Even a scared 14-year-old has to stop running sometime ...

Still, when Jeremy halted - sides aching, chest heaving and legs feeling as limp as two pieces of overcooked pasta - he was well out of sight of the trucker's layby and the burning apparition. Somewhere behind him, a column of smoke was twisted by the morning's breeze and a faintly distant two-tone siren - the latest of several - announced the arrival of yet another policeman, ambulance or fire truck

Jeremy leaned heavily against a fence post to support himself, trying to control both lungs and legs - the former heaving raggedly while the latter threatened imminent collapse. Traffic on the access road was light - effectively non-existent - and the only vehicles Jeremy had seen had been on the Interstate, safely distant beyond the bordering pasture.

Finally, as some semblance of control over lungs and legs returned, Jeremy resettled his pack and forced himself away from the supporting post. As he knew well from track in school, tired muscles could too easily tie themselves in painful knots. The only safe solution was to keep moving until the over-tired muscles had a chance to recover normally.

A quarter-mile further along the road, a narrow stream - hardly more than a rivulet most times but now swollen by several days of rain - crossed the road, tumbling nosily through the culvert below the blacktop span. Cottonwoods and oaks traced both banks of the stream and offered an appealing shelter.

Jeremy selected a relatively comfortable knee beneath an oak, settling himself against the trunk, then leaning forward to massage his aching legs

"You move good for a whitey, bro," a voice addressed him. Jeremy jumped as if he'd been stung but, rather than rising fully, staggered as he came erect. There was no one around.

"Hey," the voice continued. "What's the matter. Everything's cool - no honkey bastards here. 'Sides, what'd you do t' that mother-trucker anyhow."

Jeremy used the tree for a crutch as he looked around carefully. "Who ..." he began, addressing the air, "... and, for that matter, where are you?"

"Oh, kin'a wondered if you could see me ..." The voice responded. "Kin'a wierd, really. 'Least you seems t' hear me."

"Yeah, I hear you ..." Jeremy confirmed. "What are you? Where are you?"

"Where, white bread? Right here, same as you. But what, ain't sure ... dead, I guess. Wierd ain't it? Always wanted t' be a super hero - y'know, like Black Arrow? Don' seem fair ..."

"Fair?" Jeremy settled back on the oak knee. The voice, now that he thought further, wasn't really something you heard ... more like ... like something that echoed inside - not from any direction and not ... not entirely real. Still, he peered around, suspiciously. "What do you mean 'not fair'?"

"Uh, well, like being 'nvisible ... it's not like I can turn it on and off - more like I'm stuck with it, right? 'Sides, you seem to be the only bro who can hear me and, top all that, I believes I's dead. Life's a bitch, bro. Seems like I ought'a be angry 'bout it, right?"

"And I'm crazy," Jeremy answered, then continued, "Except they say that if you're crazy, you don't think so and, if you think you're crazy, that means you're sane. What'd you mean, dead?"

"Dead's dead, bro."

"Then you're like a spook?"

"Guess so, bro. Guess you got yourself one nigga spook. 'S bitch, ain't it?"

"Let's get this straight, you're a ghost and you're here to haunt me, that right?"

"Well, guess I'm a ghost, yeah. Dead anyhow. Y'mind?"

"Uh, well, I don't know," Jeremy considered the question for a moment, then asked: "What's with that dancing flame bit ... Di' you start that fire?"

"Naw, bro. Just wanted t' talk, y'know. Don't know 'bout the other ... guy, I guess. 'Septing he wants somethin' from y'. Tha's one hurtin' dude, y'know?"

"The trucker?" Jeremy was feeling confused.

"Naw, t' bro w' th' burns. Old mother-trucker, he's hurtin' too. You really laid some fancy moves on that bad-ass, y'know. You some kin'a super ninja or wha', white bread?"

"One thing at a time," Jeremy was grasping at straws. "You say the flaming guy was ... what ... 'nother ghost? And he wants something? From me? What?"

"Don'know, bro. Yeah, guess he's a ghost but he's hurtin' too ... Real pit city, y'know?"

"What?" Jeremy relaxed against the tree. Perhaps he was talking to someone who wasn't there but he was also young enough to regard present circumstances simply as unusual rather than impossible.

"Finally get a chance t' be super-bro ..." the voice continued, "an' I'm dead. Seems like it ought'a be funny or somethin' ... 'cept don' feel nothin'."

* * *

Call it a philosophical discussion or a sophomoric bull session - the two are much the same - but the two boys, one dead, one alive, found a lot which they shared in common ... and more than a few differences as well.

Danny - since he was the unseen deceased - had lived his entire short life in the city while Jeremy had grown up in a small town with occasional excursions abroad. Like Jeremy, Danny's mother had died when he was young, leaving him in his father's charge. Again like Jeremy's, Danny's father was often absent ... except that Danny's was unemployed more often than not and, his absences were drinking binges - a circumstance which, to Jeremy, brought his favorite character, Huckleberry Finn, to mind.

"Like Huckleberry Hound?" had been Danny's response. Books, to Danny, had been something which teachers insisted on but whose mysteries held only minor attractions. Television - and comic books - had been Danny's world.

Feeling older than his own age group but too young for the older kids, Jeremy had been a loner, relying on books for company.

For Danny, a different set of choices had produced the same results. Too small for the gangs but trapped in contested turf, Danny had developed his own survival skills. Fast on his feet, he'd been a runner for neighborhood pimps, muled for local pushers and, when the gangs rumbled, had hid like a rat in what ever crevices and crannies were possible.

He'd also acquired a jones.

The jones - a taste for the same stuff he'd muled - had also been Danny's downfall. The pushers in the hood had used Danny - and others like him - as mules, relying on youth to keep them unnoticed and, if caught, treating them as expendable, part of the cost of doing business. In return for their services, such mules had been paid partially in cash and partially in goods.

Whether you called if snow, dream dust, coke, china white, power flour or simply cocaine, the hood's drug of choice had begun as a lift - a relief from tedium and boredom. A good sniff of dust and Danny would feel ten feet tall and as powerful as any cartoon superhero. Indeed, his snow dreams often featured costumed heroes and a double-cheeseburger and, first, a snort and, later, a fix were the closest things to heaven Danny could imagine.

For the most part, everything had been fine ... until the Flash Boys had appeared.

Originally, the turf where Danny lived had been Greens territory with Leopards to the east and - a ways north - a Chicano group who called themselves Los Diablos. Then the Flash Boys had moved in, first displacing the Shulu Leopards (and assimilating the survivors) before conquering the Green Meanies and, finally, facing down Los Diablos.

The Flash Boys were more than just a gang. Where the original three territories had existed in armed truce but still left room for a few independents, the Flash Boys were structured and intent on controlling everything within their expanding turf. Street corners were treated like franchises - and, when locals couldn't make the cut, outsiders were brought in to take over ... and to operate according to the rules set by the Flash Boys.

Consequently, Danny's connections had dried up. Two had been shopped to the fuzz and a third had simply disappeared. Their replacements were strangers who brought their own methods ... and their own mules ... to the hood. Danny had been out in the cold.

Which was when he found that his pleasant habit had become a full-blown jones. A burger and an occasional fix weren't just a convenience anymore, one was as essential as the other.

And that was when Danny had ripped the Flash Boys.

Danny's plan had been simple. Matching his own small size with an older friend's weight and strength, the pair had hidden on the roof of the vacant warehouse where the Flash Boys stored their junk. Night time was business time ... even if business meant lights supplied by the headlights of idling caddies and jags.

But, by dawn, business quieted down and the guards - such as they were, since the Flash Boys relied more on intimidation than expectation ... and, in any case, were more on guard against the police and rival gangs than infiltration - were asleep, drunk or stoned ... or all three. At any rate, in the pre-dawn dark, the larger boy had lowered the smaller through a rusted turbine ventilator.

A short time later, the smaller partner - who was also the brains of the operation, such as they were - was hoisted out again, his pockets generously filled with 'dime' bags.

Three roofs away, they'd shared the take, brewed a fix and then split the scene, each leaving by his own route.

"Don' know how I blew it," Danny concluded. "Maybe Fats talked or sum'in. Anyhow, bunch a' Flash Boys caught me an', I guess, killed me."

"You're certainly taking it calmly, I'd think you'd be upset."

"Don' know ..." Danny's 'voice' substituted for a shrug. "Don' seem to feel much of anything now. Don' feel mad. Don' feel hungry. Don' feel thirsty. Don' feel much of anythin', bro. Don' even feel th' jones no mo ..."

"You may not feel hungry," Jeremy responded. "But I do." He heaved himself upright. "Danny the Ghost," he thought to himself. "Well, guess it's no stranger than what I did to Tully." He shook his head, then addressed the air, "So, how do I get out of here?"

"Beats me," Danny responded. "Who's Tully. Wha'd you do t'him?"

"Hey, I didn't mention Tully ..." Jeremy began aloud, then concluded silently, "... unless you're a mind reader."

"You mean like Princess Menta? Hey, max chill ..."

"You are a mind reader!" Jeremy stilled his voice. "Guess that makes sense. If you're a ghost, I guess you don't really have any ears, do you?"

"Guess not," Danny fell silent.

"Guess you don't have any voice, either," Jeremy guessed. "Am I reading your mind? Or what? We'll have to check this out ... later. Right now I want something to drink. I don't know if this stream's clean to drink or not. Besides, I need to get to a phone. Any ideas?"

"Don' you know where y' are?" Danny sounded puzzled.

"Not a bit." Jeremy walked over to the road, turning his back on the scene of the fire. "Guess I'll head this way. Say, how come you're talking to me. Are you haunting me or something?"

"Naw ... least I don' think so. I kinda ... uh ... felt y' and ... uh ... y' smelled good. Tha's not right but I don' know how to say it. 'Sides, never liked no honkey b'fore. Anyway, I just kinda came ... and then y' were running away so I followed."

"What do you mean 'came'. From where? And how?"

"Just came ... y' know, like the other one - the hurt'n one."

Jeremy shivered at the memory of the burning figure. "So, you just 'came'. From where?"

"Uh, yeah, guess from my place ... m' dad's 'partment, y' know."

"Hey, I don't know. Where's it located?"

"Beeker Street, 1450, number 203." Danny recited the address.

"What city?"

"Oh ... uh, Cedar City ... east of L.A."

"Los Angeles?"

"Yeah."

"You know that's a thousand miles south from here?"

"Tol' ya, I don' know where here is."

"Neither do I exactly but I assume we're still in Napa County. You know, up north of San Francisco?"

"Not 'sactly," Danny admitted. "Long ways, huh?"

"Right. Hey, guess you got part of it."

"Part of what?"

"Being 'super-bro'. Five - six hundred miles is a long way. How long did it take you? What'd you do? Fly?"

"Naw, I was just here. Where you were. I mean, I felt y' ... doin' somethin' ... and I came. Didn't take no time."

"Sounds cool t' me." Jeremy considered. "Maybe you could teach me? Walking's a bitch. Besides, I'm tired."

"Uh, sure ... 'cept I don't know how ... it's like I just did it ... y' know?"

Jeremy considered the problem as he trudged along the access road. "Where can you go then? Can you go back to the apartment?"

"Don't know. Hey, hold on, bro." Danny's voice faded.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Jeremy quoted from Alice In Wonderland, one of his favorite stories. "You there, Danny?" There was no reply. "Not hot enough to hallucinate ..." He kept walking.

"Hey, there y' are, bro," Danny's 'voice' interrupted some minutes later. "Couldn't find ya for a sec. Hey, this is really boss. I went back to the 'partment ... guess nobody's found me yet. I'm still lying inside the door. Really looks funny, y' know. Then I ... uh ... jumped over to the grocery and then th' Flash Boys hideout and then down by th' river and then back here ... 'Septin' I couldn't find y' for a sec. - you moved. Say , I think I saw the boys who killed me. 'Least, they were telling another guy 'bout how they'd taken care o' the problem kid. Think that was me? Seems like I oughta be mad or somethin'."

"Uh ... right ... weren't you?"

"Naw, tole ya', don't feel mucha anythin'. Still, felt like I oughta do somethin' ... 'septin' nobody heard me when I said 'BOO!' Thought spooks were supposed to scare people."

"Right ... the burning one sure scared me," Jeremy recalled. "Maybe you should try that."

"Sure, 'septin' nobody saw me either. 'Septin' you, of course. Least you hear me."

"Right ... just don't hollar 'BOO' and spook me, okay."

"Yeah, gotcha ... no problema, whitey. Hey, car's coming."

"Right ... keep it quiet, okay? I'm going to hitch a ride." Jeremy stuck his thumb out, trying to keep his shakes from showing. He'd caught rides before - lots of times. Just cause this last one had been a creep ... he shivered momentarily.

The approaching vehicle was a pickup rather than a car - a late model 4x4 with a gold on brown paint job under the mud splatters. As it pulled to a stop, Jeremy spotted a shield with the initials VFD next to the license plate.

"Hop in," the driver invited through an open window. "But knock the mud off first, okay? Looks like you've had a rough walk." The driver was a lady in her early thirties. Her blond hair was pulled back and held by a ball cap proclaiming 'Wald Foams" and showing a cartoon figure spraying the letters from a hose. Underneath a shapeless sweatshirt, she looked healthy in a muscular sort of way. A yellow, rubberized jacket lay on the seat.

Jeremy rounded the car to the passenger side, then stepped on to the grass and tried to wipe the mud off his sneakers. "Good enough," the woman called through the window. "Hop on in. Here, sit on the jacket. What you been doing? Rolling in it?"

"Not exactly," Jeremy admitted. "Guess I need a clean up though. Uh, you wouldn't be going into Santa Rosa, would you?"

"Santa Rosa? That's a ways up the road. You were headed the wrong way, you know? How about Canterville? Are you hungry?"

"Uh, Canterville's fine ... and, yeah, real hungry. If you could drop me at the bus station ..."

"Canterville's not that big," she laughed. "Still, the bus stops by Lillian's - best food in town while you're waiting. I'm Lillian," she added.

"Uh, yeah, sounds fine. Uh, you think I'd be allowed in? With the mud and all, I mean."

"I reckon something can be worked out. There's a laundromat next door. Could pop you in a washer for a quick spin," she grinned.

"Right ... except I don't have a change of clothes with me ..."

"No sweat, we'll find something." Nothing was said for a mile or two, then Lillian broke the silence. "Look, you don't have to answer if you don't want to ... but there was a truck fire just up the road a ways - on the Interstate. Kind of odd - the truck's driver was nude. But another driver said he saw a kid running away - about your size. Any connection? Like I said, you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Uh, what happened to the driver?"

"Looks like he had a heart attack. Should recover. Look, was he trying to ... ah, put the moves on you?"

"I guess ... something like that ... look, I didn't start the fire, if that's what you're asking."

"No ... but I wouldn't blame you if you had. No, the driver was out staggering around on the pavement when the fire started - at least that's what another driver told us. And he'd already seen you running away before that. I'd put it down to accident except for some of the stories."

"What stories?"

"About a burning figure dancing in the air above the truck. Course, they could have been drunk ... or smoking something ... Still, it's an odd coincidence. Only one trucker reported you running away but several saw the dancing figure. Know anything about it? Or the driver?"

"No-o-o," Jeremy drew the word out before admitting, "I saw the fire, of course."

"And?" The lady prompted. "What about the driver."

Jeremy shuttered but didn't answer.

"It's okay ... did he hurt you? Would you like to see a doctor?"

Jeremy shook his head violently, then offered "I ... I got away ... He didn't ..."

"It's okay," she reassured him. "I'll call the sheriff and suggest they run a check on the guy. Relax, nobody's going to bother you. Hey, here's my place." She parked the pickup alongside a cinderblock building with a sign proclaiming: 'Lillian's Cafe'. "Come on around back. We'll find you a place to clean up and some dry clothes. Then you can wrap yourself around some food, okay?"

Inside, Lillian fished around in a locker, producing a pair of worn jeans, a zipper jacket and a pair of loose sandals before directing Jeremy to a wash room and suggesting: "Use the shower to get the worst of the mud off. Then pass your dirty clothes out and I'll run them through the laundromat next door. You can wear these until yours are dry. Burger and fries when you're ready. Okay?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Jeremy agreed, shrugging out of the rain slicker. "Uh, thanks."

"No problem," Lillian grinned. She turned away, shouting instructions into the kitchen while heading for the restaurant office.

Inside, Jeremy found a toilet, washbasin and a worn but serviceable shower stall. "Uh, you there, Danny?" he whispered.

"Sure thing, bro," the familiarly hollow voice responded.

"Sounds like other people saw the burning figure, too," Jeremy considered. "Guess it wasn't just you and me. Any ideas?" Jeremy emptied his pockets, stowing the contents in his backpack. The Book was well protected in its plastic cover. The passport and wallet were damp but otherwise clean.

"I .. I do'n know," Danny considered. "Never seen anythin' like that b'fore."

"Me neither," Jeremy turned on the shower and stepped in, watching the mud wash off his shoes and pants. "Excecpt yesterday ... I think it was yesterday." He shivered under the hot shower, then began stripping his pants.

Danny was silent for a moment. "Ma'be ... but he sure wan's somethin' from ya'. Tha's one hurtin' dude."

Both boys were silent while Jeremey tried to squeeze the extra water from his soaked pants.

Jeremy carefully wrapped pants, shirt, shorts, socks and shoes inside his jacket before winding a too-large apron around his waste like the sarong he'd worn in India. Stepping into the too large sandals, he opened the door to the cafe's kitchen.

"Let me take those," Lillian offered, stepping out of the office. "I'll toss them in the washer for you. Just tell Lars when you're ready for the burger." The lady gestured toward an aproned cook who responded by waving a spatula.

"Uh, thanks. I think I'd better finish showering, first." He retreated to the bathroom.

If the only soap available was a rougher variety intended more for hands than a bath, the hot water was plentiful and welcome, sending a muddy stream down the drain. Finishing, Jeremy rinsed the shower stall, then used the apron to pat himself dry before donning the dry clothes Lilian had offered.

The Levi's were a generous fit but serviceable enough once the legs had been turned up. The loaned jacket was, likewise, over large and the sandals flopped threatenly. Sartorially, the costume was a disaster. But, for comfort, the combination was warm and dry ... and a definite improvement over his earlier condition.

Back in the kitchen, Lars hadn't waited for a request but already had a generous burger on the grill while a steaming heap of homefries were ready and waiting, together with a mug of hot chocolate. Jeremy collapsed heavily into the offered chair, the wonderful aromas bringing a sudden faintness as he realized how long it had been since he'd eaten ... and how skimpy his last meal had been.

A second burger had followed the first, chased by a large slice of lemon pie before Jeremy was willing to admit that his appetite was sated ... at least for the present. Pushing the plate away, Jeremy glanced at his watch. Suprisingly, according to the time piece - and confirmed by a wall clock - it was scarcely 9:00 in the morning.

"Is there a pay phone I can use?" he inquired of his hostess. "I need to call Guerneville."

"Use the one in the office," Lillian directed. "Don't worry about the cost ... unless you're calling your girl friend." She grinned, then added: "Your clothes should be dry by now. Go ahead and call. You can change when you're done."

The Guerneville number - Mrs. Gerrity's - reached an answering machine. After listening through the greetings, Jeremy left a brief - if rambling - message. "Hi, Mrs. Gerrity? I guess you're okay. Look, I'll call later. Right now, I've got to try to reach Dad ... Uh, I guess that's all. I'll talk to you later. Okay? Bye." It wasn't so much that Jeremy was disorganized - for his age - or for any age - he tended to be both organized and coherent. But, like so many people of any age, faced with a recording, he never knew what to say and therefore both said too much and too little.

He looked at the phone for a moment, annoyed as much at himself as anything, then picked the phone up and dialed a second number, this one beginning with an 800 area code.

"Intercontinental Explorations," a too-precise voice answered.

"Good morning," Jeremy offered. "Mrs. Ashdown, please."

"I'm sorry," the voice returned a moment later. "Mrs. Ashdown is away from her desk at the moment. Shall I connect you to Mrs. Ashdown's secretary?"

"Uh, sure, thanks."

Another pause, then a new voice answered: "Mrs. Ashdown's office. May I help you."

"Uh, I need to talk to Mrs. Ashdown," Jeremy hesitated. "Will she be back."

"I'm not certain," the response was meticulous. "What is this regarding?"

"I need to get a message to Mr. Richard Blume," Jeremy began. "I believe he's in Huy Brazil?"

"Mr. Blume is out of the country at the moment," the voice confirmed. "We're trying to reach him right now. I believe he should be back in a few days. If you would like to leave a message? Whom should I say is calling?"

"This is his son, Jeremy and ...," Jeremy began, only to be cut off in mid sentence.

"I don't know who you are," the voice became brisk and bitter. "But this is not funny." A sharp click terminated the conversation.

Jeremy looked at the handset with a puzzled expression, then repeated the call, again reaching Mrs. Ashdown's secretary.

This time, he was informed - quite briskly - that Mrs. Ashdown was not available and would not be available, that Mr. Blume was also not available, that they were already aware of the misfortune involving Mr. Blume's son and that if he - meaning Jeremy - whoever he might really be, called again, they - presumably meaning Mrs. Ashdown's secretary - would have the police trace this call. Further, the voice informed him without pausing for breath or interruption, that they - perhaps meaning Intercontinental Explorations - were not amused in the slightest by whatever attempt this was to capitalize on someone else's tragedy and would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.

Again, a sharp click terminated the conversation.

Jeremy replaced the receiver with a feeling of mystified disbelief. Nothing made sense.

Then he saw the newspaper.

In news parlance, the story was "below the fold", meaning that it rated a page one lead but wasn't the big story of the day. The headline - narrow type to fit a single column in a two-line spread - read "Body Found In Guerneville Fire".

The story below was equally succinct, identifying the body found - death by fire - as one Jeremy Althus Blume, age 14, son of Richard Maxwell Blume, a petroleum engineer employed by the Los Angeles-based Intercontinental Explorations. No date for the funeral had been set, pending Mr. Blume's return.

Jeremy was stunned, his mind racing from the odd phone call to a recalled memory of the burning figure in the house to where was Mrs. Gerrity to the absent Mrs. Ashdown to ...

"Hi," a cheerful voice interrupted. "Your clothes are dry if you'd like to get back into something that fits better." Lillian - no last name offered - was standing in the door holding a neatly folded pile of clothing, a fragrance of warm fabric was added to the smells of hot grease, frying meats and percolating coffee.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Jeremy shook himself erect and accepted the stack.

A few minutes later, Jeremy reappeared, properly dressed in his own clothes. "Uh, thanks for the lunch," he began, "and the clean clothes ...".

"No problem," the lady firefighter nodded toward a spare chair. "Feel like talking now?"

"Uh, about what?" Jeremy's mind was still racing madly in circles.

"Well, first, why were you on the road so early in the morning? Or had you been out all night?" Lillian grinned reassuringly.

"I was trying to get to the bus," Jeremy temporized. "I've hitchhiked before but ..."

"But this time you were unlucky? Or maybe you were luckier than you know?" The lady shook her head. "The driver who picked you up seems to be recovering from his heart attack ... but it looks like he'll do his recuperation in a cell somewhere. Sheriff says the man has a record and warrants from three states ... for felony child abuse and rape." She paused to let her words sink in, then prompted him again, "You're sure you're okay?"

"Uh, yeah ... I mean, he didn't ... er, he tried but ..."

"That's okay," her voice was gentle. "You're safe now. If you don't want to talk, that's fine. Later, if you do want to talk ... your school councilor's always ready to listen or you can talk to your minister or priest, okay."

"Uh, sure, but nothing happened really. I mean, I think he wanted to but ..."

"It's okay," she reassured him. "Just relax. Now, would you tell me your name?"

"My name," Jeremy blinked, then an idea jelled in his mind. "Uh, Jerry ... Jerry Risenfern." He combined the hated nickname with a new last name, grasping the first name he could recall without questioning its origins.

"Where are you from, Jerry?"

"Oh, Guerneville. That's why I was calling ..."

"Well, there's a bus to Santa Rosa in about an hour. I'm not sure about the transfers but ..."

"Oh, no," Jeremy interrupted. "I need a ... a bus to San Diego ... Chula Vista ... that's why I was coming into town. The flood kind of messed the house up and I'm going down to live with my grandparents until things are cleaned up." Jeremy seized on plausible fragments, building a background and story on the fly. Silently, he kicked himself - he'd almost said riverboat, not bus - too much Huckleberry Finn. And a bus to San Diego would mean a change in Los Angeles ... at which point, he could disembark and find the offices of Intercontinental Explorations directly. Then he'd have a few words with Mrs. Ashdown's secretary ... where she couldn't hang up on him. The fact that it would be Sunday, at least, before he could reach there, slipped his mind entirely.

"I see," the lady relaxed, then asked, "What about your luggage. Was it in the truck?"

"Uh, don't have any," he temporized. "Everything was wet and Granddad said I could get some new clothes down there."

"Do you have a ticket?"

"Not yet," Jeremy produced his wallet and bank card. "I'm supposed to go by an ATM and get some cash. Uh, I can pay you for the lunch ... and the laundry," he offered, extracting a twenty dollar bill.

"That's okay," she assured him. "There's no charge. There's an ATM across the street. Things are quiet right now - not much business before noon on Saturdays. Would you like Lars to walk along? I'll check the bus schedule for you."

"Uh, thanks, sure ..."

* * *

The south-bound bus didn't leave until nearly 1:00 ... by which time Jeremy had endeared himself to Lars by dumping the trash, washing three loads of cups and glassware, suggesting the addition of Indonesian sate to the menu - as well as supplying the recipe - and finishing another lunch - ham and beans with a side order of salad, milk and chocolate pie.

During this time, Danny had offered a variety of comments - including referring to the ham and beans as "soul food". When possible, Jeremy had responded silently but real conversation had been hampered by the presence of Lars, Lillian or both.

Before boarding the bus, Lars had supplied a box of sandwiches, cake and cold chicken, commenting "Can't stand the food at bus stations. They charge too much and feed you slop 'cause there's no time to fix anything proper. Here, this'll keep you from starving. Okay?" In actual fact, it was food enough for basketball team - after a hard game.

And Lillian had spent a few minutes with the bus driver. The result was that Jeremy was given the front seat - the bus was relatively empty - and assured that he, Jeremy, could relax and he, the driver, would see that he made his connection.

At one point, Jeremy had considered producing his passport - with its fictitious age - to assure everyone that he was old enough to travel without a shepherd. Then he remembered the discrepancy in names between the document and how he had introduced himself and left well enough alone, submitting first gracefully and then with a degree of inner amusement. "Hoist on my own petard," he remanded himself and then had to explain the reference - with limited success - to Danny.

* * *

Initially, the bus ride was relaxing and interesting. Once south of San Francisco, however, after passing through the cities, suburbs and townships which comprise the 'Bay Area', the bus route began the long - and empty - trek down Interstate 5 through a region rivaled for lack of interest only by the notorious 'empty quarter' in the Arabic desert.

By mid-afternoon, Jeremy had shared his bounty from the diner with the driver and passengers, had reassured a Chicano passenger - in Spanish better suited to Morocco than Southern California - and had settled back in his seat to rejoin Huck and Jim ... and the Dauphin and Duke ... on their river journey.

"You read Huck Finn?" Jeremy addressed Danny silently.

"Hey, whitebread," Danny's words carried a note of amused tolerance. "Homeboys don' do books ... 'ceptin' picture books." But, an hour later, Huckleberry Finn's adventures had become a history lesson with Danny alternating between demanding explanations and urging Jeremy back to the story.

* * *

It was dark when the bus arrived at the Los Angeles terminal with Jeremy, book forgotten, sleeping soundly.

"Hey, Jerry," the driver shook him awake. "Welcome to the City of Angels. Be 'bout an hour before your bus for San Diego leaves. Hang on while I unload luggage for the others. Then I'll show you where, okay?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Jeremy rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thinking about how to get away. He awoke groggily, feeling more jet lag from his bus journey than he ever had from a trans-oceanic flight. "Uh, where's a bathroom," he asked. "I think I need a pit stop."

"In the double doors, turn right. Come on back when you're done," the driver dismounted, turning his attention to the luggage doors.

Jeremy followed the directions going in - a pit-stop was, indeed, needed - but, coming out, turned toward the ticket counter instead. Intercontinental Explorations was headquartered in Orange County - a further two-hour bus ride since the express busses ran only during the day and not at all on weekends.

A half-hour later, the lights of greater Los Angeles were slipping by.

* * *

After reaching the city of East Orange - where Intercontinental Explorations was headquartered - it had taken some persuasion to convince a cab driver to, first, deliver Jeremy to IE's office park and, second, to leave him alone there at four o'clock in the morning.

It wasn't until the cab left that Jeremy had finally realized it was - now - early Sunday morning and IE's offices wouldn't be open at all for more than twenty-four hours.

Next, while searching the grounds for a public telephone, Jeremy had attracted the notice of a security guard and, subsequently, had spent most of an hour playing "hide and seek" with an increasingly nervous private policeman.

Finally, once the guard had returned to his rounds - or, perhaps, to a cup of coffee and a magazine - Jeremy had settled for a sheltered spot behind an untrimmed pyrocantha bush. For a moment, he could almost imagine that he was back at the entrance to his root cellar / hideout. Of course, here in Southern California it wasn't raining ... and the night was markedly warmer ... but the sheltering foliage offered a briefly nostalgic familiarity.

Hidden, with time to rest and consider, Jeremy and Danny had taken stock of their situation. For Danny, they were now relatively close to home even though East Orange was still, technically speaking, terra incognia.

Under Jeremy's interrogation, however, two factors became apparent. First, Danny didn't really know where Cedar City was in relation to East Orange nor how to get there and, second, Danny didn't know what they could do if they did. It wasn't exactly like any of Danny's friends would listen to a honkey ... or believe in a ghost either. But, even if they did ... what then.

The short and simple was that neither boy nor ghost had much of a plan.

Still, for the next few hours, there wasn't a lot of point in deciding anything. Therefore, finding a space behind the shrubbery, Jeremy removed his backpack and settled himself as comfortably as practical ... until, roughly two hours later, as the dawn was lighting the sky, the automatic sprinklers came on.

The sprinklers were directed toward the lawn rather than the shrubbery but the mist filtering through the shrubbery was sufficient to send Jeremy trotting away from the building and down the street.

* * *

Some blocks distant, a donut shop provided breakfast and a restroom. Then, feeling refreshed and basically himself again, Jeremy faced the question of what to do ... and where. It was Sunday - International Explorations wouldn't be opened until Monday - which left Jeremy free for the next twenty-four hours.

In Egypt, Jeremy would have headed for the nearest souk or bazarr; in Malaysia or Thailand, he'd have easily found the nearest marketplace. Here, since this was America, Jeremy set course for the nearest mall.