"Rio Vista Police," the desk sergeant answered.

"Is Sergeant Sanchez in?"

"Sergeant Sanchez? He's on nights, I imagine he went home hours ago. Could someone else help you?" The desk sergeant's voice was guarded: policemen are accustomed to cranks who ask for them by name, demanding personal attention. On the other hand, snitches also prefer to talk to 'their' policeman.

"Uh, yeah ... I guess so." The voice sounded young but also uncertain.

"If you'd tell me what this is about ..." the sergeant prompted.

"Uh, it's about the fire last night ... at the warehouse, I mean ..."

"Arson? Just a moment, I'll transfer you to Detective Gonzales. Hang on." While punching the extension, the desk sergeant glanced at the read-out for the caller ID.

A moment later, elsewhere in the building, a voice with a faintly Chicano accent announced: "Gonzales here."

"Buenos tardes," the caller greeted him politely.

"Buenos tardes," Detective Gonzales answered, then, responding to the caller's accent, reverted to English, "Can I help you?"

"I was calling about the fire at the warehouse last night."

"Yes, what about it?" The detective doodled idly on a notepad - crank calls were like that, somebody probably wanted to tell him how the police had mishandled things ... or else pass along a revelation whispered to them by their cat. Unfortunately, the story - such as it was - had made both the morning and evening papers, chiefly because the six men found in the warehouse had been nude. The story had appeared under the Police Beat caption with a condensed headline reading: "High-Stakes Strip Poker?"

It didn't occur to anyone, until later when the desk sergeant and the detective compared notes, that Sergeant Sanchez had not been mentioned in the stories.

"Your men missed something last night," the caller explained. "There was - is - a quantity of drugs hidden there. We ... I thought you might want them for evidence."

"And just where are these drugs?" the detective's interest was minimal. Where there was money, people assume there were drugs. For that matter, the police had wondered as well and had searched thoroughly but had come up empty.

"Uh, upstairs, the ceiling above the bathroom has a loose panel. They're hidden up there. Above the toilet, I think."

"You know this for sure?" At this point, Gonzales was paying attention. Crank callers weren't generally that explicit. Besides, he didn't think any of the stories had described the interior layout.

"Uh, yeah. You've still got some men out there, don't you? Call them and tell them. But, uh, tell them to be careful - it's pretty dusty up there. Above the ceiling, I mean."

"Would you mind telling me how you know this?" Gonzales was gesturing wildly at the office three desks away, waving a note that said "TAPE".

"Uh, the suit who did all the talking - when he had a suit, I mean - he said it was hidden there. The guy with the satchel sent one of his men up to get it."

"What do you mean 'the suit'? Seems to me they were all nude." Gonzales kept his voice calm, projecting only marginal interest while making 'hurry' motions with his free hand.

"Uh, yeah, before, I mean. Three of them were, ah, Flash Boys. They were buying the junk. I don't know who the suits were but they were selling."

"And how did you hear all this?" Gonzales nodded acknowledgment across the room. The tape was running.

"Uh ..." There was a click as the phone went dead.

"Diablo!" Gonzales cursed, then grabbed for a notebook with one hand and while dialing with the other.

* * *

Elsewhere. "I can go back and check," Danny suggested.

"Probably ought to give him a little time," Jeremy considered, looking at the phone. "Maybe we should have found a pay phone somewhere. Don't think they'd have traced the call, do you?"

"Hey, homie, what's th' sweat. Not y'r phone."

"Father Dominguez ... well, I don't want to cause him trouble."

"Yeah," Danny agreed. "For a collar, he's maxed ice. Hey, ma'be y'd better split ... just in case they come nosing 'round."

"Uh, well, I did promise Nunc that I'd help him with his English after school. Jeanne will know where to find us but I'd better tell Father Dominguez ..."

"I'll meet y' there," Danny decided. "I wan'a see if they find th' junk ... Uh, Jeremy ...?"

"What?"

"Can ... can y' ... you help me w' my English too?"

"What's wrong."

"I don' wan' ... don't want t' talk like a ..."

"Of course," Jeremy assured him, then added, "Hey, when the coast is clear, maybe we can get the recorder and the Tom Sawyer tapes back. I'll catch y' over at th' deli. Okay, homie? Think Father Dominguez likes Thai?"

* * *

"Oh, sure, I have Italian silks fall apart at the seams and then vanish everyday," the man growled at the phone. His hair was neatly coiffured and his yellow silk shirt contrasted his lime-green suit. "No, twit, if I thought those Flash Boy homies could have anything to do with it - never mind. The place has been crawling with fuzz all day. What I want you to do is to get an ear down at the cop shop and find out what's going on. ... I don't care, just do it. ... Your ass if you don't." The man slammed the receiver down, scowling, trying not to think about the burning figure which had swooped first through the empty warehouse and then through the front doors before the explosions outside had totally destroyed his custom Bentley..

* * *

"Mai! Mai! Sorry Nunc, but it is important how you say it. Look, suppose I said 'ging conome mai dee' instead of 'mai ging conome dee'? It's the same difference as saying 'do eat cake not good' instead of 'do not eat good cake'. Uh, of course we use a contraction - a shorter form of the words - and say 'don't eat the good cake'. Uh, yeah, there's an article in there too. Thai doesn't use them - a lot of languages don't - but English does."

"Why?" Nunc demanded.

"Because!" Jeremy responded. "Look, I'm not making a joke, that's just the way it is. Hey, in Thai, you say 'kap!' at the end of every sentence. Why? Because that's the way it is. And, if you had a sister, she'd say 'ka!' the same way, mai? Well, in English, we use articles a lot. We say 'the' and 'a' and ... uh ... I can't remember what else."

"Hey, how 'bout excusing me for a moment? I need to use your bathroom - hong nam, kap." Jeremy excused himself. The need was more psychological than physical but Danny had just returned and he wanted a moment to talk to the ghost in private.

"Okay," Jeremy addressed his friend silently. "What gives? Did they find it?"

"It's still there," Danny reported. "But I think they know 'bout it. Ma'be they settin' a trap a' some kind."

"Why? What were they doing?"

"I'm not sure," the ghost admitted. "Guys're all over the place with funny stuff. And they cut t' door out o' t' wall in back."

"That's a lot of trouble for a stash of drugs," Jeremy considered. "I mean, they've already got the guys ... At least, I thought they did. Uh, as long as I'm in here ..." Jeremy blushed faintly.

"Don' mind me, bro." Danny's voice grinned.

"Not 'don''," Jeremy corrected. "Say 'don't'. And you're dropping your 'the's."

"Uh, yeah. Okay, don't mind me, bro. That better?"

"Better. We'll work on it later. Okay?"

* * *

"Okay, forensics have lifted everything they can, the cameras are in place and there's a team in a packing crate at the back with a crawl-through to the next yard so they can be relieved without exposure." The speaker was medium height, middle-aged and as nondescript as a man could be without being invisible. His garb consisted of tan work pants - well worn - a blue denim shirt and a tan jacket. Even a close observer would be unlikely to suspect the shoulder holster which the jacket was custom-tailored to conceal.

The phone the man was using was cellular, conventional enough except that not even the most dedicated radio pirate would ever hear anything except static from the transmission.

"Yep, it's taken care of," the man continued, nodding. "We're about to bug out of here. Team two's in a office across the street and I've got spotters covering both intersections. The images are being hot-linked directly to the Riverside offices. Anyone comes by, we'll have an ID in ten minutes max. Any high probability suspects show, I've got a dozen men spotted within a half-mile range ready to take up a tail ... Look, it's covered, I'm telling you ... Yeah ... Yeah ... So, what the lab say? ... Don't give me that crap. Look, have they figured out how the door got welded without a trace of heat or a welding bead or anything else ... without even disturbing the paint which must be at least five years old? ... No I don't give a rat's ass about the 'burning man' hallucination. There's plenty of real, hard evidence and that's what we're going on. What about the tapes? ... Yeah, I know - that's what the labels said, 'Adventures of Tom Sawyer' - but what's really on them? ... Well, have them check them again ... I'll talk to you later."

The man closed the phone, slipping it into a side pocket and shaking his head. "Okay, you yahoos," he shouted through the missing door. "Move it out. If it's not covered now, it never will be."

A short time later, down the street, a city work crew started packing up, removing the striped sawhorses. In front of the warehouse, burn marks and smudges of smoke were the only remaining evidence.

* * *

"Hi, dude" Jeanne greeted. "Figured I'd find you here. Hey, got time to meet someone?"

"Uh, sure. Tomorrow, Nunc, okay?" He rose from the table and nodded to the Thai youngster.

"Later, du-u-de," Nunc imitated a popular cartoon character. Jeremy and Jeanne laughed while Nunc's mother nodded with a puzzled smile.

Outside, Jeanne set off a quick pace. As soon as the pair - trio - were out of earshot of the deli, she turned to Jeremy. "Man, you know there's fuzz all over your pad? I was going to have Terri drop me off so I could dump some stuff and the place looked like a football game - people all over the place. What in hell'd you do? And why didn't you invite me?"

Immediately, Jeremy and Danny were falling all over each other, trying to explain - a process which took several blocks.

"So," Jeremy concluded. "I'm ... we're staying with Father Dominguez."

"Great. I had some better clothes for you but I left them in Terri's car - told her they were for the Salvation Army resale shop but I had the address wrong. Then I skipped and came looking for you. Hey, here's where we're going." The sign on the building read: Geller's Books.

"This is who I wanted you to meet. She's a friend of mine," Jeanne continued. "Ms Geller's really special - she likes good music, knows everything and ... well ... I haven't told her much except that you're a friend of mine but ... hey, come on. Maybe I can score a couple more Twain tapes for Danny. Uh, sorry Danny, I wasn't meaning to ignore you but, uh, gads! You know how much I'd love to introduce you to Ms. Geller - I mean, introducing her to a ghost? What a blast."

"Why?" Danny was puzzled.

"Oh, I haven't had a chance to tell you about her. Hey, you heard ... gad, hey, I'll tell you later. Come on in. Let's get a couple of tapes you can play this evening - I've got another player - and you can size her up. But I want a pizza ... soon, du-u-udes!"

Mrs. Geller was ... well, not an old woman but definitely in her forties ... maybe even her fifties. At any rate, her dark hair was showing traces of gray and the corners of her eyes showed fine lines On the plus side, her handshake when Jeremy was introduced, was firm and frank and she smiled like she really meant it. "Jeanne says you're a special friend. She also tells me you like Twain. But how do you feel about Kipling?"

"Ah ..." Jeremy's mind spun for a moment. "How about it's better to have kippled and lost than to never have kippled at all?"

"Hoh! I'm impressed. You have good tastes, Jeanne. Who do you like, Jeremy?"

"Hundreds - uh, Anthony ... Xanth, anyway ... and James Schmidt and, uh, you know Manning Coles?" Jeremy remember one special title he'd found on the shelves at home.

"Sure, Tommy Hambledon? That's ancient history for you, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah but he's good. You ever read Brief Candles?"

"Sure. You know there's a sequel? Happy Returns?"

"No," Jeremy admitted. "I haven't seen that one."

"I have a copy - not for sale, mine, but you could borrow it."

"Uh, thanks, I'd like to some time. Uh, you know Robert van Gulik?"

"Judge Dee," she confirmed. "You do have eclectic tastes. What about Clayton Rawson."

"I don't know him," Jeremy admitted. "Uh, I've got a friend who's reading Twain. Do you have any paperbacks? Life on the Mississippi? I need two copies."

"Why don't you show him, Jeanne?" Ms. Geller invited. "You know the stock as well as I do."

Back in the stacks, Jeremy explained quickly. "If I can get two copies that are the same, I can spread the pages out so Danny can read while I'm asleep ... uh, I'm trying to help him with his English too."

"Ms. Geller certainly likes you. But what kind of code were you two talking? I mean, I know most of the people you mentioned but I think I missed something."

"Uh, I'm not sure. But Brief Candles is about ghosts."

"Oh."

"And van Gulick kind of had some but I don't know who this Rawson was."

"She's sharp all right," Jeanne agreed. "What do you think, Danny? ... Danny? ... Where'd he go?"

"Don't know, he does that sometimes. Hey, here's Twain. Two copies. Good, they're old and they're used - cheaper."

"So pay for them and I'll buy the pizza."

* * *

"No," the nondescript man reported. "Quiet as a churchyard. Any word from your end? The phone call? Yeah, I know. Can you get a warrant? ... Hell, I don't care if he's a priest. Put a tap on the phone. You should have had it there hours ago. ... Just do it! What about the fingerprints? ... Well, run 'em through the closed registries. ... No, I don't care what the FBI says. This is priority. Use a trapdoor and get in there. If there's a set ... two sets? From where? ... the desk and the couch upstairs? ... and the tapes? ... and the toilet handle? ... What about the other six? ... Just one on the stash package? ... Okay, you're telling me that someone left prints upstairs but not on the stash. But the stash has prints from one of the ... yeah, he's out of Bakersfield ... So how did our mysterious seventh and eighth suspects ... a what? ... the velcroed panel? Yeah, I saw it - I'm the one that sent it in. Did you see the cut screws? Smooth as jo-blocks. ... Just a minute, the scope shows what? ... No, I don't. You're telling me that each of those was cut smoother than anything we can do in the lab and then stuck back together with velcro from Radio Shack? ... No, the next thing I expect to see is a flying saucer driven by a bunch of kids - or their dogs - who are using z-rays to break into abandoned warehouses and mess up smack deals by stripping the dealers ... It's either that or a bunch of kung-foo turtles! No, they'd have left pizza boxes behind ... Of course I'm kidding, stupid. Just get that tap in place."

* * *

"Afternoon, Father," the middle-aged woman's traditional black lace shawl contrasted strangely with her casual slacks and blouse. "Do you have time to hear confession?"

"Of course," Father Dominguez responded, quickly rummaging through his memory for a name. "I haven't seen you recently, ...ah ..."

"Maria Romero, Father." The woman offered quickly, then turned and led the way toward the confessional booths, entering the penitent's side and closing the door.

Father Dominquez followed, still puzzling though his mental catalog. As he entered the priest's side, a name fell into place but he took his seat and remained silent as he slid back the cover over the small, screened panel between the two cubicles.

So many these days preferred the newer, open form of confession, it was strange that a young woman like Mary Sanchez should prefer the older - and stranger still that she'd offer an assumed name. Still, it had been quite a while since he'd seen her - only once or twice since she and her husband had moved out to the suburbs and only casually, never for confession.

"I'm sorry, Father," the woman began. Her words were not the usual litany but, since Vatican II, the forms had changed and loosened. "Thanks for not using my name." she spoke barely above a murmur and Father Dominguez had to lean close to hear. "Joe wanted me to warn you." Joe - Jose Sanchez - Sergeant Jose Sanchez, Rio Vista P.D., Mary's husband, pieces began to fall into place.

"Of what, Mary," Father Dominguez also kept his voice pitched low and soft.

"Someone made a call from your phone this afternoon. They called the station and asked for Joe. Desk switched them over to Detective Gonzales who took a tip about drugs hidden at the warehouse where the fire occurred last night. Joe said he didn't figure it would have been you."

"I haven't spoken to Joe since last night," the priest assured her.

"Joe said it sounded like someone young."

"I see." The response was noncommittal.

"Doesn't matter," the woman continued. "But Joe says that there's a bunch of hats snooping around and they may be tapping your phones."

"I understand."

"Joe also said that if anyone was here for sanctuary, it might not be safe for them to stay."

"Yes."

"Joe says it isn't narks, I.N.S. or Feds - he thinks some kind of spook-types. That make sense?"

"No ... but it's information. Anything else?"

"Vaya con Dios, Padre. I've got to go."

"Vaya con Dios, Maria. And thank you. Tell Joe he might find me at the cantina tomorrow. He'll know where and when. Bless you, my child."

Father Dominguez sat where he was for several minutes before breathing a soft, "Amen. Gracias, Dios." Leaving the confessional, Father Dominguez genuflected before the altar, then glanced at his watch as he hurried out the side door.

* * *

Over pizza - to Jeremy's tastes, this was Jeanne being weird, after all, pepperoni and pineapple? - Jeanne filled Jeremy in on Ms Geller's background.

When she was young - to Jeanne, anything over fifteen years ago was ancient history - Ms Geller had been a flower child and a member of the activist underground, eventually changing her name and identity to avoid arrest and prosecution for - Jeanne wasn't sure exactly what - unspecified activities. As Ms. Geller had put it, as long as she was going to use a fake name, she decided to borrow a name from a fake.

"She said she'd considered taking the name Munchausen," Jeanne related, "but didn't want to be a Baroness."

Hearing this, Jeremy tried to choke on his pizza. "What's her first name?" he asked as soon as he recovered.

"Uriel," Jeanne replied. "That mean anything to you?"

"Nope, not at all." he admitted. The celebrated liar, Baron von Munchausen, he'd recognized but the pseudo-psychic, Uri Geller, was a stranger from another time. "But," Jeremy concluded thoughtfully, "I think I like her."

* * *

"Sure we can bail Emilo out," the Flash Boy addressed his war council. "But, 'til his leg heals, he's better off where he is. 'Sides, it's only a weapons beef and Saul says that they can't even press that 'cause the warehouse was private property. So, let the Man pay the hospital bill. We got more important business." He looked at his bandaged hands, glaring. "Somebody gonna pay - big time."

* * *

Several blocks from the church, Jeanne and Jeremy were interrupted by a voice from a parked car. "'Cuse me, son. Your name Jerry or Danny?" The question came from a Chicano man, leaning out the window of an older but well polished pickup. From the back, two sets of lawn mower handles protruded while gardening tools were racked behind the cab.

"Who?" Jeremy started.

"Father Dominguez," the man continued, "says you should go pick up something spicy ... there's a message waiting for you. Comprende?"

"Si, seņor. Muchas gracias."

"Do you need a lift?"

"Gracias, no," Jeremy responded politely.

"Vaya con Dios, muchacho." The driver pulled out, into the traffic and drove away.

Jeremy and Jeanne exchanged looks. "I don't know," Jeremy spoke first. "But maybe we'd better."

"Probably so," Jeanne agreed. "But I wish I knew where Danny was."

* * *

"Negative reports don't help any," the nondescript man growled. "Teams are in place and covering the one known sight. Search teams are standing by but can't move until we have some kind of leads to work with. ... Wonderful. Has section four run those prints yet? Yes, through the closed registries. ... I don't need excuses. Call me when you have something - but make it soon."

* * *

"Sawadee, ka," the deli owner's wife greeted them. "Kun Jeremy, I have message for you. Please, come in back. Trumpa teenee."

Jeremy and Jeanne followed instructions, crossing behind the counter and following the Thai woman into the back room. "What's wrong," Jeremy demanded. "Is there something ..."

"Father Dominguez send this note," she held up a small envelope. "He also leaves with me phone number. Teenee, you read. I help customers."

The note was brief and to the point:

Jeremy - I believe that someone is hunting for you and that you are probably better off if they do not find you ... or Danny. Do not come back to the church. I suspect it is being watched. I've made arrangements for sanctuary with friends at another church. Call this number and tell them you are the Hildalgo del Norte. This will identify you. Tell them where you are and someone will come and pick you up. I will speak with you as soon as it is safe. May God keep you and bless you both.

A phone number was written on a small card.

"You certainly lead a quiet life, Clark Kent," Jeanne suggested, jokingly. "Now what? Are you going to call?"

"I don't know," Jeremy considered. "Maybe I should. ... Or, maybe ..."

"What?"

"What do you think? Where should I be?"

"Why are you asking me?" Jeanne was puzzled.

"I want you to tell me where is the best place for me to be," Jeremy spelled it out.

"Oh," Jeanne caught on. "But ... I mean ... it didn't work out ... the warehouse ... it wasn't safe."

"Hey, I'm still here, aren't I?" Jeremy reminded her. "Besides you never said it was safe. What you said was that I needed a place to stay where we could talk and where I could show you what I do, right?"

"Uh, that sounds about right."

"Okay, I did and we did. But, now, I want you to find me the best place to be ..."

"Oh, uh, of course. Except that I'm not sure why," Jeanne seemed pleased but puzzled.

"And I'm not sure where," Jeremy complained. "Would you like to explain?"

"Geller's Books," Jeanne exclaimed. "You said you liked her ... and she's told me stories about hiding out from the authorities. I bet she still knows the good tricks ..."

"And Danny knows where it is. Least that's where he split from. Come on, let's go."

"Whoa ... There's something we need to think about first. How did the guy in the pickup know who you were."

"I'm not sure. Maybe he was just guessing? Or ... maybe ..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe my clothes ... and the backpack ..."

"Hey, you're right." Jeremy shrugged off the backpack and jacket, looking at both critically.

"Wonderful," Jeanne giggled. "You're really hard to recognize wearing a Guerneville jacket and that blue, green and yellow backpack. Look, I could go borrow something from my brother ..."

"Nope," Jeremy disagreed, fishing in his pocket for a wad of carefully folded bills. "There's a Marshalls in the shopping center across the street. If I give you a list of sizes, can you pick out some clothes for me?"

"Sure, what kind."

"Everything," Jeremy decided. "I'll make a list. While you do that," he added, "I'll have some real dinner. That pizza was just too weird."

* * *

"Well, how do I look?" Jeremy tugged at the jacket. "Seems like it's kind of big for me."

"It's supposed to be loose. Just let it hang. There. Now, you look very nice."

"This wasn't what I had in mind," Jeremy sounded puzzled. "I mean ... "

"Hey, you're a weird kid, y'know. So I cast for something that was appropriate ... Do you really not like it?"

"Uh, I like it ..." Jeremy admitted, shrugging the jacket off and looking inside for a label.

"Oh, I already checked the label," she assured him. "It says 'Nautica' and 'Made in Thailand'. That's how I knew it was perfect for you."

The jacket was a light tan fabric with a smooth finish and hung loosely halfway to Jeremy's knees. On the breast, a conventional pocket with a flap was on one side and a zippered slash pocket opposite on the right. Two inside pockets were also zippered. At the waist, an inside drawstring adjusted the size and, below the waist, slash pockets were concealed behind generous flapped bag pockets. The front closed with a zipper and snaps to hold a crossover flap. Inside the collar, a rolled-up hood offered additional protection against bad weather.

"Oh, it's perfect," he agreed. "Just like the one I used to have ... except I out grew it. Uh, the shoes are a little stiff."

"They'll soften. How are the pants?"

"Perfect. So's the shirt." The pants were leisure slacks, the shirt was silk - the kind with one pattern in the weave itself and a second, different pattern dyed in. "Don't you think it's kind of dressy?"

"I didn't buy you a tie," Jeanne countered. "Relax, this is southern California. I just thought you'd be better off if you didn't look too much like a kid. Here. Dump the backpack and use this." She produced a final package.

Jeremy opened the brown paper to discover a gray fabric book-bag with a broad shoulder strap.

"Now you'll look like a student," Jeanne suggested. "Add a pocket protector and glasses and you can be a UCLA computer nerd. How's that for a disguise?"

* * *

"Look, mon, put out a quarter key reward for t' kid, sure. But how y' goin'a tell 'em what kid? There's shagheads out there that'll sell y' their own kid f' that quarter-key. You sure y'd even know him if someone did produce him? Mon, y'saw him f' what? Five seconds? In t' dark?" The voice of reason came from a black man, dreadlocks held back by a blue bandanna.

"So? Y' got a better idea?" The man with the bandaged hands was angry. The image of a burning figure was still haunting him and the fear felt like it would never leave.

"Simple," dreadlocks counseled. "Let t' p'lice find 'im. - then take 'im 'way from t' p'lice."