"Well, I had a feeling you'd be back." Ms. Geller was explaining, not merely being polite. The sign on the door had said 'Closed' but the door hadn't been locked and she had been seated inside, in a comfortable chair in an alcove, reading. When Jeanne had tried the door, she'd called to them, "Come on in." and had risen to greet them.

"Yes," she considered. "It looks good on you. Danny said it did."

"Danny?" the two children echoed together.

"We were wondering where he went," Jeremy continued.

"How," Jeanne demanded.

"You did bring him in," the older woman reminded her, smiling. "He decided to come back after you left."

"Damn it, Danny," Jeanne was annoyed. "We wondered what happened to you."

"Uh, she scared me," Danny hesitated, poking his head through a shelf of historical fiction.

"She scared you? Who?" Jeanne kept blinking.

"Uh, Ms. Geller," Danny sounded embarrassed.

"I shouldn't have stared at him," the book dealer sounded embarrassed as well. "It's just, well, he didn't act like most ghosts and I was curious."

"Ah, just a sec," Jeremy scratched his head. "You ... scared a ghost? That's really ...! " He stared at her for a long second, then collapsed against a bookshelf, laughing.

A moment later, the two women and the ghost joined him.

* * *

"She kep' lookin' at me," Danny explained. "An' I didn' think ... Anyway, I split."

"And then he kept coming back," the book dealer took up the account. "I remembered you were asking about Twain, so I pulled a copy of Life on the Mississippi and sat down and started reading aloud," She gestured toward the overstuffed chair in the alcove. "After that, he stuck around and calmed down."

"She's good," Danny offered. "And ... well, you haven't had a chance and ..."

"Well, things have been a little mixed up," Jeremy apologized. "Hey, Father Dominguez says that someone's looking for us. I guess we should have used a pay phone. But that's why ..."

"Danny's told me some of what happening to you, Jeremy." Ms. Geller offered. "And I've known about your talent, Jeanne, for quite a while. I rather wondered when you were going to mention it."

"How," Jeanne challenged.

"You never had any trouble finding what you wanted ... even when I hid titles I knew you'd be wanting. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Besides, why do you think you started coming in here in the first place?"

"Uh, I hadn't thought about it. Most people, uh, like they don't pay much attention." the girl explained.

"And wouldn't believe you if you tried to tell them?" the woman amplified. "Yes, it can be hard being a witch. Better than it used to be, of course. People usually don't try to burn us any more - they prefer to lock us up in asylums, instead." As she talked, she locked the front door, then led the way toward the back where stairs rose to the living quarters on the upper floor.

"Witch?" Jeanne repeated, following. "Uh, us?"

"That's right," the older witch agreed. "You know things that other people don't understand, you see things that they don't and you think which they don't. That's all part of being a witch. Welcome to the club, dear."

"But witches," Danny started to protest.

"Are supposed to be ugly and wear pointed hats and ride broomsticks? Just like ghosts wear bed sheets, rattle chains and scare everyone?"

"Uh, yeah, guess so," the ghost sounded embarrassed.

"Most ghosts," the older witch gestured, offering her companions a choice of chairs and a couch as she continued, "don't do much of anything. Most of them don't seem to realize they're dead and that's why they're still hanging around. Generally, when they finally figure it out, they get on with things and go some place else. But they don't go around making weird noises and spooking people." Jeremy and Jeanne took opposite ends of the couch, instinctively leaving space between them for a third person.

"You, on the other hand," Ms. Geller paused for breath, "are much more intensive than most ghosts. I could almost wonder, given your vitality, why you're both dead and still here."

"Wha's 'tensive'," Danny queried. fidgeting.

"Intensive," she corrected gently. "In this case, alive, active, real. You're the closest thing to a traditional haunt I've met. Ah, can you sit down? I mean would you like to? Sorry, Danny, but I'm not sure what makes ghosts comfortable."

"Maybe you should shout 'BOO!' for her," Jeremy suggested.

"Uh, hadn' thought about it," Danny sounded abashed, adding: "Sittin', I mean." He moved toward a chair and sat tentatively.

"That's okay," Ms. Geller laughed. "Although the metaphysics implicit in your actions are fascinating. Still, we can discuss that later. Right now, I think there's something else we should talk about right now. Tell me, why is someone hunting for you?"

Ms. Geller's question required a lengthy explanation to answer. Jeremy was beginning to feel like a broken record, telling the same story over and over again - except that each time there had been more to tell.

When it came to the point of demonstrating, it was Jeanne who took more than a little pleasure in showing how to light a candle although it was Jeremy who had to extinguish it each time. He also insisted that she use a small candle ... just in case.

Next, Jeremy showed how he 'vanished' things - except that they weren't really vanishing as he cautioned, it was more like they fell apart and the pieces were too small to see.

He also showed how to make things smooth by fixing all of the hinges in the building and how to make things very unsmooth by 'tightening' loose handles on pots and repairing a couple of cracked plates. As for the loose windows, all he could do was make them stick or make them slide very nicely.

The 'burning figure' neither Jeremy nor Danny could explain although Ms. Geller suggested that there were reports of similar cases in the literature. "However," she had cautioned, "I don't think there are any suggestions for how to deal with them."

When the trio finished supplying background, it was time that Jeanne needed to get home. "Hey," she complained, "I can't afford to get grounded now. This is getting interesting." Then, on her way out, she added, "You will be here tomorrow? Promise?"

"They'll be here," the older witch assured her, then added: "But, if not, you'll know where to find us."

* * *

"Got a tip from th' Man," one of the Flash Boys was reporting. "But they say it'll cost five Cs."

"Think it's legit?" the Flash Boy with the bandaged hands growled.

"I think two Cs will buy this one," his stooge answered. "The mouth's a clerk in records. Says they've been getting some interesting requests from several sources."

"Okay," the leader decided. "But, if'n its a queer squeal ..."

"Gotcha."

* * *

"It looks like," Ms. Geller was summarizing, "you need three things: a good cover, financing and a plan."

"The cover's probably the easiest part," she continued. "I can make a couple of calls and get something started but you're going to need an identity that isn't - what are you? - 15? - 14?"

"Uh, my passport says 16."

"Typo...? Yeah, I though so. Hang on to it. That's fine. But, you - and probably Jeanne - are going to need a cover that's at least 21. Social security, driver's license, everything. That's a little harder."

"Uh, why?"

"So that you can run if you need to and so that you can move money without having to carry it in your pocket. You won't be eligible for a credit card for years but plastic's the safest way to move around. However, once you've got a cover, you can get plastic and use it. So, the first thing is to have a good cover. Air tight. Okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Okay. Tomorrow I'll make a couple of calls and get some friends working on it."

"Uh, won't this cost money?"

"Yes, it will."

"Uh, I've got a little but ..."

"But not enough for this, I know. Don't worry about it. You will. That's financing and there's something I've been wanting to try ever since I figured out where Jeanne's talent lay."

"Uh, why haven't you?"

"Because I didn't want it and she didn't need it and it's vaguely unethical. Witches need to be careful about ethics - otherwise, things can get really sticky. Now, however, there's a reason."

"But what about the ethics?"

"Tell me, Jeremy, have you ever heard of situational ethics?"

"Uh, yeah. That means that the circumstances matter. That what's right in one situation can be wrong in another and the reverse, of course."

"A very concise description. Well this is one of these cases. But I'll explain later, okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"The third thing is a plan. Look, Jeremy, I'm sorry if I sound like I'm running away with things. I am, of course, but just to get things started."

"Hey, uh, it's okay ... least I think so."

"Okay, look, I'm going to go ahead and get you set up where - if you need - you can bug out. Out of the country if you want. Or hide out somewhere. Or whatever. This gives you options. At the moment, you're bouncing from one haven to another. If you run out of places to bounce, what then?"

Jeremy thought about the phone number in his pocket, then nodded. "Look, I ... I know that ... and it scares me ... so ... okay. It sounds good. Uh, but why?"

"Why am I doing this?"

"Yeah, uh, I mean like TANSTAAFL, right?" He stared at his shoes, feeling vaguely uncertain what he should be doing.

"You're right - there ain't no such thing as a free lunch ... but, once you're set, I want something." She looked Jeremy square in the eyes. "You're going to owe me lessons, okay?"

"Uh, ... I'll try ..."

"That's the key," the witch grinned. "Don't promise what you aren't sure you can deliver. If you'll try, that's all that's required. You've got a student, Professor."

"Uh, sure ... but ..."

"What?"

"Please don't call me that ... it scares me."

"Sure, Jeremy. No problem. Look, most of this can wait until tomorrow ... or longer. What about I show you the guest room and the bath and you can take a break. And I think you owe Danny some Mark Twain, right?"

"You sound just like ..." Jeremy broke off with a sound something between a sob and a sniffle.

"And we'll try to find out about Mrs. Gerrity, too. But tomorrow, okay? I haven't had dinner and you could probably use a snack. I'll holler when I get something ready. But, first, here's the guest room - fresh sheets in the chifferobe, towels in the bath. Can you manage the bed?"

"Uh, sure ... I can cook too." Jeremy looked around the room. It was oddly large. The polished wood floor had scattered rag rugs while the large bed was covered with a colorful quilt. A table, lamp and two chairs sat by the tall windows and the chifferobe had to be the tall, free-standing cabinet against the wall inside the door. A second door led to a small bathroom.

"I'll take you up on that - but later. If you need an emergency escape, try the left window. There's a great tree outside and the alley leads to 4th street, south, towards the mall, or 3rd, north and downtown. If you're really in a hurry, there's a coiled ladder mounted outside the right window. Just pull the red handle below the sill. Oh, yeah, both windows stick ... but you can fix that. Okay?"

* * *

"Right, mon. Got it. Clerk says some DC-types have been snooping. Askin' f' background on Santa Maria's and a Father Dominguez. Word is th' priest maybe was working with illegals - you know, hiding them. Nuttin' else in the records on 'im."

"Get some a' th' boys t' cover th' joint. Give 'em th' description. They find 'im, I wan' 'im."

"Gotcha, mon."

* * *

"There's one thing bothering me," Jeremy asked, later, after a generous second dinner of stew - microwaved from the freezer - and a helping of pumpkin pie.

"What's that?"

"Well, if you and Jeanne are witches ..."

"Yes?"

"And Danny's a ghost ..."

"Uh-huh?"

"Well, what am I?"

"The traditional terms," the older witch answered, "are magician or wizard." She was laying out pages from two copies of Life on the Mississippi along the kitchen counter.

"Naw, a magician's a guy that performs tricks on stage and a wizard's a pocket computer."

"There's an older term," she suggested. "But most people don't know it. Maybe it's the appropriate one for you anyway."

"What's that?"

"Warlock," the witch answered. "Now, go get some sleep."

* * *

"Okay, give with the details," the nondescript man instructed. "Matched where? ... The citizen ID files? Good, those would have been opened for us all along if it weren't for those namby-pambies on the court.. Should be obligatory anyway. Give me the name ... Jeremy Altus Blume? ... Althus? ... Okay, what else? ... Got it, age 40 ... Huh, repeat that! ... Fourteen! You're kidding. ... That's confirmed? You're sure? ... He what? ... Died in a fire? When? ... Nonsense, sounds like a real sloppy cover. Get busy and run a crosscheck. ... Damn right, give it the works. ... What about a mug shot? ... I don't know, any kind of a picture. What about his parents? ... Then get somebody over to International Explorations. What have we got on them anyway? ... One of those damned multinational pain in the butts? Wonderful. It's starting to make sense. See what the various narcotics operations have on them? ... Hell no, tell them nothing. No, wait, just tell them there's a possible connection with an interdicted coke shipment. ... Look, could be this 'kid' was a ringer of some sort, check with his school ... that's right ... okay, but rush it."

* * *

The morning sun through the tall windows gave the room a warm, comfortable feeling. Jeremy lay where he was, sleepily enjoying the warmth and the gentle secure feeling of a soft bed and a quilted cover. "Danny?" he felt for his friend's presence, then realized that Danny was by the windows looking out.

"What is it?" He forced himself out from under the covers, reaching for his clothes.

"I was ... just wonderin' what climbin' a tree was like," Danny responded.

"Haven't you ever ..."

"No ... not a tree," Danny answered. "Not much around 'cept a few palms an' ... an' ... I don' know."

"How was Twain?" Jeremy changed the subject abruptly.

"Hard. Lot of words I don' ... don't understand. But it's good."

"You could climb a tree now," Jeremy suddenly reverted to the previous subject. "There's a great tree outside." He pulled the curtains aside and looked out. The tree was a massive cottonwood, shady in summer but almost bare now. The branches looked perfect for climbing.

"But ... but I'm ... I'm already dead."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I can' ... can't fall. Isn't that part of it?"

"You're right," Jeremy realized. "I guess it is ... But ..." Inspiration struck. "... you can pretend ..."

"Huh?"

"Go ahead and climb the tree. Just pretend that you could fall ... remember what it feels like to be scared ... that's all that's really needed ..."

"I ... I can remember how ... how the burning man feels ... he's scared. Really scared."

"Uh, I don't think you need to be that scared," Jeremy shivered. "Just a little bit. Then, when you get to the top, take a good look around."

"Yeah ... I will." The ghost moved through the window as if feeling for a suitable branch.

"Hey, Danny ..."

"What?"

"Be careful ... okay?"

"Uh, right!"

* * *

"Father Dominguez?"

"Yes?" the priest regarded the nondescript man with casual interest.

"Federal Agent Lee Mathison, National Security Agency," the agent extended his hand.

"Yes?" Father Dominguez shook hands without commitment. "May I help you?"

"I'm interested in a young man I believe you know."

"I know a lot of young men. Why?"

"National Security, Father. I think you probably know which young man I mean. Jeremy - or Jerry - Blume?" The agent looked around the gardens. "Maybe we could talk somewhere less public?"

"I suspect," Father Dominguez responded frankly, "that the garden is as private as anywhere at the moment. We can talk here. Unless, of course, you're here for confession."

"I see. Very well, about the Blume boy .."

"Who?" Father Dominguez smiled.

"And if I had your Cardinal call and order you to cooperate?"

"The Church does teach us to believe in miracles," Father Dominguez's smile broadened.

"I see ..." The nondescript man turned to leave.

"God be with you," the priest called after him.

* * *

"Is this the young man?" The speaker was a tall man, heavily built with a gruff expression on his face. "Call me ... oh well ... Jack Carmine's the name. Aliases are ... Well, Uriel's call brought the habit back.." He turned and looked at her affectionately, then held out his hand, offering a firm but gentle grip. "Now, tell me, what name would you like? No, don't tell me what your real name is ... and don't pick something ..."

"Paul Reisenfern," Jeremy responded quickly, rising from the breakfast table. "Pleased to meet you."

"Paul Reisenfern?" the man repeated. "No middle name or initial?"

"Uh, how about Gerald?" Jeremy decided. "That's close to Jeremy and might avoid slips?"

"Sounds good. Paul Gerald Reisenfern. What birthday do you like?"

"You choose," Uriel interrupted. "Just as long as it's not his own and he's got to be at least 21. Okay?"

"What ever," the man agreed. "Hum, his accent's pure CBS with an overlay of BBS. How about New York?"

"Uh, I was born in California," Jeremy corrected. "Up north, Santa Rosa."

"Yes," Jack agreed. "But Paul Reisenfern wasn't. You might have moved to the coast when you were young but you were born back east. New York's birth records are completely computerized but their system's a real pussycat - the welfare refugees they've been training as data operators have the records in a total uproar. I can slip anything in. If you want the west coast, you've got a choice: San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco or Sacramento?"

"Uh, San Francisco I guess."

"That's a good place to go to school. Between quakes and fires, there are lots of good schools where you could have gone. I'll have a list and a few verifying details for you, just in case. Tell you what, give me a day to snoop around and I'll put together a package for you to look over. Ah, there is one minor problem."

"What's that?" Jeremy asked.

"What about a photograph, Uriel? I could take one like he is and then age him on the computer but it might not work too well."

"No problem," Uriel assured him. "Jeremy ... er, Paul will have a set of photos for you tomorrow. Now, you need to work up a background for a girl also - same age. Uh, she'll have to be Californian - her accent's strictly Valley Girl when she forgets. Ah, can you fix up drivers licenses and financials?"

"How legit?"

"Legit, they'll have enough to scatter a few places. And to grease the channels if need be."

"Any laundering?"

"Some."

"Uh, look, Uriel, you know I don't touch drug money or ..."

"Not that kind of laundry, not dirty, just shouldn't look too new. Rumple the bills a bit, so to speak."

"Students, then. Income from a trust fund. Okay, can do. Driver's licenses, maybe a ticket or two, nothing serious. A juvenile record's always good for being convincing - how about 'driving without a license' or 'shoplifting'?"

"Keep it simple, Jack. Forget the police record and nothing cute, okay."

"You're getting old, Uriel. I remember when you wanted ..."

"I remember, Jack. Let the past lie, okay?"

Jack and Uriel chatted further, over coffee, while Jeremy made himself useful washing the breakfast dishes. The two adults seemed to be chatting in some sort of secret code ... at any rate Jeremy couldn't figure out what half the terms they used were - phrases like "spiking the reservoir" and "is Amy still hunting for potion #9" were mixed with names and events that meant nothing to the youngster. Burning cards and bras, he didn't even want to know about.

Finally, when the older man left, Jeremy had a thousand questions ... or, at least, a dozen.

"I didn't understand half of what you were talking about," Jeremy admitted. "Particularly about the money ... I mean, where's it coming from and why does it need laundering?"

"Laundering," the witch explained, "will provide a fictitious but convincing source for the money. Money coming from nowhere is always suspicious. Like Jack wondering if the money was coming from drugs."

"So where is it coming from?"

"The great State of California," the witch explained ... except, of course, that it really didn't explain anything. "Trust me," Uriel added. "After all, I'm a witch."

"Uh, right. Then what about the photographs."

"Ah, that's another story. You'll find out this afternoon. Right now, I'd like you to run an errand for me."

"Okay, what?"

"There's a grocery store two blocks east and a block north. Run over there and get several packages of small paper plates. Cheap dessert plates are fine but we need sixty or so. Uh, better get a broad tip marker too."

"Sure, what color?"

"Doesn't matter. Here, I'll get you some money."

"I've got plenty," Jeremy assured her. "Sixty small plates, one marker. Be right back." He ducked out the back door.

From the raised porch - the kitchen was on the second floor, the bedrooms on the third - Jeremy could sense Danny high up in the tree.

He looked up. On a high limb, back arched, a cat was rubbing against something that wasn't there. "Well," he called silently, "how is it?"

"Great," Danny's voice came back. "You can see everywhere!"

"I'm going to the store. Want to come along?"

"Sure, bro," Danny responded. "'Cept there's a problem."

"What's that?"

"I'm scared to come down."

Jeremy looked up the tree, straining to see more than he could. Finally, "You're kidding, right?"

"Gotcha," the voice came from next to him on the porch. "But I almos' was. It was great!"

"Right," Jeremy agreed. "Maybe later ... I could join you. Okay?"

"Great!"

On the way to the store, Danny's thoughts were on a Mississippi riverboat. "I got though a lot of it," he explained. "It's kind of like cruisin' back in th' hood, y'know? You just don' see 'less you know what y're seein'."

"What do you mean," Jeremy asked.

"Turf signs, who's crusin', where th' Man is. who's in a real beef and broodin' bad - that kinda thing. Like Twain was talkin' 'bout on th' river, y'gotta read it, bro an' y'gotta read it comin an' goin'."

"Like this is open turf," the ghost continued. "Y'got a few taggers 'round but t' gangs ain't hot here. Like dat - Riv Rat," he referred to an ornate spray-painted tag. "He's good but he ain't gang - not a bro. Stric'ly his own gig. Prolly, he'll move up t' th' freeway looking f' better slab t' tag. I mean, artist needs a place t' work, right?"

Jeremy was surprised. To him, the streets were just streets. To Danny, they were turf - or territory - and were littered with signs ... just like the woods behind the house were filled with the sign of deer, raccoon and an occasional porcupine.

"Duck inside," Danny ordered suddenly. "Quick."

Jeremy complied, finding himself standing in a realtor's office. "What's the matter," he asked silently.

"Flash Boys," Danny explained. "Crusin' but they're outa their turf. Must be bad news."

"May I help you?" A lady behind the desk asked.

"Uh, I was looking for a grocery," Jeremy temporized.

"Right down the street," the lady directed. "You new here?"

"Uh, visiting, thanks." Jeremy stepped back out on the street. "Where," he asked Danny.

"Already went past," Danny confirmed. "It's cool."

"Hmm, they shouldn't recognize me," Jeremy suggested. "I ditched the school jacket and the knapsack. I'm not even carrying a bag. Damn it, Danny. I can't jump at everything. If you see 'em, just tell me and ..."

"And?"

"I'm not sure but I'm not going to ... hey, I've got an idea ..."

"What?"

"Wait and see. We'll have some fun ..."

The rest of their errand, however, was uneventful ... very much to Jeremy's disappointment and Danny's frustration since, whatever Jeremy had thought of, he wasn't willing to talk about it.

And, back at Geller's Books, Uriel was also being mysterious. "Would you unwrap the plates," she asked Jeremy. "Then write a number on each one, starting at one and going up to fifty-one, okay?"

"Sure, but why."

"Oh, witches have their secrets. When you're done, mix them up. I've got to open the shop. Come on down if you like." She walked out, eyes twinkling with laughter.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Your Eminence," Father Dominguez addressed the telephone.

"Afternoon, Raul. I hear you've been stirring things up again."

"Perhaps so, David. Ah, you're aware that there may be listeners?"

"God is always listening, Raul. As you know. But, as for more mundane ears, yes, I suspected it might be so. Now, whose tail have you been stepping on?"

"I've no idea. Have they been troubling you."

"Nothing that God hasn't given me the patience to bear, Raul. Do you need any help."

"Any matters which might interest certain parties, Your Eminence, are well protected."

"I see ... Call me then if there's any problem ... any problem at all."

"Certainly ... and thank you."

"God be with you, Father."

"And with you, Eminence."

* * *

After numbering the plates - per request - Jeremy had stepped back out on the porch, examining the huge cottonwood. It was definitely climbable ...

* * *

An hour and a half later, roused by needs which Danny didn't share, Jeremy climbed back down, returning via the limb outside his new bedroom and deciding that, yes, it was ideal ...

Almost like someone had persuaded it to grow that way ...