"If my figures are right," Jeanne reported. "And assuming Jeremy's estimates are at all close, it shouldn't take more than a week to launder it all. Of course that's using a dozen washers and dryers and an awful lot of quarters ... and somebody would probably get suspicious."

"If they didn't just rob us in the first place," Jeremy was morose. "I hadn't thought about the money getting cocaine on it."

"You were a little rushed," Jeanne consoled him. "And it probably did anyway. After all, why would they worry about a little cocaine on the money when they were selling the stuff anyway?"

"Besides," Father Dominguez reminded them from the next room, "that's not what I meant about 'laundering' that amount of cash. It's not like you could just walk into a bank with it - there are a lot of questions that would be asked even for much smaller amounts."

"Laundering," he continued, "is a method that criminals use to make money appear legitimate. For example, suppose that, oh, a race track deposits large sums of cash with their banks. That's normal and doesn't surprise anyone. But, then, they turn around and write several checks - big ones - to dummy companies, paying most of that money back but keeping a percentage for their troubles. The dummy companies, in turn, pay the money - again, by check - to other companies or to individuals. Now the money's laundered. It's been paid out for services rendered or repayment on a loan - which was never made in the first place - or it might even be loaned to someone ... of course, they'd never have to pay it back. But, all that's laundering. It makes the money look legitimate and disguises where it comes from."

"But wouldn't the police be watching race tracks?" Jeremy asked.

"And amusement parks? Or supermarkets? Or even a dummy business that does a lot of cash sales? There are too many and we're not a police state," the priest explained. "Besides, most of the money in circulation is legitimate. Even the church deposits large amounts of cash. At Christmas time, the Salvation Army has arrangements for special trucks just to handle the tremendous cash donations they receive. Sure, there are some people who would love to track everyone's money ... but they'd be a bigger threat to your freedom and mine than they would be protection. Sorry but, like I told you, the answers are never simple."

"So what should we do?" Jeremy asked. "We can't just leave it there."

"Actually," Father Dominguez considered. "It might be best if you did just leave it there ... at least for a few days. There are possibilities but ... suppose I have a chat with a parishioner I know whose past, shall we say, was not unblemished? I think he might have a few suggestions - if I put it to him as a purely hypothetical situation, of course?"

"But, once the money is 'clean', have you considered what use to put it too?"

Jeremy looked at Jeanne, receiving a nod in return. "Go ahead," she urged. "He'll have to know sometime, won't he?"

"Uh, yeah, but ... Actually, Father, we have ... kind of. It was something you suggested. But, can we work on it a bit more before we tell you? Uh, maybe we could get this one right. I mean, I want to tell you before we do anything but, if we worked it out first ..."

"I think I understand," Father Dominguez smiled. "Tell me whenever you're ready. Now, about the stash of cocaine you have, so to speak, on your hands. I've been thinking about your problem with the, ah, authorities and I have a proposition for you. After all, we are admonished to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's - are we not?"

* * *

"I know where," Jeanne insisted. "But I still don't know what."

"Jeremy? Would you ask Danny to check out the area? Maybe he'll notice something."

* * *

"A couple of chairs," Danny enumerated. "A desk, a bookcase, a..."

"The desk," Jeanne interrupted. "Check the desk."

* * *

"There's a bunch of papers, some pens, pencils, a couple of pictures, a checkbook, some cassettes, a box of ..."

"It's the cassettes," Jeanne declared. "Just a minute ... In ... about three hours ... place will be empty. Jeremy, if you go with Danny and get the cassettes ..."

* * *

Several hours later, the cassettes proved to be a real find. Jeanne had picked out four of the cassettes, then Jeremy - wearing throw-away plastic gloves - had returned the rest.

The tapes proved to be recordings of phone conversations, each carefully dated and identified, including the time, the call origin and, following each conversation, a few notes about the subject ... exactly the kind of material which no bureaucrat would ever want to receive general distribution.

With the use of a second recorder, an abbreviated tape was prepared with selected portions from two of the first four. The originals were carefully locked away in a small safe set in the concrete floor in the book shop's storeroom.

In full, the duplicated tape ran for only a couple of minutes and consisted of three fragments. The first sequence ran:

Woman's voice: "Okay Thonpson, The link's secure. Have you got anything yet?"

Man's voice: "No. Quiet as a churchyard. Any word from your end?"

Woman's voice: "We've got a trace on the call - caller ID picked it up."

Man's voice: "The phone call? Yeah, I know. Can you get a warrant?"

Woman's voice: "It came from a Catholic church. Santa Maria's ..."

Man's voice: "Hell, I don't care if he's a priest. Put a tap on the phone. You should have had it there hours ago."

Woman's voice: "You know we can't get a warrant for a tap. A church for God's sake. What about probable cause?"

Man's voice: "Just do it! What about the fingerprints?"

Woman's voice: "Nothing in the open registries, no criminal record."

Man's voice: "Well, run 'em through the closed registries."

Woman's voice: "Aside from the Constitution, the Feds guard those files like a tiger guards her kits. What am I supposed to tell them? You know what they'll say."

Man's voice: "No, I don't care what the FBI says. This is priority. Use a trapdoor and get in there. If there's a set ..."

The second fragment was Jeanne's selection. "After all," she insisted, "we really ought to play fair and give them a clue.".

Man's voice: "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 ..."

Woman's voice: "I hope you're kidding."

Man's voice: "Of course I'm kidding, stupid. Just get that tap in place."

As for the final fragment, both Uriel and Father Dominguez insisted on it, saying that it was the perfect summation.

Man's voice: "Okay, give with the details. Matched where?"

Woman's voice: "One set matched up in the closed files, where else?"

Man's voice: "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."

"Now," Father Dominguez smiled, satisfied. "A couple of copies of this and a cover letter and I think we're set. Give me a little time to word this appropriately, Jeremy, then you can drop a note and the tape off at Ms. Swan's office. Hmm, on second though, if Jeanne can locate her, maybe it would be nice to leave it on her pillow at home."

"Maybe with a chocolate mint?" Uriel suggested.

* * *

"Good evening, Ms. Swan," the voice was very obviously false as well as falsetto. "Just a call to ask if you've played the tape. ... You have? ... Good. ... No, you'll receive a call tomorrow. ... No, not at the present. We'd just like you to think about it. ... Oh, don't bother tracing this call. It's your phone ... From your office. Have a good night. Good-bye."

* * *

"We should have recorded it," Jeremy laughed. "You wouldn't believe how mad he sounded. And how sacred! Hey, how are you going to call him? I can't get you in and out? Least, maybe I could but I'm kind of scared about trying that."

"Uriel had a couple of suggestions," the priest confessed. "We can look for some locations later but I think I know a few spots that fit. Particularly if we call early. You will have to help, of course but it's pretty easy."

* * *

Part of the afternoon was spent checking suitable locations for a covert telephone conversation. Basically, what Father Dominguez required was a location which would be quiet and which had two - or more - public phones.

Surprisingly, satisfactory locations were much easier to find than Jeremy would have guessed.

Two were in the parking lots outside ball stadiums, one outside a now closed bowling alley, another in a shopping center outside a supermarket which had suffered a fire a few weeks before and a fifth set at a commuter car park. In each case, Jeremy and Danny located convenient spots where the young warlock could suddenly appear without being observed.

Last, a paint store supplied several sets of thin, plastic gloves and a roll of masking tape.

* * *

Preparations completed, Jeremy had time to think about another problem. "I don't know how to ask you this," he addressed the priest, "but ... I mean, I have to do it ... but I wish I wasn't there alone."

"If I can help," Father Dominguez responded, "I'll be more than happy to. If all I can do is provide moral support, that's also part of my office. But ... would you like to tell me what you have in mind?"

"The burning man," Jeremy explained, "always show up when I try to vanish something. But it's not just that. It only happens when I'm scared and angry too. I mean, if I made - oh, that paper plate, for example - vanish right now, he wouldn't come. At least, I don't think he would."

"I've thought about this," the youthful warlock continued. "And I've asked Danny 'bout it and he agrees. He says that when I do that and I'm scared, that I ... ah, taste? ... different. Anyway," Jeremy continued with a rush, "maybe he only knows where I am when he can taste me like that ... or smell me ... or something. Anyway, we think that's when he shows up and he ... he's hurting and I need to do something about it."

"What will you do about it?" the priest prompted.

Jeremy was silent for a moment. "He .. he's hurting," the boy began. "And he's burning ... and, the first time I saw him, I was trying to put the fire out - the house, I mean. But ... anyway ... I think that's what he wants. He's asking me to help and ... and ... I've gotta try."

"God willing," the priest responded, "you'll succeed. And I'm honored that you've asked me to be there. But, how do you plan to call the burning man? Have you thought about it?"

"Tonight," Jeremy explained. "While we were driving around, I saw an empty field over along 23rd where they've bulldozed a bunch of old buildings? There's a really big pile of trash I can use ... kind of like a signal fire, I guess ... and there's plenty he can burn if that helps but it won't hurt anything ... and ... and we can get away easily and ... I think I've thought of everything."

"What about the fire, Jeremy?" The priest questioned. "You've told me before that, when you tried to put something out that was too large, the heat made you sick."

"I ... I've been practicing. The trick is to make the heat go somewhere else - like into the ground. I don't have to keep it. Instead, if I channel it - kind of like a hose or a stream - then I don't have to get so hot."

"And," Father Dominguez smiled and hazarded a guess, "you can manage to feel scared?"

"I wish I wasn't," the boy agreed. "And I feel angry too - just thinking about somebody doing that to him."

* * *

Uriel and Jeanne were at the public library, working their way though stacks of phone books and Federal Express waybills.

"Just like the boys," Jeanne complained, "to grab the glamorous parts."

"We have our moments," the older witch reminded her. "Besides, they did the dishes."

* * *

"Ms. Nicole Swan?" the voice was calm, educated and firmly resonant despite the poor telephone connection..

"Yes," she answered. "And who is this?"

"This is the party who sent you a tape last night."

"I see. And I suppose you have a request," the lady's voice was cold but calm.

"Not a request," the man responded. "Just instructions. There's no point in mincing words. You're being blackmailed, you have no recourse and you will comply. That's it pure and simple. However, before I give you the details, I have a few more facts for you.

"First, there are twenty kilos of cocaine still missing from a certain warehouse. And there are roughly another hundred and fifty kilos from another mysterious incident which you've been interested in - one involving weapons. Regardless of what happens today, none of these drugs will ever reach the street How they are disposed of, however, remains to be seen. Their disposal can be done quietly ... or with maximum publicity in a form detrimental to your organization.

"Second, as you are well aware, we have certain tapes. You've heard excerpts from two of them. Copies of these tapes, together with the excerpts for highlights, could be delivered to every newspaper and TV station in the country in very short order.

"Third, copies could also be delivered to the Senate and House, possibly together with an impressive number of packages of pure flake cocaine.

"Fourth, you will not be able to trace any of these deliveries.

"And, last, I will call you again in an hour or so. Good bye." The line went silent except for a faint static.

Ms. Swan glared at the instrument for a moment, then began punching numbers.

* * *

At a burned supermarket, a young man stepped out of the passage between the market and a large trash compressor, walked around to the front and quickly unwound the masking tape holding two handsets together. Hanging up both phones, he lifted the handsets again, deposited quarters, fumbling slightly because of the plastic gloves, then punched the same number on each keypad. Listening for a second to the busy signal from each, he hung both phones up again before walking around the building and out of sight.

* * *

"Hey," Jeremy remarked as he rejoined Father Gregory. "How'd it go?"

Father Gregory was standing by a phone, outside the restrooms at a shopping mall. "Just fine," he smiled. "We'll make the next call in about forty-five minutes. We've got plenty of time. Now, would you like a coke?"

"Pepsi," Jeremy corrected. "I'd love it."

* * *

"Ms. Swan?" the same voice inquired. Again, the connection was faint but the voice was not.

"Very cute," the woman replied. "I suppose there's no point trying to trace this call either?"

"Just listen," the voice instructed. "This will be brief. You will immediately withdraw all surveillance on all persons whom you suspect might be connected with the recent events which attracted your attentions. This includes wiretaps, computer watches and any other activities which might interfere with their privacy or movements. Understood?"

"Just a minute ..." the woman protested.

"Yes or no," the man's voice barked. "Is this understood?"

"Very well. Agreed."

"Fine, we have ample means of checking on you and it would do you little good in any case. Now, in return, next week you will receive a list of drug houses, with details and suggestions on how and when each might be most easily approached. You may do as you wish with this information. You will receive a new list each week as long as we are satisfied that you are keeping your end of the bargain. Good bye."

Again, the voice ceased but a faint static said the connection had not been broken.

A moment later, the line went dead.

The director glared at the phone, thinking. She'd been offered a carrot ... and threatened with a very big stick.

The carrot looked very attractive ...

And the stick was an especially ugly one ...

She reached for the phone.

* * *

"Now we let her stew for a while," the priest grinned when Jeremy reappeared. "Feel like shopping?"

"Sure, what for?"

"Have you ever heard of an Ouija board? There's a store back at the Mall that carries a good selection of games. We can try there."

* * *

When Uriel and Jeanne returned to the book store, they found dinner waiting. And, prominent on the table, a large, gift-wrapped box. The tag said simply: "Jean Roblyn."

Jeanne looked at the package with a puzzle expression, then ripped into the wrappings excitedly. When the board and planchet lay revealed, she looked at the two objects for a long moment.

"It's perfect," she declared. "Thank you!" She threw her arms around the priest, hugging him excitedly.

"I should have thought of it myself," Uriel commented, ruefully. "You're right, It fits her talent perfectly."

* * *

"Sorry," Jeremy apologized, pushing himself away from the table. "Guess you'll have to get the dishes tonight. We've got one more phone call to make. And another errand."

Father Dominguez rose to join him.

Jeanne's gaze traveled between the sink and the ouiji board lying on the table.

"The dishes can wait," Uriel announced. "But let's clear some space first."

* * *

"Ms. Swan?" Again, the voice was firm despite the poor connection.

"Yes, go ahead."

"I assume you've considered our terms?"

"Yes ... very well, agreed." The response was grudging.

"Very wise. We'll be in touch." The voice ceased, leaving a faint hiss of static.

She glared at the phone, then replaced the receiver. "All right," she addressed the rest of the room. "Cancel everything. Pull the taps, Cancel the watches. And, when you're done, erase the records. This never happened. So forget all about it."

She was nothing if not through.

* * *

The lot on 23rd was dark and empty when Jeremy, Danny and Father Dominguez arrived. A few street lights cast mixed shadows while a wan moon hung high overhead.

Jeremy walked across the smoothed earth, selecting a spot near the center of several separated heaps of rubble. Despite the his jacket - the night was cool but not cold - Jeremy shivered, then spoke. "Bless me, Father," he requested.

The priest complied without hesitation, adding a prayer for success in perilous undertakings. Familiarity made the prayer no less heartfelt.

Still feeling shaky, Jeremy looked at the heap of rubble. 'Just the wood," he reminded himself and, softly and quietly, several large pieces became a mixture of vapors. As their absence disturbed the balance of the remainder, the heap shifted with a chorus of grinding noises.

Several more pieces collapsed, raising a brief breeze and some dust.

Jeremy looked around, apprehensively, hugging himself to stop the shivering. Feeling scared was no problem at all.

A third assortment of rubble disappeared, the heap teetering precariously before slumping heavily to one side with a groan and another cloud of dust.

Suddenly, above the rubbish, the burning figure appeared, dancing and writhing in pain.

Jeremy took a deep breath, trying not to choke on the dust, and reached for the flames, trying to capture the heat and light and redirect it downward into the cold, solid ground.

Nothing happened. The dancing figure burned brightly, painfully, excruciatingly.

Something clicked and Jeremy recognized the flaming shape. It wasn't a man ... it was a boy ... and Jeremy knew him ... "Tully!" the boy cried. "What ..."

Even as he spoke, Jeremy felt / sensed Danny moving between him and the dancing figure. In an instant, Danny was also brightly lit - visible in a way Jeremy had never seen him - as if the flames from the burning boy were enveloping Danny. Jeremy's cry was a long scream of pain enveloped in a single "No-o-o-o!"

The phantasmal flames poured into the second figure and, from him, downward spilling onto the ground and spreading. Jeremy hardly noticed how the ground around him lit from within as the phantom flames spread, casting madly conflicting shadows before they settled and vanished, leaving the night silent and peaceful. Behind him, Father Dominguez was racing toward the boy, crossing himself and praying in a single, unified action.

By the time the priest reached the shaking figure, the flames were gone, leaving no trace of any kind. Father Dominguez wrapped his arms around the quivering warlock as if he could absorb the pain and fear into himself, trying with all his might to comfort the boy.

Jeremy straightened, standing in place like a steel rod. His voice spoke without even the smallest quiver, resonating with a maturity far beyond his years. "Danny. See to Danny," he instructed in words which admitted no hesitation.

"I'm ... I'm okay," the ghost responded, sounding to Jeremy as shaken as the boy had been a moment before. "He ... he hurt. I couldn't ... stand it. I had to ... I had to ..."

"It's all right, Danny," the warlock comforted. "You did just fine ... you did great ...!"

Behind him, Father Dominguez agreed, reciting the ancient Latin words with a resonance that made a Cathedral of the empty lot. "Benedicte nomine Dominus, Patria, Fillus et Spiritus Sanctus ...," he began.

His concluding "... Amen. Vaya con Dios" was echoed by two others, one mortal, the other a spirit.

* * *

Sleepily, the priest reached for the phone. "Santa Maria's," he answered.

"Father Dominguez?" The voice was a woman's and was familiar.

"Yes."

"This is Nicole Swan. I wanted you to know. All surveillance has been lifted and all watches canceled."

"Yes," the priest agreed. "I know. But I don't believe that's why you called."

"No, Father," the woman continued. "I just wanted you to know that I know where to reach you ... for a talk, if we need to."

"I see," he smiled. "And, just maybe, you didn't want me to think you rolled over too easily?"

"Perhaps." she agreed. "Maybe we'll talk another time. You have my number." It wasn't a question. "Good night, Father," she concluded, breaking the connection.

"God bless you," Father Dominguez smiled, then added. "God bless you and keep you well."