The ghost with the torch left the blue fire. He walked away from his blaze and stood looking up at Kimble, and there was abject disappointment to his posture, but no resignation. Then he turned and headed north along the river.
He’s leaving, Kimble realized with amazement. He is not done, but he is leaving. There will be another spot for him, and another fire. But not here.
Above the ghost, a shadow ran along the top of the ridge, tracking the blue torch.
It was the black cat. Following.
But not with him, Kimble thought. No, the cat was not a friend. He was keeping watch on him, and somehow Kimble knew that it was very good that the cat had found him. The reasons were beyond him in that moment as the fire encroached, but he understood that Silas Vesey was leaving and that it was good that the black cat trailed him.
It was important that something trailed him, and kept watch.
Kimble turned back to the cold fire then, back to what waited for him, and saw that the ghosts were all leaving. They were climbing the rocks.
For a moment, he feared for those he’d left behind, those who waited on the hilltop unaware of what was coming toward them. Then he saw that the first of the ghosts—was it Mortimer? Hamlin? one of the ancients—had detoured to the right immediately, was running for the trestle.
Coming for me, Kimble thought, and then he saw the ghost enter the flames, saw a brilliant shower of red sparks, and then there was nothing.
I’ve released them.
The next ghost entered, another shower of red sparked high and vanished, and Kimble’s excitement grew. He remembered, finally, to call out to those he’d left behind.
“It’s done here!” he yelled. “I’ve put an end to it here!”
He couldn’t see the group he’d left on the hill, though, not now, with the flames so tall. The firelight was brilliant, the night a thing forgotten. He shouted to them again, as loud as he could, and he hoped it was loud enough. He hoped that they’d heard, and that they would understand the significance of that last word.
He wanted very badly for them to know.
The fire was near him at both ends now, and one of the trestle supports broke free. It shattered with a crack and then one of the massive timbers on the trestle’s eastern edge began easing away from the bridge, as if it hated to let go, and swung down in a ribbon of golden light and met the river with a splash.
The ghosts continued their entrance—exit, Kimble thought, deliriously happy, exit—and as he was pushed farther back into the center and the trestle continued to give way around him, he saw Wyatt French coming, and he wanted to laugh, wanted to shout his thanks, but the lighthouse keeper was already gone into the warm sparks, and then there was only one left, at the top of the ridge and heading his way.
“Jacqueline,” Kimble said as she stepped toward him, “I’m here.”
He went forward to meet her.