But Gary -- that was a different story. If Gary were Gary Campbell, the cop she had known in San Francisco . . . . How could she deny it? How could Morgan possibly know enough about her to draw a picture of Chase Kennedy out of the blue? The explanation she came up with was too silly to think about. But she had to think about it anyway. Maybe all the voices in Morgan were indeed different people. Maybe he was psychic and tuned in to all these other people, or maybe --

"Clift, are you a ghost?"

"Why, D.J., you're the first person besides Morgan to come up with that explanation. I'm flattered."

"Yes, but would you answer?"

"And I've told Dr. Kabukin about that, too, but she continues to nurse her own pet theories. We do make progress, when she gives us ideas about how to handle society in a way that won't scare it, but when she tries to get us to consider getting together, one has to shudder."

D.J. tried a different tack. "How did you die, Clift?"

"In a ridiculously mundane fashion. A car crash. I had always hoped that I would irritate some rival intellectual into committing a fiendishly clever murder, but I didn't live long enough to achieve maximum irritation and my dream death. No, instead I was out driving to the university library one night when a drank in a big American car crossed the center line and plowed right into the side of my small j.a.panese car, crushing it and me between his grill and the wall of a bank.

A savings and loan, if I recall correctly. At least there was a metaphor there."

"What year was this?"

"Two years ago."

"Where?"

"East Lansing. They're very into big American cars there. Did you know that a number of car makers have factories there?"

"No," said D.J. "So how did you find Morgan?"

"Well, I was frustrated about suffering such a meaningless death, so I didn't feel ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. On the other hand, haunting a sidewalk or an auto junkyard didn't fulfill my need for some kind of recognition either. I was drifting around aimlessly, trying to figure out what I could do in my powerless state when I felt this peculiar pull from the west, and thought what the h.e.l.l. I gave in and found myself sucked right into Morgan's body. He was playing with a Ouija board at the time. Since I arrived I've tried to discourage him from engaging in this game, but he's not always amenable to direction. Worse, he doesn't seem to need the board anymore; random spirits just show up here and crowd in with the rest of us."

D.J. bit her lower lip. She had found Clift the most reasonable of Morgan's voices, but just now she didn't know what to believe.

"But, to bring us up to speed, we were talking about Gary, weren't we?" Clift said.

She swallowed, and said, "I think I know Gary from when he was alive."

"Really? I thought that was just an attention-getting device on his part, claiming he had something to tell you. When we get somebody new we usually try to gentle them down for a while before we let them play with the body. They can get us in a lot of trouble if we let them out unsupervised. When Saul first came, Morgan woke up in a bordello across a state line, and went into shock.

He's never quite recovered from the mortification. He's awfully young, something Saul refuses to take into consideration. But if Gary was telling the truth . . .

. May we sit down?"

"What? Oh, sure, sure," said D.J., clearing a stack of books off a chair for him. She closed and locked the door, then said, "Would you like something to drink? I've got instant coffee or tea or lemonade."

"No, thanks," said Clift. "We need a little quiet to thrash this out amongst ourselves. Excuse me, please."

"Sure," said D.J. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a nip of brandy, swallowed it without tasting. She coughed as the warmth bit into her, then decided to put some water in the kettle for tea anyway.

She was leaning on the counter, staring at the kettle and wondering if it would boil as she watched, when a new voice called to her from the living room/bed room/dining room. "Doro?"

She straightened, gripping her elbows so hard she could feel her fingertips drilling in to her skin. After a moment and a couple of deep breaths she walked out into the living room and looked at Morgan.

His eyes, usually a pale blue, looked darker, and his mouth wore a crooked smile she had never seen there before, but she had seen it. She had seen it.

"Ain't this a b.i.t.c.h?" he said, and laughed, deep and low.

"Gary," she whispered, chilled.

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, lonely kid, just wants to make some friends, doesn't know how to talk to girls, invites in the wide world of spirits. Christ, Doro, never thought I'd see you again this way."

"Gary," she said, clutching her elbows, her shoulders bunching higher.

"Yes, well," he said, and tilted his head in a certain way, so that he was looking up at her from under his brows, "the world being as it is--Christ, Doro, what a world! -- I think we should talk about the case again."

"Gary, how did you die?"

"That's the point, isn't it? Chase has escaped."

D.J. let out a scream just for the h.e.l.l of it, releasing tension, then said, "Well, I kind of thought--" and pointed to the writing on the wall. "And he left messages for me at the office."

Gary looked up and his eyes went wide. "G.o.d, Doro! Get out of here!" "Without a game plan? Let's think this through first."

"He knows where you live! Go somewhere else immediately."

"Oh, come on. I don't want to run around like a headless chicken. Let me pack a few things, and get my credit card and my bank numbers and like that."

"All those things can be traced. Ditch them."

"That doesn't make any sense. How could Chase trace my credit card and my bank?"

"You asked how I died. He came for me as soon as he escaped, and --" He closed his eyes, masked his face with his hands, and said in a low voice, very quickly, "tortured me to find out where you were, and killed me."

D.J. hesitated. She looked away. "You knew where I was?"

He sighed. He looked at her. "I shouldn't have, but I wanted to keep track of you. Followed the transfer of ownership on your car through the DMV. I knew your new name and your p.o. box number, the town." He paused, grabbed breath, looked away from her. "He -- Doro -- he -- I didn't want to tell." He pressed his mouth shut, then looked up at her from under his brows. "I couldn't stop myself from saying it. I couldn't stop myself." He closed his eyes tight and thunked fists on his head.

She let go of herself and gripped his fists. Tears spill ed down her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Yes, well, there's no going back, and time is running past us. Pack what you need and let's get out of here."

"Okay." She got her big duffel out of the closet and began throwing clothes into it.

"Can I help?" asked Morgan, the Gary look in his face gone, his voice scared.

"Sure," she said. She looked around, then grabbed one of her spare purses, a big one made of turquoise rip-stop nylon. "Why don't you go in the bathroom and put the stuff from the medicine cabinet in here? Thanks, Morgan. Thanks for everything."

"Some date," he said, but he didn't sound unhappy.

She smiled, then frowned as he disappeared. "Can you ask Gary if I should call the police about this?" she yelled.

"Wait until you find a safe place to call from," Clift called back.

D.J. did a swift job of packing all her favorite clothes and tucking important papers in her purse.

"Here," said Morgan, coming out of the bathroom with a bulging purse. Without pausing for breath, Gary's voice came out: "He's probably watching the building right now, and for sure he'll follow your car, especially if he sees you carrying luggage. I bet he's out there waiting to find out how you've reacted to the note. What does he know so far? No police have showed up, not much of an outcry. Maybe he thinks you're too spooked to do anything about it. Maybe he's coming in to get you right now."