"Actually, I think I got you a job today."

"Thanks, but I don't think library work is for me. I gave up alphabetizing for Lent."

"A. It's not Lent, and B. It's not library work-"

"You're alphabetizing," Ross pointed out, grinning.

Shelby tucked one foot beneath her. "A man came in today, Rod van Vleet. He's working for the development company that bought a piece of land on Otter Creek Pa.s.s-"

"Where?"

"Well, it doesn't matter. What's important is that he's all freaked out because he thinks the property is haunted." Shelby smiled, triumphant. "Guess where you come in."

His jaw tightened. "Is this about money? Because if you want me to pay rent-"

"Ross, stop. I said something to him because I thought it might get you excited. You've been moping around since you got here. You've barely even left the house in weeks."

"You hardly ever leave the house." hardly ever leave the house."

"That's different and you know it."

Ross got out of the chair and yanked the wires out of the TV, packing up his video camera in its padded bag. "I didn't realize you had expectations expectations," he said bitterly. "I didn't know that it wasn't all right to just take a breather."

"A breather? Are you sure that's why you came here?" By now she was standing toe-to-toe with him. "Or were you looking for someplace to stop breathing?"

Ross held her gaze for a minute. "Shel. It was only that once, just after she died."

Shelby's hands came up to Ross's wrists, pulled them down between them. Her thumbs edged up the sleeves of his sweater, traced the history there. "Once. I go to ask you if you want soup for lunch, soup soup, Ross, and you're bleeding out."

"You should have let me," Ross said, gently breaking away.

"f.u.c.k you." Tears glittered in Shelby's eyes. "When you close the bathroom door now, I wonder if you're taking pills. When you go out driving, I wonder if you're wrapped around a tree. Did it ever occur to you that you're not the only person who's ever lost someone? Aimee died. People die. You're You're alive, and you have to start acting like it." alive, and you have to start acting like it."

His gaze was glacial. "Will you feel that way in a few years, when it's Ethan?"

A small sound made them turn toward the doorway, but by then the boy who had heard every word had run off.

He was wearing a sweatshirt and long pants, and of course a baseball hat, but his face and his hands were uncovered. By the time Ethan reached the quarry-the highest spot in town, with cliffs that pierced the sky-his fingers were swollen like sausages, and so red they ached with every heartbeat.

Maybe a truck would hit him on the way. Maybe he would burn to a crisp, go up in flames like the pictures of that guy he saw in the Guinness Book of World Records Guinness Book of World Records. If he died now, what difference would it make?

What he knew of the town of Comtosook he had learned from maps, from the Internet. Certainly, he'd been out before-but things looked different in the daylight. He could not tear his eyes away from streets that were full of cars, from the sheer number of people on the sidewalks. He could not know that normally, this town was twice as crowded-by comparison, to Ethan, this sunny world was so busy it took his breath away.

Ethan knew he was going to die. He'd been to psychologists and doctors and social workers to help him come to terms with the prognosis of an XP patient. He might make it to fifty, but there was every chance he'd only live until fifteen. It all depended on how much damage had been done to his cells before he was diagnosed.

The way he figured it, this was one of the few things he could point to that made him just like anyone else. At some point or another, all people were going to kick the bucket. The difference was, if he wanted that day to come later rather than sooner, he wasn't really allowed to live live.

It was only a few more blocks to the quarry; Ethan could tell because the cliffs were looming larger and larger. He did not know what he would do when he got there. Take off his shirt, maybe, until the pain got so bad he pa.s.sed out. Lie on his back and stare up at the sun until his corneas burned.

He turned into the entrance of the quarry and stopped abruptly. Leaning against the hood of his battered car, arms crossed, was his Uncle Ross. "How did you find me?"

"Find you you? I was here first." Ross took a look at Ethan's sunburned fingers and face but didn't comment, only handed Ethan one of his own shirts to put on, the sleeves falling down over his hands to protect them from the ultraviolet light. Then he squinted up at the sky. "I figured a kid who had a bone to pick with the sun would try to get right in its face. This is the highest place in town." He turned to Ethan. "Your mother is frantic."

"Where is she?"

"At home. In case you showed up there, first." Standing, he opened the pa.s.senger door. "Can we finish this conversation inside?"

After a moment, Ethan nodded. He ducked into the car, pulled off his baseball cap, and scrubbed at his scalp. "Is it true, about you trying to kill yourself?"

"Yeah."

Ethan felt his throat narrow. His uncle-well, he was one of the only males Ethan had any contact with, and he was certainly the coolest one. He'd done totally sketchy things, like skydiving and ice climbing. Ethan wanted to be just like him, if he ever got the chance to grow up. But he couldn't fathom how the man he idolized most in the world would not just want to live on the edge, but to die there. "How come you did it?"

Ross reached across Ethan's body to rap hard on the gla.s.s. Then, with a flick of a finger on a console b.u.t.ton, the window automatically rolled down; Ethan could smell the bitter fireweed that grew along the road in brilliant regiments. "To get to the other side," his uncle explained.

"Oh my G.o.d," Shelby cried, and then she was running down the driveway to yank Ethan out of the car. Ross watched them hold this moment between them, the small grain of calamity now reforming itself into a pearl of relief. They tottered back toward the house, Shelby folded around her son, as if he were still an extension of her own body.

Ross leaned against the hood, thanking G.o.d he'd had the hunch to look for Ethan where he had. He didn't want to think about what might have happened, had he come home alone, or if Ethan had stayed outside too long.

He started for the front door and realized that a stranger was standing on the porch beside his sister. "This is Rod van Vleet," she said, in a tone that let Ross know their argument was far from resolved. "He stopped by to speak to you."

Ross shot his sister the blackest glance he could, given the circ.u.mstances. The man was shorter than Ross, his balding head the unfortunate shape of a peanut. He wore a fancy suit, a starched shirt, a banker's tie. "Mr. Wakeman," he said, with a hesitant smile. "I hear you hunt ghosts."

THREE.

Just this once, it was cool that everyone was staring. .

Ethan was carrying the video camera, which was heavy, but he wasn't about to complain to his uncle. Anyway, Ross was hauling everything else-from the sleeping bags to the junk food (a stakeout, his uncle said, was a stakeout, even if the people you were trying to catch in the act were already dead). They walked from the car past the drummers and the bulldozer and the construction crew, and Ethan noticed that each person they pa.s.sed seemed to freeze in the middle of whatever they were doing. One old Indian guy stared so hard at Ethan he thought it might leave a mark on the back of his head. But he wasn't staring at Ethan because he was a freak- just because he was curious about the man and the kid who walked across the property like they owned it.

Ethan stopped for a moment, arrested by the sight of a college kid sifting sand. The boy was stripped down to his shorts, his shoulders and back b.u.t.ternut brown. Ethan looked down at his own long sleeves and thick pants. He sucked in the mesh of the facemask his mother made him wear when he went out while the sun was still in the sky.

"Hey, move it," Ross called over his shoulder, and Ethan scrambled to catch up.

The developer, Mr. van Vleet, hurried over as soon as he saw them. He wore fancy businessman shoes and kept slipping on the ice that had spread over the land like frosting on a cake. "Mr. Wakeman," he greeted quietly. "You remember what I said about keeping this . . . discreet?"

"You remember what I I said about letting me run my own investigation?" Ross answered, turning his back on the man. He trudged up the steps of the old house; one of which broke right in the middle while his foot was on it. "Be careful," he warned Ethan. said about letting me run my own investigation?" Ross answered, turning his back on the man. He trudged up the steps of the old house; one of which broke right in the middle while his foot was on it. "Be careful," he warned Ethan.

The house looked like it had been crying, black shutters hanging off their hinges like a fringe of damp eyelashes. Ethan stood back and craned his neck, so that he could see all the way to the top. It was white, or it had been, once. Most of the windows had been broken by local kids years ago. Ivy grew up and over the doorframe, a spotty handlebar mustache.

"Ethan!"

Startled by his uncle's voice, he raced up the steps. In the entry-way, he froze. Plaster rained down from the ceiling, and the floorboards were thick with dirt. On the walls where patterned paper used to be there were smudged handprints and graffiti: SARI GIVES GOOD HEAD SARI GIVES GOOD HEAD. Underneath the staircase were the remnants of a bonfire and about thirty empty beer bottles.

Ethan glanced from the broken banister to the black hole of an adjoining room, then to the ceiling. So it was creepy, he thought. So what. He squared his thin shoulders, convinced that if he played his cards right, he could get picked for Fear Factor Fear Factor or one of those other reality-TV shows. He could get Uncle Ross to take him along on every case. After all, Ethan only came out at night. Maybe it took one to know one. or one of those other reality-TV shows. He could get Uncle Ross to take him along on every case. After all, Ethan only came out at night. Maybe it took one to know one.

He was braver than any other kid he knew . . . not that he knew many kids.

Or so Ethan was telling himself, until a touch on the back of his neck made him jump a foot.

Kerrigan Klieg was the New York Times New York Times reporter who did the obligatory vampire piece at Halloween, who wrote about the chemical nature of love for Valentine's Day, who interviewed the parents of the city's first millennium baby. In other words, he was a slacker. He didn't have the heart or the inclination to follow up on police corruption or political stress; his pieces were human interest, although they weren't all that interesting to Kerrigan himself. What he did like, however, was getting out and about to do the research. To Mercy Brown's grave in Rhode Island, for example, to see the undead for himself. Or to Johns Hopkins, where researchers were measuring the melatonin levels a.s.sociated with l.u.s.t. Kerrigan liked being reminded that there was a world outside the island of Manhattan, one where people actually walked down the streets and looked each other in the eye, instead of pretending they were somewhere or someone else. reporter who did the obligatory vampire piece at Halloween, who wrote about the chemical nature of love for Valentine's Day, who interviewed the parents of the city's first millennium baby. In other words, he was a slacker. He didn't have the heart or the inclination to follow up on police corruption or political stress; his pieces were human interest, although they weren't all that interesting to Kerrigan himself. What he did like, however, was getting out and about to do the research. To Mercy Brown's grave in Rhode Island, for example, to see the undead for himself. Or to Johns Hopkins, where researchers were measuring the melatonin levels a.s.sociated with l.u.s.t. Kerrigan liked being reminded that there was a world outside the island of Manhattan, one where people actually walked down the streets and looked each other in the eye, instead of pretending they were somewhere or someone else.

You couldn't beat the combination of elements in this particular piece: a hundred-year-old Indian, a group of frightened townspeople, a real-estate development mogul, and a purported angry ghost. And they were only at the tip of the property-the part with the house on it. Who knew what lurked in the acres of woods behind it?

Kerrigan walked beside Az Thompson, the guy who had called the features editor in the first place, and wondered what the old man had done to stay alive this long. Did he eat yogurt, like on those Dannon commercials? Practice meditation? Inject B-12? "People have been taking our land away forever," Thompson said. "But it sure is depressing to think that might keep happening to us, even after we're dead."

Kerrigan stepped over a dog that was chewing on an old shoe. "It's my understanding that Spencer Pike, the owner of the property, hasn't lived here for some time."

"Not for twenty years."

"Do you think he was aware before then that this land was an alleged burial ground?"

The old man stopped in his tracks. "I think Spencer Pike knows a h.e.l.l of a lot more than what he lets on."

Now this was interesting. Kerrigan opened his mouth to ask another question but was distracted by a man and a kid walking inside. "Who are they?"

"Rumor says it's someone van Vleet hired," Thompson said. "To make sure there are no ghosts." He turned to the reporter. "What do you you think?" think?"

Kerrigan was used to doing the interviewing, not to being interviewed. "That the whole thing makes for a great story," he answered carefully.

"You ever wake up with someone else's dream on your tongue? Or slip on your boots to find them filled with snow, in August? You ever seen squash blossoms vine up through a sink drain overnight, Mr. Klieg?"

"Well, no, I haven't."

Thompson nodded. "Stick around," he said.

When Ross put his hand on his nephew's neck, the boy nearly leaped out of his skin. "Ethan," Ross said, "you okay with this?"

Ethan was shaking in his shoes. "Yeah. Oh, yeah, sure, I'm totally cool."

"Because I can take you home. It's not a problem." Ross stared soberly at Ethan. "You can tell everyone I was the one who wouldn't let you stay."

In response, Ethan took hold of the splintered railing on the stairs and started to climb.

With a sigh, Ross followed. Maybe Ethan wanted to be here, but he he sure as h.e.l.l didn't. When van Vleet had asked him to investigate some of the paranormal phenomena at the Pike property, he'd refused. And then he'd seen his sister watching him, waiting. sure as h.e.l.l didn't. When van Vleet had asked him to investigate some of the paranormal phenomena at the Pike property, he'd refused. And then he'd seen his sister watching him, waiting.

He'd set four conditions. First, Ross was in charge of the investigation, and would take orders from no one, including the head of the Redhook Group himself. Second, the only people allowed on the property during the investigation would be Ross and his a.s.sistant-Ethan, to the boy's utter surprise and delight. Third, Ross wanted no information about the history of the property until he asked for it- otherwise, the impressions he got might be tainted. Fourth, he would take no money for his services-unlike the Warburtons, who would give any client a ghost, for the right amount of cash.

In return, Ross promised to keep this investigation "quiet." Because the Powers That Be at the Redhook Group didn't want the entire world to know they might actually be giving credence to a belief in the supernatural.

So now, here he was, setting up for a night observation and falling back into the familiar as if it were a featherbed. Ethan waited at the top of the stairs like a zealous puppy. "Put the camera down," Ross instructed. "Let's do a walkthrough and see if you get anything."

"Get anything? Like what?" anything? Like what?"

Ross had to stop and think for a moment. How did you explain to a kid the sensation of splitting your mind at its seams, so that every scent and sight left an imprint? How did you describe the feeling of the air growing heavy as a blanket, settling over your ribs? "Close your eyes," Ross said, "and tell me what you see."

"But-"

"Just do do it." it."

Ethan was silent at first. "Light . . . shooting out from the corners."

"Okay." Ross gently turned him in a circle, like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. Then he steadied Ethan's shoulders. "Now . . . without peeking . . . where are the stairs?"

"Behind me," Ethan said, the wonder of this sixth sense shaking through his voice.

"How do you know?"

"It . . . well, it feels like a hole in the air back there."

Ross pivoted Ethan, then tapped him on the head hard enough to make his eyes fly open. "Good job, Boy Wonder. That was lesson number one."

"What's lesson number two?"

"To stop asking for lessons."

Ross walked through the hallway. Any furniture or family relics that had been in this home were long gone, their original placement marked only by the fading of the paint or scuff marks on the filthy floor. The upstairs held three small bedrooms and a bath. A staircase led up to a tiny servant's alcove.

"Uncle Ross? When will they get here?"

"If there are ghosts, they're already here." Ross peeked into the bathroom. The claw-footed tub was there, cracked in the middle, and an old commode with an overhead tank. "In fact, they're probably checking us out. If they decide they like what they see, they'll try to get our attention a little later."

When Ethan turned the faucet, a brown residue leaked out. "Do they care that we're here?"

"They might." Ross felt along the window, examining the seal. "Some ghosts are desperate to get someone to notice them. But some ghosts don't know they're dead at all. They're gonna see us and wonder why we're in their house. That is," he challenged loudly, "if there are even any here."

Come and get me, Ross thought.

He walked back down the stairs, examining the kitchen, the pantry, the cellar, and the living room. A small study with double doors still had a wing chair in it, a shredded hunk of leather where a family of mice had made its nest. Old newspapers littered the floor on this level, and the walls were smeared with what seemed to be axle grease.

"Uncle Ross? Is Aimee a ghost?"

He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and it had nothing to do with the paranormal-only true, human shock. "I don't know, Ethan." He shoved aside the image of Aimee that rose to his mind, like a mermaid surfacing from the otherworld of the ocean. "Dying . . . well, I think it's like taking a bus. Most people, they enjoy the ride and go on to whatever comes next. But some people get off before that last stop."

"Maybe she got off to see you."

"Maybe," Ross said. He turned away, intent on heading up the stairs before he embarra.s.sed himself in front of his nephew.

"Why do you think the ghost that lives here got off the bus?"

"I don't know."