12:25 a.m., Wayne Mueller had just finished a pitcher of draft at Scorchers and was heading to the exit when the ghost of John Bowers walked in.  Wayne staggered against the table he had just risen from and looked around the nearly empty bar. None of the other patrons had looked up or seemed to notice the arrival of the well-liked and recently departed John Bowers. Wayne looked back towards the entrance and the apparition was gone.

Wayne ran his fingers through his dirty hair, chuckled to himself and continued out the door.  At one time Wayne was one of the most outspoken of the street racers and would accept any challenge at the drop of the proverbial hat.  He won more races than he lost and crowed about it often to anyone who could stomach him long enough to hear about his victories.  Wayne didn’t have many friends at Scorchers, but he had earned enough grudging respect from his racing to make himself a fixture around the bar.

A few months earlier, Wayne had suddenly decided to stop racing. Anyone who asked him about his change of heart got a similar round of excuses about his Plymouth Duster needing work or his decision to “leave the racing to those that still needed to impress people”.  None guessed at the real reason, or made the connection that he gave up racing shortly after John Bowers was killed.

He’d never stopped thinking about John or about the race that had taken John’s life.  He’d tried to forget it, tried to bury it under too many late nights and too much beer. But all too often, Wayne would wake up covered in sweat and remembering John’s Camaro rolling sideways and sending a shower of sparks, bits of broken glass, chrome and bloody pieces of its driver flying down Archer Avenue. 

The race began a few hours before dawn on a cold March night.  John had come back to the bar after closing to look for the driving gloves he had left behind.  Wayne had fallen asleep at the bar and his friends had left him alone where he slept. The bartender had just gone in the back to make up his liquor order for the next morning and didn’t see John walk in.

“Hey, come on Wayne, time to go home.” John said, giving Wayne a nudge on the arm.

“You’re not the boss of me, Bowers. Get lost.” Wayne said, slurring his words and picking his head up off the bar.

“Just trying to help, Wayne. You’re as big a pain in the ass drunk as you are sober,” replied John.

“I let my car do my talkin’ for me, Bowers. When are we gonna race? I think you’ve been avoiding me,” snickered Wayne, taking a sip from his warm glass of beer.

“You’re in no condition to race, some other time, Mueller,” said John walking towards the door.

“Come on, chicken. Your girlfriend isn’t here to talk you out of it. Let’s go.” Wayne challenged.

John stopped and turned, “Alright Mueller, just to shut you up.” Then the two went outside to their cars.

The street in front of Scorchers was empty when Wayne Mueller’s Duster pulled up next to John Bowers’ Camaro.  The roar of the two powerful engines split the stillness in that pre-dawn March morning. The two racers left the line together and were even through the first block and a half.  Then the intoxicated Wayne missed a shift and Bowers pulled ahead. Bowers easily won the race at the end of the quarter mile, but Wayne wasn’t ready to give up. Wayne pulled his Duster even with John as the Camaro started to slow down.  In a show of false confidence, Wayne started veering over to John’s lane until the vehicles touched. John pulled back and over to give the drunk racer more room.  The Camaro hit a series of potholes that John would surely have missed if he didn’t have to avoid Wayne’s car.  A slower moving vehicle would have survived hitting the potholes, but at the speed John was driving the Camaro’s steering linkage and front suspension broke. The Camaro first fishtailed and then started rolling sideways as John tried to regain control. The spinning Camaro just missed striking Wayne’s Duster as Wayne stopped his car and watched the Camaro come apart and John die.

Wayne sat behind the wheel of his Duster, now parked in Scorchers parking lot.  A few months had passed since the crash and Wayne had been spending more nights drinking. The police had asked around and had interviewed Wayne after the crash.  Wayne had kept the secret of what happened to him and John. Didn’t admit or volunteer any information.  He didn’t really think he’d done anything wrong, but couldn’t help feeling guilty anyway. Now besides seeing John in his dreams, Wayne thought he was seeing John walking around. He knew he was starting a slow downhill slide and he had better get some help before he ended up just another drunken loser in the neighborhood.

Wayne straightened up and cleared his head for the drive home. As he started the car and turned on his headlights he gave a startled yelp of surprise.  Standing in front of his car, illuminated by the headlights, was John Bowers. Wayne craned his neck forward to get a better look at the figure. The figure craned its neck to look back at Wayne.

Wayne slowly turned the headlights off and saw the figure remain standing in the shadows in front of his car. There was barely enough gloomy light in the dark parking lot to make out the shape.  He turned the lights back on again, and John Bowers was again brightly illuminated.  Wayne’s bladder let go and filled his leather bucket seat with a warm puddle.

Wayne slowly let out the brake and the car inched forward. the figure was standing between the Duster’s front bumper and the wall of the neighboring building, which shared Scorchers parking lot. The car continued to creep forward until it touched the bricks of the wall. The apparition of John, as Wayne was now thinking of it, disappeared below the point where it met the hood of his car.  Wayne was now starting to feel more confident that this was some kind of waking nightmare, and decided to leave for home. He shifted to reverse and started backing away from the wall. The ghost of John Bowers leaned forward and laid his hands on the hood of Wayne’s car.  The car stopped moving and the rear wheels started to spin in place. Wayne gave it more gas and the tires squealed and smoked.  John’s ghost was leaning forward and staring into Wayne’s eyes as he held the car in place. John suddenly lifted his hands from the car hood and the Duster shot backwards across the nearly empty parking lot and into the wall of Scorchers bar. The rear bumper and taillights on the Plymouth were ruined as well as many rows of bricks on the bar’s façade.

Wayne put the car back into first and stomped on the gas aiming for the ghost across the lot. The Duster shot forward into the opposite wall, cutting the ghost off above the knees as it smashed into the neighboring building. The headlights were demolished and steam rose from the ruptured radiator. Again the ghost held the car in place as Wayne tried to back away. Wayne was wiping away the tears of fury, frustration and fear as the car was released and again drove backwards across the lot and slammed into the wall of Scorchers. This time the rear end of the Duster broke through into the building. Wayne needed to rock the car back and forth to clear it from the debris and rubble and get the car moving forward again.

The bartender and many of the customers from Scorchers had rushed out to see what the problem was and saw Wayne aim his car at the building across the lot. Wayne stood on the accelerator, flew across the lot and slammed into the far wall. His unrestrained body met the steering column, partially collapsing it. Four ribs were broken and two of them punctured Wayne’s right lung. Wayne’s right ankle and left knee were shattered; his mouth collided with the steering wheel, breaking several teeth and fracturing his jaw.

The police were called and an ambulance took Wayne away. His car was towed and it was several days before I got the chance to interview him.

Wayne Mueller was released from intensive care after 48 hours and allowed visitors.  I was the only one who went to see him and Wayne was very willing to talk to me.  He described the night of John’s death as well as the night he was injured. He was more willing than able to talk due to his facial injuries, but with effort, I was able to get all the information I needed.

I finally had the three pieces of the puzzle: John, Mary and Wayne. Now I just needed a way to resolve all their problems without anyone else dying.

I had been keeping in touch with Lana from time to time over the past few days.  She had been spending most of her time involved in research. Poring over ancient and revered texts that revealed the secrets of life and death. She had been looking for answers to what had happened in the graveyard the night we brought John Bowers back and how to return him.

I had also been checking in with Vincenzo on a daily basis. I’d been able to dodge most of his assignments, especially since the rumble on Archer Avenue between John and the Justice Police.  A high profile manhunt/fugitive case meant frequent press conferences that I just had to attend.

On one trip to the newsroom I did pick up an interesting phone message written in Miss Emily Cowles neat cursive:

Carl,

            A gentleman called for you from Lagrange Hospital.

            He was very hard to understand. He said his name was

            Wayne and that John had come to visit him.

            Hope this helps,

                                                                        Emily

I quickly called Lana at home and asked her to meet me at the hospital. Then, I grabbed my hat and headed for my car.