“He also doesn’t understand what you do,” Cain said. “Gary has good intentions, but in his mind, because you help souls cross over, you’re automatically on the spirits’ side for everything.”
In the quiet that followed, Slate stitched together all the bits of information they’d gathered. Gary was chasing a dream because of something that happened in his lifetime. Finding out what drove him was the key to solving the problem.
“Let’s go over what we know about Gary Torrente.”
“That’s... Wow!” Dash stopped wiping down the kitchen counter. “You’re amazing.”
Thomas looked pleased, and Oliver preened a little from the praise. It was well deserved. Slate hadn’t expected this when he asked for their help.
“Most of the spirits understood once we explained the importance of the portal,” Thomas said. “They agreed they could still have fun without creating problems.”
The door opened and then slammed shut, and Dash shook his head. “She still can’t enter like a normal person.”
After twenty years, Slate wasn’t sure he wanted it to change. “You’re jealous she packs so much energy in her tiny frame.”
“Found them,” Liv said, setting everything on the counter. “Gary Torrente and Cain Suncar.”
“That was quick.” Dash tossed the sponge at the sink. It bounced off and landed on the floor. With a shrug, he picked it up. “I suck at sports.”
“Gary was easy.” Liv pulled up a yellowed newspaper clipping on her laptop as if nothing had happened. “He died in August 1969, two miles from the Woodstock venue when his van went off the road.”
Slate motioned, and she spun the screen around. It was the Davidsonville Daily News:Local Man Dies En Route to Music Festival.
“His sister told the reporter Gary had been planning the trip for months,” Liv continued, scanning her notes. “All Gary talked about was Woodstock. He said it was going to change everything, and that he’d finally find his people. There weren’t many hippies in that part of North Carolina at the time.”
“He never made it to the festival,” Dash said, reading over Slate’s shoulder.
“Nope. He missed a turn in the middle of the night. Given when he left and when the crash happened, he’d driven twelve hours straight.” Liv pulled out another printout. “I found his high school yearbook online. Gary was class treasurer, honor roll, voted most likely to succeed. In college, however, he joined antiwar protests, dropped out, and turned into the Gary you see now.”
Slate turned the screen around. Gary had been chasing experiences after being denied his dream. “That explains a lot.”
“I talked to his sister on the phone yesterday,” Liv said, flipping through her notebook. “She’s eighty-three now, lives in a retirement home in Matthews, North Carolina. She said Gary sold everything to buy the van, quit his job two days before he left, and planned to never go back to his old life.”
“Wow. That sucks,” Dash said. “He got his wish in the worst way possible.”
Gary died reaching for something that represented everything he wanted to become. Slate hated trying to stop him, but the portal was important to an untold number of souls. “What about Cain?” he asked.
Liv frowned, and Slate wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Cain’s story. “Cain Suncar, killed in action March 1968, near Da Nang. When I searched for any more information, his name came up in a study by a professor at Syracuse who documented closeted servicemen who died in Vietnam.”
“If he was closeted, how did this guy uncover Cain’s hidden sexuality?” Dash asked.
“His older sister contributed to the research project.” Liv tapped a few keys and the study appeared. “She’s quoted in the study. ‘Cain was always different from other boys. He never brought girls home, never seemed interested in dating. Back then, however, we didn’t talk about such things. After he got drafted, I hoped the army would help him figure himself out.’ According to her, he was killed before he got the chance.”
The kitchen fell quiet. Slate tried to imagine what it must have been like for Cain—young, confused about his identity, shipped off to war before he could understand himself.
“There are entries about letters he wrote to his sister,” Dash said, scrolling down. “He said he felt isolated and didn’t fit in with the other soldiers.”
Slate saw the way Cain acted toward Thomas and Oliver in a new light. The initial forward suggestion had changed into something less awkward. Cain watched them carefully. He had bursts when he spoke like a suburban kid, not a hippie stoner.
“So Cain never got to explore who he was either,” Oliver said quietly.
“I can’t say for sure,” Liv said. “The study relied on his sister for information, and he never said anything to her.”
“Probably worried the army would read his mail,” Dash said. “And don’t any of you pretend like they didn’t do that.”
Slate could’ve brushed this off as Dash’s dislike of authoritative agencies, but his father told him stories about how the government monitored soldiers for antiwar sentiment. “This is great information,” Slate said. “What do we do with it?”
“We use it,” Dash said. “Gary’s trying to reclaim what death stole from him. What do you think he’d do if he missed out on his big Halloween bash?”
