something or other," she agreed. "He had the courage of two little boys."

"And the sense of half of one," his dad added with a gentle smile.

Mike laughed and had to agree they were right.

"Yes, he did," she replied softly, placing her hand on her husband's arm. "But that didn't happen until after they found Timmy's body. If only I hadn't made him clean that stupid chicken coop. That changed everything. Timmy died and Mike started living life like he wanted to join him."

"It wasn't your fault Timmy died," Allen said. "It was that sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Forrest, and if Mike hadn't stayed home that morning, he might have been another victim."

Mike let their conversation sink in. They were right. After Timmy had been killed, he had lived his life with little regard to his safety. With a mocking laugh, he shook his head. And he'd finally been taken down by a d.a.m.n cup of tea.

He walked over and placed a kiss on his mother's cheek. She lifted her hand and covered the place he kissed.

"What?" Allen asked.

"Nothing, just feeling memories, I guess," she said. "Do you think he could... you know, visit us?"

"Never mind," she continued. "I'm just losing my mind."

Allen shook his head. "You're not losing your mind," he said. "Mike always loved you, if there was any way he could come back and visit for a while he would."

She looked around the barnyard. "Mike, if you're here, I want you to know that we think about you every day," she said. "We love you. We have always been proud of you."

It was Mike's turn to wipe a tear or two from his cheek.

Allen nodded. "Best son a man could ask for," he added. "Best son..."

His voice cracked and pulled a faded handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his nose. "Miss you, son."

Alice reached over and kissed her husband on the cheek. "Come on," she said. "Why don't I make you one of those big breakfasts Mike always loved? I'll even make pancakes."

Allen slipped his arm around his wife's waist. "You got yourself a deal," he said.

Mike watched his parents walk back to the house, arm in arm. They're getting old. His dad was a little stiffer when he walked and his mom seemed to be getting more fragile. He kicked at a pile of snow on the ground. Dammit, I was supposed to be around to help them with the farm. I was supposed to be there to help them when they got old.

The screen door clapped shut and he could see his parents through the window over the kitchen sink, washing the eggs together. He watched his dad lean over and place a kiss on his mom's neck. Watched her blush and giggle. The frustration left his body and he grinned. They'll be okay; they're still stupid in love with each other.

He stared for a moment and then tried to imagine it was he and Mary working over the sink together. He and Mary having a family. He and Mary being in love. If he hadn't died, would he have met her? His dad was right; he had been living on the wild side ever since Timmy had died, his att.i.tude about life had changed.

Concentrating on downtown Lena, the farmyard slowly faded before him and was replaced with the red brick walls of retail establishments. He glided forward, moving between the shoppers who were on their way to the feed mill or butcher shop. He paused in front of the hardware store and watched George Dittmer, the owner, shovel the sidewalk in front of his store. George had been their Little League Coach the spring before Timmy died. Mike hadn't felt like playing Little League after that.

He saw Marv Wollenstein carry a tray of wrapped meat to a car waiting at the back of the butcher shop. Marv had volunteered as their Scoutmaster for years. But Mike had stopped going to Boy Scouts after that summer.

He suddenly realized the truth of his parents' comments. His life had changed... he had changed the summer Timmy was killed. It was as if a part of him died that year too.

The downtown buildings started to fade away and were replaced with the faded paint of a white-washed shed. Mike looked around, confused at first, and then realized where he stood, Emil Forrest's property. The place they found Timmy's body and the bodies of four other boys, buried in a shallow grave.

At the corner of the property someone had posted five small white crosses. Even after twenty years they remained upright and freshly painted. He wondered about the family members who still came to clear the snow, place new flowers and wreaths on the crosses and make sure the makeshift memorial stayed in good repair.

He glided around the side of the shed. The front door was padlocked, a stain of red rust running from just above the doork.n.o.b down the front of the door. The windows were covered with plywood and bright yellow signs with black block letters reading "NO TRESPa.s.sING" were stapled all over the exterior.

The shed, where the police had found the items belonging to the boys, was still a place that intrigued many visitors to the area. He shook his head and smiled ironically. There had been rumors that the ghosts of the little boys had been spotted near the shed. One national television show about ghost trackers had actually wanted to film on the property. The town of Lena firmly denied their request.

No, there are no ghosts here, he thought, their murder has been solved and they have been able to move on.

Emil had been their bus driver since kindergarten. Emil, who took the time to listen to their stories and laugh at their bad jokes. Emil, with his slow speech, his stale candy and his amazing ability to remember every child's name, birthdate and grade. He had always trusted Emil, always liked Emil. After the murders, he found he didn't trust many.

He glided across the yard and up to Emil's house. It was dark and empty. The same "NO TRESPa.s.sING" signs littered across the porch and the front of the house. The porch was rotting, the siding needed a coat of paint, the windows on the second floor had been broken and all the entrances and windows on the first floor were covered by heavy plywood. Vandals had spray painted vulgar epitaphs on the side of the house. Words aimed at Emil, a man who would spend the rest of his life in prison. The only people who read the words were the families who were drawn to the last place their sons, brothers or grandsons had been alive.

He turned and glided away from the porch, slowly moving towards the street, but imagining the final spot he wanted to visit that day. A moment later he was standing in the middle of the Lena Cemetery, in front of Timmy's grave.

Timothy Patrick Beck 1982 a 1992.

He rested on the stone bench in front of the tombstone and looked around. Timmy's grave had been placed towards the top of the hill, so he had a view of the cemetery and the houses all around him. It was a pretty good spot. He idly wondered where his grave had been located. He really didn't have any desire to find out.

"So, Timmy," he said to the tombstone, "sorry I haven't been here to visit much lately. But, the funny thing is, I'm dead too. I got poisoned by some crazy woman who was upset because I didn't fall in love with her. Yeah, leave it to me, right?"

He looked up at the oak tree at the top of the hill, its bare and spindly limbs coated in snow. It looked dead, covered with snow and standing all alone on the top of the hill. But he knew it would come alive again in the spring. He wondered if there would be a spring for Timmy and him.

"I didn't go to heaven, Tim," he said. "I'm still here, on earth. Don't know what that means. I guess I'm hoping there is a heaven, you know, so we can kind of hang out together. But, being down here, that hasn't been all that bad either. I've made some new friends. People I really care about. There's this girl..."

He shook his head. "I always got things a.s.s-backward, didn't I? You're not supposed to meet the girl and fall in love after you're dead. Living happily ever after requires, you know, living."

Sighing, he stood up and glided closer to the tombstone. "I'll point her out to you one day," he said. "As soon as I figure out why I'm still here and what I have to do to move on. But, really, I'm in no hurry to move on. And if you met her, you'd understand."

He heard Mary's voice in the wind, calling for him.

"Hey, she's calling," he said. "Gotta go. Rest in peace, Timmy, and I'll talk to you soon."

Chapter Twelve.

Mary's door burst open and Maggie rushed in. "Rosie, did you make cookies?" she asked, tugging off her stocking cap and mittens.

Rosie hurried from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n. "Well, of course I did," she said. "What's a snow day without cookies?"

"That's exactly what I always say," Ian said, following Maggie through the door, as he sniffed the air. "Do I smell oatmeal cookies?"

"Why, yes, you do," Rosie replied, "and chocolate chip cookies too."

"Run away with me, Rosie," Ian sai,. "before Stanley shows up and ruins everything."

Maggie giggled. "You can't run away with Rosie, you're s'posed to marry me."

Ian slapped his forehead. "Oh, that's right," he said. "How could I forget?"

"Because your stomach is bigger than your brain," Stanley growled, as he came in from the kitchen. "Sides, ain't no one running away with my Rosie, *cepting me."

Andy ran into the house, nearly sliding into Ian. "We put the sleds away," he said. "Did you make cookies, Rosie?"

"Yes, yes, I did," Rosie chuckled. "Now you all get out of your snow things and come into the kitchen. I'll pour the hot chocolate into mugs."

Bradley and Mary came through the door next. Rosie looked up and could see that Mary had been crying. "Are you...?" she began to ask, but stopped when Mary shook her head and looked pointedly at the children.

"Why don't I bring Maggie and Andy into the kitchen and have them pick out the kind of cookies they'd like," she suggested, putting her arms around the children and guiding them into the kitchen.

Mary smiled at her. "Thank you, Rosie," Mary said. "We just need a few minutes."

"Can Timmy have a cookie?" Maggie asked, looking over her shoulder at a spot next to Mary.

Timmy had attached himself to Maggie as soon as they had made it back up the hill and Maggie had been delighted to meet a ghost who was close to her own age.

Andy rolled his eyes. "She's always doing that, making up imaginary friends, just so she can get extra cookies."

"Am not," Maggie stated, with a little stomp of her foot.

"Are too," Andy replied.

"Am not," Maggie repeated.

"Well, why don't you two pick out some cookies and Timmy can choose his later," Mary said. "Rosie, we need to go upstairs for a few minutes."

"Why?" Andy asked.

"They gotta talk to Timmy," Maggie said. "Duh."

"Come on, you two," Stanley said. "Do you want marshmallows or whipped cream on your hot chocolate?"

"Both!" Maggie said.

"Can we?" Andy asked.

Stanley chuckled. "Sure you can."

Mary, Bradley and Ian went upstairs.

"It's freezing in here," Bradley said, as they walked into Mary's room. "Why are your windows open?"

Mary hurried over to close one window, while Ian rushed to the other side of the room to close the other. "It's a long story," Mary said. "I'll explain it to you later."

"In the meantime, would you be willing to introduce me to your new friend?" Ian asked. "I have to a.s.sume this is Maggie's Timmy."