Collier and James stood just outside the chapel doors. Collier gave him a halfhearted half-smile. James clapped him on the shoulder, but said nothing. He’d relented, then; whatever Ghost had wanted in this case, James had approved it. Already, Ghost was casting his shadow over the president’s chair, eclipsing his predecessor with brute force.
Inside, the chapel was dark as evening, the lamplight finding places to hide in the deep corners, the folds of the velvet-seated chairs. Ghost stood with his back to the doors, behind Troy’s favorite chair, a lit cigarette smoldering in one hand.
“Take a seat,” he said, his voice emotionless.
Here we are, when the sword falls. Mercy's day of judgement has arrived.
His chapel conversation with Ghost is one of those make-or-break scenes that I knew would be pivotal long before it came time to write it. I needed it to have a certain vibe: the immediacy and tension of the conflict between Ghost and Mercy as men, yes. But I also wanted to tap into that Knights of the Round Table, king-and-warrior mythos at the core of the civilian fascination with motorcycle clubs. They're organizations "out of time," and I wanted the ghosts (no pun intended) of the past to sit deep and dark in the corners of the room.
Ghost was a man out of time, some displaced warrior king deserving of better vestment than denim and leather, more dignified than the wallet chain at his hip, in need of an audience more tractable than his one-man punching bag.
I think it's a scene that speaks for itself, without need of a play-by-play breakdown. Even ten years later, I'm very happy with it.
The rest of the chapter is Ava slowly cracking. Maggie absolutely knows that she's detached from reality as an emotional defense mechanism, and that a big crash is coming, and she's trying to gently guide her through the day to day.
Ava's fast-tracking the early stages of grief - but in a distinctly blunt, Ava-like way. I wanted the audience, like Maggie, to sit back and watch her process and think "oh no, this isn't going to end well," but in Ava's POV, she's behaving in a rational, grownup way. (She's not, but that's the fun of unreliable narrators.)
I've always enjoying using nightmares to portray underlying anxiety or grief because I personally have lots of nightmares. I hate dreaming in general because I don't have good dreams. Not ever. I've been plagued by detailed nightmares ever since I was a little girl, everything from sharks, to aliens, to ghosts, to home invasions, and armed robberies. Nonsensical and Lovecraftian and deeply disturbing. I even have the full-blown sleep paralysis BS every few weeks. So I think they make for useful tools when it comes to pulling back the curtain on a character's subconscious.
Leah blinked, and gave her that same odd look everyone had been giving her.
“Oh, not you too,” Ava said. “Come on. Everyone’s acting like I’m some sort of freak show.”
“Sorry. Totally not doing that.” Leah was the first person to let it drop and change the subject, but that look…Ava was so tired of that look.
And still, nothing from Mercy.
At this stage in the book, Ava is blaming herself. Hindsight tells her she should have been more suspicious of the texts from Carter and protected her baby better. What she needs right now more than anything is Mercy's comfort and reassurance. The simple balm of his presence.
But, well, we know how that goes.
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