

Alicia's Ghost

The Alicia Trilogy - Book One

By

Nick Iuppa & John Pesqueira

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Alicia's Ghost

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Copyright © 2013 Nick Iuppa & John Pesqueira. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Designed by Nick Iuppa

Cover Photo: Persians iStock # 637083908

Published by Does Milagros Press

Visit the author website:

http://www.nickiuppawrites.com

ISBN: 1494746239

Acknowledgments

We'd like to thank the friends who read our manuscript and offered their valuable advice during the creation of this book, especially: Lauren Ayer, Kimberly Behl, Elizabeth Hall, Bob Gibbons, and Bill Habeeb. We'd also like to extend our thanks to Janet Grady for her excellent and unflinching editorial support and Laurie Douglas for her patient, professional, and very competent graphic design services.

Dedication

In loving memory of Bill Idelson.

For his generosity, his honesty and especially his courage.

This book could not exist without him.

Jealousy and hate live on after death ... but so does love.

... Alicia Mann

The Living and The Dead

The Living

Mexico

Dr. Carlos Mann (Carlitos Mancowski)—Logic student and later professor at Leland University

Luis (aka El Cojo—the Cripple)—Childhood friend of Carlos and Alicia

Fernando de Cervantes (Señor Popcorn)—Mexican drug lord

Miguel Carillo—de Cervantes's right-hand man

Sylvia Morales—Professional model and friend of Alicia

Chula Contreras—Another model and friend of Alicia

Uncle Pablo (aka Tio Chulo—Uncle Pretty Face)—Carlos's uncle, middleweight champ of Sonora

Don Mario and Don Pepito—Two curanderos

Marty Marinara—FBI Agent

Tori Fox—Marinara's partner

Los Altos

Assad Madani—Part owner of the Torquemada Record Store

Dr. Charlotte Burke—Leland professor who shares a classroom with Carlos

Dr. Greer—Leland psychologist who is treating Carlos for OCD

Tom Johnson, Janet Henderson, Eddy Raber—Logic students

Chinatown

Members of the Joy Lum Family Association (aka the Joy Lum Clan)

Amy Joy—One of Carlos's Logic students

Veronica Joy—Her sister, also a student

Mother and Father Joy—Supposedly Amy's parents; human traffickers

Florence (Bunny) Joy—A submissive

Helen (Tiger) Joy, Bunny's twin—A dominatrix

Walter August Moon—Veronica's fiancé

Dr. Creighton Hoi—Wealthy surgeon and possible mate for Amy

The Dead

Mexico and America

Alicia Maria Mejias Mancowski Mann—Ghost wife of Dr. Carlos Mann

Chinatown

Mr. Fu—Ancient worker from the days of the railroad and friend of Alicia

Mr. Lum—Founder of the Joy Lum slave trade business

Paco—Mexican ghost; friend of Alicia

Purgatory Bookstore

Carlyle August—Once a wealthy entrepreneur and proprietor of the bookstore

Charlie O'Sullivan—Once a truck driver with connections in Chinatown

Chantal Nightingale—Once a nurse, mercy killer, and murderer

Mr. Friedman—Once an elderly gentleman and safe cracker

Jenny Beck—Once a Goth teenager

Royce Brilliant—Once a gay biker

Sinaqua and San Martin, Mexico

Ghosts of Apache warriors

Ghost Guest Appearances

Aristotle, Alexander the Great's Warriors, Geronimo
Table of Contents

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART TWO

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

PART FOUR

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Epilogue

Bonus Chapter

About the Authors

Alicia's Ghost

The Alicia Trilogy Book 1

Part 1

Chapter 1

Alicia and I are walking along the beach in San Lucero, Mexico. Endless sand, endless condos, endless kids running up to us trying to sell toys and tacos and woodcarvings of turtles and starfish.

Alicia is wearing a bikini so skimpy I'm embarrassed. I'm also proud and excited. She looks lovingly at me, blessing me with the brightness of her smile and those eyes that won't stop sparkling.

Two old women approach us from the other direction. They are dressed in flowing summer wraps. They hobble through the wet sand and stare at us in disapproval. Alicia is hanging on me, kissing me, and giggling. One arm is around my neck; she's bending forward. Her breasts struggle to jump out of her bikini. Her legs step across mine as though we're dancing.

To the old women, we're naughty children. And sometimes Alicia looks like she's about fifteen. To me, she's the little girl I grew up with, my best bud, my lover, and my fiancée. She's actually making it possible for me to attend graduate school at Leland University in the United States.

She flashes her engagement ring at the old women, but they still sneer and call her "Puta!"

She sticks her tongue out at them and crosses her eyes. Then she missteps, trips over my legs, and falls pulling me down on top of her. She rolls us both over and straddles me. The old women are disgusted. They snap their heads in the other direction and struggle on up the beach toward a bright orange taqueria whose canopy promises margaritas and shade from the Mexican sun.

"Take me with you tomorrow, mi amor," Alicia says, "... to the University. Take me."

I smile. I can't say no. But I have to.

"We're just not ready to move to the United States together," I say.

She scrunches up her face like a spoiled five-year-old.

"You know I'll send for you as soon as I have things set up."

"That won't be soon enough," she sighs. Suddenly her voice starts fading away becoming very distant.

"It's just a few months away."

"NO!" She sounds desperate.

"Why?" I ask.

"BECAUSE I'M ALREADY DEAD!"

Gashes suddenly cut across Alicia's chest and arms; a deep wound opens on her throat. Her legs are shredded. She rolls from me ... a wretched corpse!

"Alicia!" I jump to my feet and go to her, looking down at her in the sand. Her hand reaches up to me as blood pours down her arm. It fills her eyes, pools in her hair, spills over her lips. "Mi amor!" Her words are little more than a whisper.

The sand now fades into the soft carpet of our apartment in Los Altos, California. But Alicia is still dead, more dead here because this is where I found her, the way I found her, slashed and murdered.

"I love you," she moans as her image begins to fade. "I will always love you. Love me forever."

I jump bolt upright in bed, awakening from another terrible dream. My t-shirt is soaked front and back. The sheets are dripping with sweat. The pillows look like a swamp. But the ghostly moans still ring in the air: "Love me forever."

I turn to Alicia's side of the bed. No one is there. No one has been there for three years. Alicia is really dead, really murdered. But I've been true to her. I still love her.

Too bad she doesn't believe me.

Chapter 2

Do you know the joy of teaching at a place like Leland University where the kids are serious, dedicated, and probably smarter than you are? Sure there's competition; sure there are pressures. I won't say that all the students are happy. But discipline? Not an issue.

In spite of the nightmares of the early morning, I start to think those happy thoughts as I watch my students enter the big classroom on the main quad. They're smiling, chatting. I smile too.

A big bruiser named Tom Johnson gives me a thumbs-up. He likes me, likes the class even though it's Logic 101. The reason is simple. Kids like Tom have logical minds, so they intuitively understand how to solve the problems we deal with. Others find it harder. Eddy Raber, for example. He nods to me too but has a look of distress. He probably spent all night trying to work out the syllogism I assigned. The chances are 50/50 that he got it right. His mind just doesn't work that way.

I've heard that some young women and probably a few guys take my class because I'm supposed to be hot. Janet Henderson waves at me as she takes her seat. I think she has a crush on me. She puts on her glasses and tries to look studious. The fact that she could be a Nordic princess in a video game doesn't really matter here. She has a logical mind. She can't fail.

I slide into my seat and open the bottom drawer of my desk. I do a double take.

There's a pair of girl's panties in the drawer: pink, lace, Victoria's Secret panties. Size 4. Stitched across the front in big red letters are the words: "Be Mine."

I slam the drawer closed and look back into the class. Students are still entering the room, taking their seats. I open the center drawer of the desk where I keep my notes and papers. I glance down and see that the pencils and paper are a real mess. I pull out the loose papers and arrange them more neatly. Then I shuffle through them again, rearranging them into an even more appropriate order, alphabetical, yes, and within that organization, by date: earliest submission first, then more recently, and then yesterday's.

The damn pens and pencils are out of order too. They're in a tray at the front of the drawer, those with new erasers right in there with those whose erasers are worn to a nub, and the pencils are mixed in with pens of every kind.

Whose desk is this anyway? As far as I know, I'm the only one who uses this room on Wednesday morning. Maybe Dr. Burke messed up the drawer. She has the room on Tuesday evenings. She could have come in here and screwed with my papers. Those could be her panties in the drawer.

Dr. Charlotte Burke, exercise and yoga freak that she is, might just wear a size 4, and if she had to have a spare for some kind of female reason ...

Someone clears his throat.

I look up and see the entire class staring at me. I glance at the clock. It's ten minutes into the period, and the students have been sitting there silently for all this time. I do my usual preemptive stall; I move even more slowly, so it appears that I'm being very purposeful in arranging the papers and the pens, and then I scan the students in the front of the class. I'm pretty sure I know where those panties came from because Amy Joy is sitting dead center in front of me, staring at me with dark sparkly eyes ... Alicia eyes. Then she looks at the floor in embarrassment. She reaches beside her forehead with long delicate fingers and pulls her hair back behind her ear. It's a simple move; millions of women do it, but when Amy does, it reminds me how Alicia used to flip her hair back with those same kinds of long fingers. I think it may explain why, of all the students who have ever been in my class, Amy Joy is the only one I've ever been seriously attracted to.

Amy is short, cute with long black hair. She's a perennial wearer of tennis shoes, short pleated skirts, and Leland University sweatshirts. Her sister, who is sitting right next to her, is a real contrast: drop-dead gorgeous. She's going to be Miss Chinatown this year, she hopes.

I close the drawer softly. I want to start counting, but I'm sure that I'll get to six million before I snap out of it. So, I don't. Instead, I take a deep breath and ask a question. Just for the hell of it, I decide to make it very open-ended.

"Okay, so what do we know about logic?"

There's a long pause. No one volunteers.

I decide to ask Eddy Raber.

"Started with Aristotle," he answers. Several other students nod their heads in agreement.

"No one was ever logical before Aristotle came along?"

They laugh. That's good. Amy smiles, shows me her dimples. Overcomes her embarrassment a little. That's even better.

"What do you think, Ms. Joy?" I ask.

"What do I think?" Amy doesn't answer. Her sister does. "Give me your answer in the form of a syllogism, Veronica," I say. The girl turns pale.

"Aristotle invented logic," she begins tentatively.

I wince.

She rolls her eyes.

"Logic couldn't exist before it was invented."

Unfortunately, she's gaining confidence.

"Therefore, people before Aristotle couldn't be logical." The last words are a pronouncement. And then to add insult to injury she says, "Q.E.D." Quad erat demonstrandum, what has been proven.

She smiles proudly at this perfect example of faulty logic. I want to laugh, I want to shake my head, but I can't. Veronica and her sister don't belong in my class. They're flunking. And in her family, I hear, flunking will get them beaten half to death, or maybe just murdered, even if Veronica is gorgeous.

I turn back to Amy. She pops a look of anger at me: How could you. I try not to respond, so she slouches back in her seat, and stares at the floor again. She's wearing black knee socks with little bows at the top. I'm sure she has no idea how sexy they are.

I look around and see that all the logical minds are holding back their laughter. Tom starts to snicker; Janet Henderson does too. Veronica picks up on this, and tears form in her eyes.

"Back off, you vultures," I say. "Let's just have someone explain where Veronica's argument got off track?" Tom Johnson raises his hand instantly. I pick Eddy instead because he might struggle with his argument and that might help Veronica feel a little better about herself.

#

It's the end of the class, and almost all the students have filed out of the room. Veronica's gone. Only Amy remains, standing in front of me still staring at the floor.

"Like my little present?" she finally gets up the nerve to ask. Her voice is like candy.

My mind starts spooling through all the ramifications of improper student/teacher relationships. I already see myself out of a job.

"It's in your bottom desk drawer."

Amy pulls the drawer open and looks down at the panties. "Oops."

I can tell that the whole business embarrasses her. Probably wasn't even her idea.

"Don't you think it's a little improper?"

"My panties in your drawer?"

"That and ..."

"The message, 'Be Mine'?"

"After all, I'm your teacher."

She giggles nervously.

I shake my head and close my eyes.

"It was a dumb idea, wasn't it?"

"What do you think?"

"Sorry. Someone at home suggested it."

"Veronica?"

"No, someone more important."

Amy tucks her hair back behind her ear with those long, perfect fingers, and I feel my heart begin to melt.

"We both know this could get us in a lot of hot water," I say.

"Splish splash," she adds with a nervous giggle. Then, she reaches into the drawer, grabs the panties, stuffs them into her logic book, and charges from the room. Just as she does, Dr. Charlotte Burke steps up to the desk.

She looks at me for a long moment. She's tall, age 32, attractive, with short blond hair, thick glasses, and big scoopy earrings.

"The young lady wants a better grade," she says.

Heavy sigh on my part.

"Carlos, you're just too adorable to get away with being a professor."

I shake my head.

She grins. "Want me to talk to her?"

"Don't get her into any trouble. She comes from a family with ..."

"A strong criminal reputation? I've heard that. But you surely don't think they'll mess with members of the Leland faculty."

I grimace. "It's not the Leland faculty I'm worried about."

"Point well taken."

Chapter 3

I return to my apartment that evening, after the usual round of faculty duties. The place is a shambles, and I know that it isn't just my obsession with order that's making it look that way. Someone's been fucking with my stuff: shirts, jeans, underwear are scattered all over the place. Papers have been pulled from my desk and flung wildly on top of everything else.

I fall to my knees, start gathering up the papers, thinking of nothing but organizing them. Then I remember what I'm supposed to do in situations like this.

Don't hide, Carlos. Don't torture yourself

with all the negative possibilities. Focus.

Look at what's really going on.

I fall back, and fear sweeps over me. I want to organize things, so I don't have to think about the people who broke into my place: who they are, and what they want. I force myself to sit down and focus.

My first long and winding train of thought is that the Joy Clan has paid me a visit and tried to convince me of the importance of Amy's and Veronica's grades. Yes, everyone says they're heavily into crime and violence. Hell, everyone knows it.

Fuck! Who was I kidding when I agreed with Dr. Burke that they wouldn't mess with the Leland faculty? This sure looked like messing to me.

I could ride this train of thought all night if I let myself, and the final destination would be absolute hysteria. I shake my head to clear it, then get up and walk slowly into the bedroom.

It's even worse.

Pictures of Alicia are scattered everywhere: Alicia on our wedding day, saying our vows, sharing the cake, having our first dance, our little honeymoon cabin down the beach from Guaymas, Alicia in a very sexy negligee, a very nice bikini, tromping through the ocean waters, hiking through the woods, her sparkly eyes across a table at a candlelight dinner. It's like someone wants to remind me very clearly about my dead wife. Who would want to do that, the monster that murdered her? Damn straight! He killed her, and now it's probably my turn to be sliced and diced. There's another long, painful chain of possibilities I can go over and over and over.

I spin around and stagger back into the living room. I fall into the easy chair directly across from the TV. There's a slip of paper sticking up from the seat cushion, almost as though this, of all the things in the room, was placed there so that I would single it out and read it.

It's a canceled check made out to me, deposited at the Wells Fargo Bank in Los Altos, California, six years ago. It's for seventy-five thousand dollars and signed Alicia Mann. I flip it over and see my own signature scrawled across the back. What the hell's this doing here?

"Call the cops," I yell out loud. The damn check is shaking violently. So is the hand that holds it. You gotta call the cops, man.

Even as I pull out my cell phone, I know it isn't going to happen. Calling the cops is something I definitely won't let myself do. If I did, I'd start reliving my call to the police after Alicia's murder. I was in shock, almost as torn apart as she was. My beautiful Alicia with the dancing eyes was a lifeless corpse lying on our bedroom floor, and the cops were accusing me of being the killer. I finally took a swing at one of them. That made things worse. Someone actually knew about me, knew I had been a boxer in Mexico. I almost killed a guy there once. That's why I think twice about throwing a punch even now. So what?

In the third year of our marriage, someone murders my beautiful Alicia. I spend the next year going insane with anguish while the cops do their best to prove that I did it. As soon as the trial is over and my name is cleared, the terrible pain and sadness intensify. All I can see is her face, still beautiful in spite of the bloody slashes across it. It greets me every morning when I awake.

Until one morning I wake instead to the tinkling of a wind chime that Alicia had hung in our bedroom window. I guess it was hot in Los Altos that night (which it never is), and so I left the window open. Maybe that's why I never heard the wind chime after Alicia died.

I have kept all of Alicia's things. There's nothing of hers I can bear to part with. Not even her wind chime.

I am fascinated by the sound. And then I begin to study it: the little shells that make the music, spinning in the sunlight, reflecting its glow. They catch my eye, distracting me from my pain. From that moment on, when pain or fear seems like it will overwhelm me, my mind seeks out those kinds of things to focus on, and I escape into them, count them, order them, go over their details again and again and again. The only problem now is that those distractions have taken over my life.

Even though these memories are terrible, they have calmed me. I decide I can either spend the night trying to figure who trashed my place or just straighten it up. I choose the latter knowing that there'll be plenty of time to consider the cause and effect of the mess as I lie awake in bed all night.

I'm wrong. After four hours of being fully consumed with straightening and ordering, I slump into the bedroom, and I'm out in maybe 2.35 seconds.

More dreams: Alicia is arriving at the airport in San Jose. As she makes her way off the plane, every man turns to look at her. She's dressed in a fuchsia sundress, a broad-brimmed hat, and high heels. The dress may be a little too tight, and she's having trouble controlling the hat. Besides, she's pulling a wheelie that makes her lean backward as she struggles ahead and strains to keep the hat under control. The physical effect of all those opposing forces is fabulous.

I rush up to her, take the hat, grab the wheelie, and in the process free her to throw her arms around me and begin kissing me as though she never thought we'd see each other again. I'm now the envy of every man within eyesight, but of course, even in the dream, I'm obsessing, trying to figure the most direct route home, thinking more about the night-time rush hour traffic than the beautiful moment we are sharing.

Alicia likes my new/used Chrysler 300 with the big Hemi engine and the bucket seats. She curls up on the passenger side and starts telling me more about the modeling job that has provided the seventy-five thousand dollars that allows me to come to Leland University and get my Ph.D.. I'm babbling on about how the faculty is already impressed with me, and how Dr. Danielson is already suggesting that he can help me get a teaching position.

All of this feels so real that I think I can reach out and touch the dashboard of the car; I can reach out and touch the soft, sweet face of my dead wife. It's as though she's with me again, going on and on about the beach shoot and the creative director (a very lovely woman) and the strict code enforced by the chaperones from the modeling agency. Then a bullet rockets through the back window of my car and out the front windshield. I lose control and begin swerving wildly across all northbound lanes of the Bayshore Freeway.

A silver BMW pulls up directly beside my car. The windows are tinted so we can't see in, but the driver can see us. Alicia flips off the driver and shouts, "¡Vete a la mierda, pendejo!" Fuck you, asshole! I laugh. My wife is such a model of decorum.

The drivers-side window of the other car rolls down, and a guy with a fat face, broad smile and a big Mexican mustache shakes his head at her.

"¡Mierda!" Alicia shots, "El Cojo!" The Cripple! And she slides down onto the floor of the car. She also reaches up and grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me down with her as another bullet zips above my head.

Without any clear knowledge of where we are on the freeway or the traffic around us, I slam on the brakes. I hear my tires and several other sets of tires squealing. The car is swerving, but surprisingly, there are no collisions.

I struggle up behind the wheel again. I'm now several car lengths behind the silver Beamer and its crippled driver. I'm able to regain control of my car. I cut across two lanes of traffic and exit onto Shoreline Blvd. The BMW is too far ahead of us to make the exit. Instead, it keeps zooming on into the night.

I guide the big Chrysler down along the side of the bay and then pull into a parking space, stop, and jerk up the handbrake. "What was that all about?" I ask Alicia. She's trembling all over, and yet she still gives me that cocky little girl smile of hers.

"Random drive-by shooting?"

I laugh and shake my head. "And who the hell is El Cojo?"

She's shaking all over as she lowers the handbrake and slides across the console so she's right next to me.

"The cripple? Believe me, you know him, mi amour."

She runs her fingers through my hair, kisses my forehead, and then lowers those lips to my ear. "Listen," she murmurs.

There's nothing but the voices of frogs along the edge of the bay and the occasional call of an owl. It's pitch black outside. I see nothing. But then I hear it: a step and then a drag. Then another step and drag, as though someone is limping very slowly toward my car, dragging a dead foot along with him.

Alicia's nibbling my earlobe, but as the steps grow louder, she pulls away. "El Cojo, Señor," she whispers, and I turn to the window and see that big, horrible face. That ugly mustache is smiling in at me.

"Señor, buenas noches," the guy chuckles. A pistol appears beside his face. He is still laughing as he cocks it.

Then he pulls the trigger, exploding glass into my face and Alicia's, and I hear us both screaming as I awake from yet another nightmare.

Chapter 4

Torquemada sentenced two thousand Jews and Muslims to be burned at the stake in 15th Century Spain. He was the first and most infamous Grand Inquisitor.

Torquemada is also the name of "The Best Used-CD-DVD-Record-&-Tape Store in Silicon Valley®." Interestingly, a Jew and a Muslim run the store together.

Assad Madani, one of the proprietors, is a good friend of mine; though I have to admit that we have ongoing arguments over the way he organizes his products.

Assad came to the US from Iran eight years ago. A shy, introverted computer geek, he started as a software engineer working on security systems for a Silicon Valley start-up. But two years after he got his green card, Assad's love of vinyl records and sexy album covers pulled him away from the high tech business, and he invested his considerable stock option profits into Torquemada. Earlier this year he became a full US citizen. Though the record store is slowly eating away at his savings, Assad assures me that he and his partner will turn a profit very soon, and he wouldn't want to do anything else.

I'm in the Beatles section of the store right now, trying to convince Assad that the Beatles anthologies should not be included with their other works. A good Muslim and a somewhat disorganized thinker, I feel, Assad is holding fast to his position, and he has the edge on me. He alone can create the plastic category dividers that help organize the records. He argues that his approach is more intuitive. I say that mine is more logical. We're in the middle of getting nowhere when Assad suddenly freezes in front of me and fixes all his attention on the front door of Torquemada. I turn to see a large black limo pulling up outside.

I don't care.

I turn back to Assad and keep arguing until someone taps me on the shoulder.

It's Amy Joy.

"Hi," her eyes are dancing. "We have something for you."

I'm expecting her to hand me another pair of panties, but instead, her sister steps out from behind Amy and gives me a red envelope with gold Chinese characters printed on the front.

"An invitation," she says sweetly.

I look over at Assad and note that he's mesmerized. He nods to Veronica. "So lovely," he says. The girl lowers her eyes and turns away shyly.

I pull open the flap of the envelope and take out the invitation. It reads:

The Members Of The Joy Lum Family Invite You To Join Us For

An Engagement Party

In Honor Of Our Daughter

Veronica

And

Mr. Walter August Moon

On Monday, May 11, 2011 at 7:30 PM

At The Joy Lum Family Association

Grant Avenue, San Francisco

I look back at Veronica. She's doing her best to smile, but I can see tears making their way into the corners of her eyes.

"Tears of happiness," Amy says knowing it isn't true.

Veronica is clearly miserable. Finally, she says that she realizes that she can't make it at Leland and has already told her mother. Unfortunately, mom passed the news on to the rest of the family, and now Veronica is being forced to drop out of school and honor an old family commitment requiring that she marry Mr. August Moon.

"I never thought they'd make me do it," Veronica says. "I thought they loved me."

Amy shakes her head. "As if."

"How old's the groom?" I ask.

"Seventy-eight!"

Veronica closes her eyes tightly, squeezing out the last of the tears. Somehow she manages to get herself under control. "If I'm lucky he won't live too long, maybe ten years at the most."

So, the three of us are standing there looking tragic when Assad suddenly steps forward. "Tell me, Miss ..." he waits for her name.

"Miss Joy."

"Joy, how apt. Tell me, Miss Joy, do you think it's more intuitive to put all the records by an artist together, or should the anthologies be separated from the original albums?"

"Not now, Assad," I say. "Can't you see that ..."

He holds up his hand to stop me and focuses on the former would-be Miss Chinatown.

Veronica looks at him as though he's crazy, then lowers her eyes in embarrassment. "Professor Mann can tell you that my logic is a little weak."

"Ah," answers Assad, "but this is not about logic, this is a question of intuition. They are not the same."

Veronica puzzles through these ideas and then says, "In that case, I would prefer that the albums be all together, perhaps in chronological order."

I'm about to respond to this nonsense when Amy pulls me away allowing Assad and Veronica to continue their conversation. When we're several rows from them, she whispers, "The woman my sister told you about is not our real mother. Our so-called Mother and Father are involved in a lot of terrible stuff."

Amy pulls me further away... to the very back of the store. From where I stand I am free to study her sparkling Alicia eyes. But I can also see over her shoulder to Assad and Veronica as they talk. And at the door, I can make out the limo where a slight but lethal looking guy stands impatiently by the front fender. It's clear he's about to come in after the girls.

"This is some cruel, evil shit," Amy says. The sparkle in her eyes has turned to fear. "If I have to leave Leland, it'll be even worse for me than it will be for Veronica."

"So I have to pass you," I ask, "or you'll end up ... what?"

Amy shakes her head as though the possibilities are too horrible to describe. She begins to tremble; her fear is moving toward panic.

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier instead of leaving your you-know-whats in my desk drawer?"

"Someone said it would turn you on. I know it was stupid. I'm sorry, but I was desperate. Anyway, come to the party. Pleeese." She dips her knees to add emphasis as she says the word. "You have to help us."

There are a lot of strange forces working on me. For one, saving Amy begins to feel like a chance to save Alicia all over again. Then there's the natural instinct of a teacher to want to help any student in trouble. And, of course, how could I disappoint this girl that I'm starting to care so much about. Oh, yes, and then there's the male ego trip of wanting to be a hero to a damsel in distress. I smile. I'm almost starting to feel like a knight. All I need is a dragon.

I squeeze Amy's arm. "Of course I'll come."

Her eyes sparkle again, and so does her smile. She is probably about to throw her arms around me when I nod toward the action behind her.

Amy turns to see Veronica talking enthusiastically to Assad. Just beyond her, Mr. Slight-but-Lethal has made his way through the door and is moving up the aisle towards the couple. Amy loses the smile. She has to provide some explanation for the fact that she and her sister have stayed inside the store for so long. She runs up beside her sister, pulls a handful of Beatles albums from the rack, and pushes them at Assad.

"We want all of these, don't we, Veronica?"

Veronica looks confused, but her back is to Mr. Lethal, so she doesn't know he's there. "I guess so," she answers at the very last moment.

"Just don't gouge us on the price," Amy adds for effect.

Assad finally understands the situation and begins flipping through the albums. I can tell by the anguish in his eyes that these are not albums he wants to part with. Still, he offers a wonderfully low price.

"Please pay the man," Amy tells Mr. Lethal.

He nods and points to the car.

The girls move in that direction immediately. The guy glides up to Assad. "How much?" he hisses.

"Three fifty."

He looks at me for confirmation.

"Hell of a price," I say.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a wad of cash, counts out three hundred and fifty dollars without saying a word. Then he takes the albums and is about to leave when he turns back to us and arches his eyebrows with a look that is both a question and a threat.

"Hey, they just invited us to a party tomorrow, asshole," I respond. Actually, I leave the word "asshole" unspoken.

Mr. Lethal smiles menacingly and glides out the door.

"We were both invited to the party?" Assad asks.

"It didn't specify," I say, "but maybe I'd better go it alone."

"Shit," Assad sighs.

Chapter 5

I get home a few hours later, and the place smells like a delicatessen. I stare ahead and see blood splattered all over the kitchen wall. Below the blood is a wad of yellow-green gunk. The floor is festooned with broken glass. I tread carefully between the shards and look more closely.

Blood?

Then the overpowering smell tells me that it's catsup.

Someone has thrown bottles of condiments against the apartment wall, turning the clean surface into a foul-smelling Jackson Pollack painting.

I move into the living room and see my well-ordered books pulled from their shelves and scattered across the floor. Someone has picked up my wedding portrait and slammed it against the end table shattering the glass. Alicia's face has been smudged out.

I go into the bathroom. That same someone has taken bottles of pills and vitamins and dumped them in the bathtub. They've squeezed toothpaste and ointments in there as well and thrown brushes and soap on top.

I wheel around, afraid to go into the bedroom. When I finally do, I'm amazed. Nothing has been damaged. Everything is pristine. But there is a letter sitting in the middle of the bed. I recognize the letter at once. It's from me. I open it and read. The last sentence says it all.

"Alicia, I'll never love anyone but you!"

Your Carlitos

I wander back into the living room and begin picking up books and placing them back on the shelves in the correct order. At that moment my mind begins spooling through the possible perpetrators of this crime: the Joy Lum Clan? El Cojo? I play out those scenarios in my mind, and they seem improbable.

Still, this is clearly another attempt to scare me ... but why?

The Joy Lum Clan wants to keep me away from their daughters?

Possibly.

El Cojo has settled with my wife, but he still has unfinished business with me?

How could he?

Then a new idea emerges. It's absolutely unbelievable.

My wife is jealous and has thrown a temper-tantrum! My dead wife has come into our home and gone nuts!

I brush the clutter off the couch, sit down, and put my face in my hands. I run a quick syllogism:

• Dead people don't throw temper tantrums.

• Alicia is dead.

• Therefore, the mess in my apartment cannot be the result of Alicia throwing a temper tantrum.

QED

Did I mention that I am one-quarter Polish on my father's side? Mann is short for Mankowski. At times these two nationalities often declare war on each other. Like right now. At this moment the quarter of me that is Polish wants to stick with the syllogism. But the three-quarters of me that are Mexican are screaming out wildly, "Open your eyes, man! Alicia may be dead, but this has to be one of her world-famous temper tantrums."

I picture Alicia the first time I ever saw her, on the streets of our little village in Mexico. I'm new to the town. My family has just moved there, and I am six years old. I'm smiling as I walk through this poor little place for the first time. I'm happy and stupid. Who knows what I might run into?

Then I hear screaming, high, nasty, like some kind of wildcat. I come around a corner, and there is this girl, she's maybe five, surrounded by six-year-olds, and they are beating her up ... well, it's not exactly clear who's beating up whom, because, although there are five of them, her arms are whirling, and her legs are kicking, and most of those screwy kids are keeping their distance.

This is one tough little girl, I think. Tough and very dirty. She's caked with mud because they've knocked her down so many times. Plus, she's crying, her hair is stringy, her nose is runny, and her little t-shirt is twisted—sideways almost, so are her shorts—in the other direction. She's a dirty little raging wildcat.

I'm curious and, as I mentioned, brave and stupid, so I walk right up to them just as two large boys grab the girl. Another girl (a bigger girl maybe age seven who has a funny wine-colored birthmark on her forehead) is actually smoking a cigarette. She takes a puff, looks at the flaming end of it, smiles, and begins to bring it toward the wildcat's face, right toward her forehead. Looks like she wants to give the younger girl a mark just like hers, but this will be a burn-mark.

I look at the wildcat's eyes, so full of tears and fury, and I will never be the same again. There's something there, so deep, so beautiful that I'm amazed, and I laugh more out of wonder than anything else.

The other kids ignore me. They are intent on burning this little girl, putting a big permanent scar right in the middle of her forehead. But suddenly, she isn't looking at them; she's looking at me, not pleadingly, just intently, questioning, like: "Hey, are you going to stand there and let them do this to me or what?"

But what can I do, one new kid against six boys and a big girl with a cigarette? In fact, there is only one thing I can do ... and I do it. I stick my hand in front of the wildcat's forehead to protect it, and instantly the burning end of the cigarette sears into the back of my hand.

"¡DIOS MÍO!" I have never felt such pain; it's curiously awful but so incredible that the smile freezes on my face. The other kids back off in shock. The big girl drops the cigarette, and I step on it at once. Then, before anyone can do anything, I put my arm around this little wildcat, and we walk away from the mean kids. My hand is on her shoulder and, as we turn, everyone can see the harsh, red burn on my skin. One of the kids gasps. I don't care. They are so surprised and confused that they just look at each other and then shuffle away. Who wants to mess with a little guy who'll take a cigarette burn for some dirty niña that he doesn't even know?

Little Alicia looks up at me with those big, deep, sparkly eyes, eyes that at the age of six I'm already in love with, and she leads me to her house.

It's tiny, tucked in a row with lots of other houses of different colors.

She wipes the snot from her nose, and only then do I notice that it's also bloody.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"No big deal," I say. I shrug and smile, and she melts against me. I'm actually hugging this little ball of dirt. She smells pretty bad too. But then she looks up at me, and I see that under all that muck her face is sweet, worth looking at ... a lot.

"Come on, let's play," she says, and she tries to smile.

"Oh shit, can't." I realize I've been away from home far longer than I'm supposed to be. I turn and start to jog away from her.

"Pleeese!"

I turn and smile and shrug, but then start jogging again.

"Pleeese!" I hear again, but I just keep going, and by the time I get to the end of the row of houses I hear the wildcat kicking and cursing and throwing dirt, mostly at her little bicycle, which is innocent enough, just chained to a pole in front of her house. She's beating up the bike, calling it names like the whole thing is its fault.

Then I hear something even worse: a woman, young but nasty, calling out the window.

"Alicia, para de critar o saldre a pegar te."

She's threatening to come out and beat little Alicia if she doesn't shut up. And the voice sounds like an older version of Alicia herself, only cruel. It's probably her mother. I turn and run away from the dirty little girl with the bewitching eyes and the town full of enemies. But I know that I will come back and see her again. I'll be her protector too. I smile and like that idea, because, after all, no one is going to mess with a kid crazy enough to get burned for some dirty little wildcat.

Now sitting in the wreckage of my well-organized apartment, against all reason I have to conclude that Alicia is the one who has ransacked my place this time and probably last time as well. Her anger is so damn powerful.

My wife is a poltergeist.

I stare at the floor for a very long moment. Then, for maybe the first time in years, I leave the mess unresolved, leave the books on the floor, the pills in the bathtub. I even leave the bloody catsup on the kitchen wall.

I stagger into the bedroom, rip off my clothes, fall into bed and am asleep within seconds.

I don't dream at all.

Chapter 6

I spend the next morning trying to shake off the idea that Alicia is haunting me. I am better by the afternoon, and come evening I feel stronger still. I drive north to San Francisco's Chinatown. I park in the Saint Mary's Square Garage, and then hike up to Grant Avenue. By this time I am starting to feel like the hero I was at six years old. Once again, I'm setting off to save a damsel in distress (make that two damsels).

Soon I am walking into a darkened room at the Joy Lum Family Association. A dragon jumps out at me. It's big, gold and red, with enormous eyes and a long scaly body. It bats its dark eyelashes, dances around in front of me, rears up to an enormous height, then drops down and looks me in the eyes.

I step back expecting a blast of fiery breath, but the dragon steps toward me instead. Then it pushes me with its snout and paws me with the eagerness of a golden retriever. This is a dragon from another culture, I realize. It cocks its head and paws me again. Its mouth drops open, then flaps shut, then opens again.

"It wants money," Amy says as she glides up to me. She's traded her short skirt for a slinky blue silk dress with a slit up the side (just like the Dragon Lady in the old Terry and the Pirates comic books). Her monster high heels make her almost as tall as Alicia. She takes a five-dollar bill and stuffs it into the dragon's mouth.

I can see the man inside the dragon now as he reaches into the mouth and takes the bill. There's another man behind him controlling the back of the creature. The guy in front jumps up on the legs of the one behind him and lifts the dragon's head to twice its normal height.

"Good dragon," I say.

"It's not a dragon, Dr. Mann. It's a lion."

Amy pats the lion/dragon on the nose. In response, the creature tips its head inquisitively, and then it lowers its shoulders and backs away like a playful puppy. As I take in more of the room, I can see other lions dancing to the entertainment of couples sitting around the periphery.

"Glad you're here," Amy says, and then she whispers, "but please be careful what you say."

The interior is like some kind of ballroom with a shiny black floor. The walls are done in dark wood and bamboo. At the far end of the room, Walter Moon sits at a table surrounded by members of his family. He's a fat old man wearing a dead black suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. The tie and shirt collar look like they are choking him; still, he is smiling and talking enthusiastically with everyone in earshot.

"Ready to meet the guest of honor?" Amy asks. I nod, and so she leads me up to Mr. Moon. The man rises as we draw near. He offers his hand in greeting.

"You, of course, are Dr. Mann of Leland University," he says. I smile, nod, and shake his hand. "You were honorable enough to help my bride understand her limitations."

I feel myself bothered by this remark and know my feelings will soon show in my eyes. But then there's a subtle nudge from Amy. I remember her warning and try to smile.

"Logic isn't really her thing," I say.

"Sadly, no," Mr. Moon responds. "But fortunately it is not a requirement for a good wife." He gestures toward Amy. "Perhaps you will be able to help this one understand it too."

"Perhaps," I say as I look at Amy to see how well she can control her feelings about the remark. She's fanning herself with her hand and trying to breathe deeply.

"Please, enjoy the festivities," Moon concludes and turns back to his other guests.

"Not my favorite person," Amy says as we walk away. "But we gotta chill. It's time for you to meet my parents."

Amy guides me across the room to a large table where Veronica sits surrounded by couples of various ages.

"Mother, Father," Amy says, "This is Dr. Carlos Mann from Leland University."

To my surprise, a young man of perhaps thirty-five stands and moves toward me. He shakes my hand and then turns to introduce his wife. She is nearly the same age, and definitely too young to be the mother of twenty-year-old Veronica Joy.

The jade-colored silk dress Mother's managed to slide into couldn't be any tighter. It accentuates every curve in an athlete's body, and rises to form a high collar around her neck. Mother has a regal bearing, more than that, a dominant bearing. She arches her eyebrows, sucks in her cheeks, purses her lips, and looks me up and down. Then she smiles. It's a cruel smile that says she's imagining doing very rough things to my body.

Like it or not, it's a hell of a turn-on. Father has been watching my reaction, and he seems to be enjoying it.

"I'm so happy you could come," he says slapping me on the shoulder. "I'm sure you understand that we are overjoyed to be able to move up the date of our daughter's wedding."

"Whatever you say," I answer as I scan the guests at the table; most everyone looks delighted and quite drunk, except Veronica who has pressed herself tightly against the wall as though preparing for her execution. Beside her are two slightly younger women, other sisters probably. They're twins. Later Amy will tell me that their names are Florence and Helen—but they're known as Bunny and Tiger.

Bunny is dressed in a high school uniform with a very short pleated skirt, white starched blouse, and tie. She looks wide-eyed and frightened. She jumps whenever anyone makes a quick move. It's like she's never been out of the house before.

Tiger has the face of her twin, but her expression is so different that the resemblance is hard to recognize. She actually looks more like her mother: hard, cruel, and commanding. Her dress is similar to Mother's: high collar, skin-tight; so's her figure: athletic and busty. She smiles invitingly and licks her lips.

Amy reaches over, takes my hand and squeezes it rather tightly. I nod and smile. Father seems to feel that he can return to his party. So Amy leads me away.

"Fascinating people," I say.

We are standing in the far corner of the room taking in the others, too far for them to hear our conversation.

Amy smiles, but from where I stand I see that it's a false smile.

"Mother and Father are into human trafficking," she says with that fake grin. "They bring girls over from China at the age of two or three. They get them out of orphanages, or buy them from parents who live out in the boonies. No one wants girl-babies over there.

"Mother and Father decide what a kid's gonna be like when she's really little, then they stick her in one of three groups.

"Veronica and I caught a break. They think we'll make good wives. They even thought we might go to the high rollers who pay very well for college-educated women. There has to be a quick return on that investment. If we can't cut it, they want us out of the program before they waste too much money on us.

"The girls who wash out are trained in cooking and cleaning with a little sex-ed thrown in, and then they're sold to the bottom feeders."

"And the two girls next to Veronica?"

"Florence and Helen, Bunny and Tiger?"

I nod.

"Well, in Bunny's case, Father looks for girls who are cute but stupid, scare easily, and get hysterical whenever things go wrong. He puts them in a group and squeezes out the rest of the world. They go to special schools, get treated like eight-year-olds ... forever. They never meet anyone other than their tutors. They don't know anything about boys or sex."

"That's why Bunny looks so surprised by her surroundings?"

Amy nods.

"Mother and Father rate the girls on their beauty, and when they're sold, the hotties bring the big bucks. But there'll be takers for all of them."

This whole conversation is starting to seem unreal and frankly terrifying. I'm finding hard to believe any of it or Amy's calm acceptance of it all. What can I say? This is not the time to protest, especially to someone who is being victimized by that whole scheme. Finally, I simply ask, "What exactly do girls like Bunny do?"

"They don't do," Amy answers. "They're done to. They're submissives, kept in chains sometimes, have all kinds of evil things poked into them. They're so innocent that they don't even know what's happening."

"How old are they when they're sold?"

"Whatever the buyer wants. If you're into little girls, I'm sure Father has one for you. If you want a twenty-year-old, he's got her too."

I look across the floor and nod to the second girl.

"What about Helen?"

"Tiger? The one that you like?"

"I don't, actually."

"I saw it, Dr. Mann, she really turns you on." Amy blushes, smiles a little, and those dimples return. "She's Cruella de Ville. These girls are picked because they're mean and rebellious. It's Mother's job to whip them into shape, usually with a real whip."

Amy looks at me and sees that I can barely believe any of this, let alone accept it.

"Better unclench your fists, Doctor," she tells me. I didn't even know I was doing it. I try my best not to show my growing outrage. I take a deep breath try to calm down, and so she simply continues.

"Girls like Tiger study domination." And at that last word Amy suddenly shudders as though an icy breeze just blew through the room.

"Damn," I say. "And you think Tiger turned me on ... what does that say about me?"

Amy grins. "That you love strong, cruel women who like to be in charge."

I just shake my head and wonder if she's ever heard of Alicia.

"Anyway," she sighs, "that's a group that I can't join; I don't know how to be that cruel. Come on, let's get some air."

Now the dragon/lions are back, three of them, prancing and bounding in the hope of scoring a little more cash. Amy leads me to the left, and one of the lions blocks our way. He pounds his feet into the floor, and establishes that he ain't going nowhere.

I pull a bill from my pocket, stuff it in his mouth, and the lion does another bow and lets us pass. "Good boy," I whisper as I brush by him. But then a second lion moves in front of us, and then a third. So Amy and I end up buying our way out of the party and into the incense-laden streets of Chinatown.

"I'm surprised that they let you out of their sight," I say to Amy.

Amy nods to the corner of the building, and I can see a skinny Chinese kid pull back around the edge. "At least three other guys are watching us," she says.

"What are they afraid of?" I ask. "I've already proven that your honor's safe with me."

"They don't give a damn about my honor, or my life, or your life. They would probably enjoy killing both of us."

Suddenly, I'm fascinated by the ornate blue and white tile decorations on the store in front of us. It's called the China Bazaar.

I count across the top row reaching a quick one-thirty-four, then see that the rows are uneven. This bothers me immensely, and I begin counting backward across the second row. Now I'm at two-hundred-sixty-five and just starting the third row when Amy takes me by the arm and drags me away from the bazaar.

"What happens to you, Doctor Mann?" she asks as she leads me across the street and into a small, dingy bar. The place is like some kind of tropical terrarium: long, narrow, and steamy. Most of the barstools are empty. A big, dirty painting of a catfish hangs unevenly behind the bar. The bartender wears a black vest and white shirt and has whiskers that make him look just like the catfish. Small tables and booths press against the wall across from him.

As we move along the bar, I see the skinny Chinese kid slide into the first stool near the door. Amy pulls me into a booth at the far end where there are no patrons.

"Please tell me," she says. "What makes you suddenly black out, stare into your desk drawer for ten minutes at a time? Why were you staring at the tiles on the front of the China Bazaar?"

I shrug. I don't want to talk about my condition especially with a girl who has Alicia's eyes.

"OCD?" she asks.

"No!"

I don't ever want to talk about it.

"Obsessive-compulsive?"

"Nope."

"You weren't counting the tiles on the front of the China Bazaar then?"

"Why would I?"

"To take your mind off of the danger."

"What danger?"

Amy looks around the bar, up to the front and into the back. No one seems to be looking at us, not even the skinny kid.

"I think this place is safe. Pretty sure they can't hear us in here." She sighs and gives me a half smile.

"Veronica and I have been in danger all our lives. You're only in trouble if you help us. So far they think you're a benefactor."

A chubby Asian girl in a skirt short enough to show off plenty of cellulite comes up to take our order.

"Club sodas," Amy says holding up two fingers.

"And a shot of tequila," I add.

"Gotcha." The girl disappears.

"Dr. Mann, you have to help us."

The menu is stuck into a chrome stand. It shows some specialty drinks with umbrellas in them. The image is covered with splotches of God-only-knows-what. The table is sticky too. I reach into my pocket, grab a bottle of Purell, and start to scrub my hands. Amy reaches across and stops me.

"Chill. Pleeese? Look, Dr. Mann, Veronica and I are toast unless you help. We're in the program I told you about, the one that targets high tech guys who are willing to pay for college-educated women. That's usually the best thing any girl can hope for. But we're on a short leash. If they think we can't make it at Leland, Mother and Father want to cut their losses and just sell us off, and the men they'll sell us to will be real losers, the kinds that usually batter their wives. You should see the monster they've got lined up for me."

"You already know who you're going to marry?"

"If I flunk out. He's a wealthy soy sauce importer from Sacramento. He was married before; everyone says he got drunk one night and beat his wife to death with a baseball bat."

Just then the bar girl shows up with club soda and a shot of tequila. I grab the shot and down it in one swallow. "Better get two more," I add. Amy doesn't comment.

Amy's phone rings. She stares at it for a moment then decides she has no choice but to pick it up.

"It's Amy ... Oh, I see."

She glances at the back of the bar looking for some means of escape. The person on the other end of the line is jabbering. I look over the top of the booth. It's the kid by the door.

"No, we won't," she says. "We'll be there."

"Right now? Yes."

Amy puts down the phone and looks at me. "The booth must be miked." She shivers all over. "Father heard everything I told you. He wants to see us in his study. The bartender has a gun, and he'll blow us away if we don't go over there right now."

I look at the barkeep, and he's staring at me intently. I expect him to gurgle like a fish. Instead, he pulls out a revolver and sets it on top of the bar.

That's our cue to get up and head over to Father's office. I grab the sticky menu card off the table and begin to study it even as Amy pulls me along. By the time I'm at the door, I have it memorized.

Chapter 7

So, I'm in a chair in Father's office back at the Joy Lum Family Association. Amy has led me there.

Suddenly two Chinese tough guys glide through the doorway. They're both very trim, with thin waistlines but well developed upper bodies. They're dressed in tuxedos no less. The one on the left has that sinister look, like he wants nothing more than to slice me into little pieces. He reaches out and slides a hand onto my shoulder. "This gentleman?" he asks.

I smile because, other than the tough guys and Amy's Father, I'm the only man in the room, gentle or not. The tough guy sees the smile, jerks me to my feet, and gives me a quick shot in the gut. My abs are rock hard from my boxing days, made to take punches. Still, I double over and gasp for breath.

"Why are you no longer smiling, now?" he hisses.

Father strolls up to me and nods. "Unfortunately, Doctor Mann knows everything."

"The Closet, then?" the tough guy asks.

"Oh, yes." Father claps his hands in quiet applause. "The Closet."

Now the second tough guy grabs my other shoulder and leans in.

"You won't like it there."

Along with the words come the stink of soy sauce, garlic, and pan-fried noodles.

I know that I can take at least one of these guys. Every part of my body tenses, wants to fight. The toughs feel the tension; they can tell how strong I am, and so they hold me even tighter. Adrenalin's pumping into my bloodstream; I'm ready to break loose, but then I see Amy kneeling in the corner, and I stop. I know that if I put up a fight, they'll only take it out on her. So, I let the two men lift me into the air and spin me toward the door.

"Don't be too nice to him," Father says, and that's the cue for them to accidentally slam my face into the edge of the doorway. It clobbers my eye and gouges a big cut in my upper lip.

I taste blood and want to spit it back at them, but I'm sure the result would be a broken neck for Amy or me ... or both of us. Right now the girl is in a state of shock, shaking her head like she's responsible for everything.

And, of course, we all know that she is.

#

What the tough guys and Father call "The Closet" is actually just a very small room. Chains hang from the ceiling, held up by rings screwed in tight. At the end of each chain is some kind of clamp. My guess is that these are meant to grab and pull at various body parts.

The tough guys muscle me into the middle of the room and pull down two chains with manacles at the ends. They attach the chains to my wrists so that I'm pulled upright with my hands spread out high above my head. There are shorter chains on the floor, and these have cuffs for my ankles. They put the cuffs on me and then adjust them so that I'm forced to stand with my feet spread wide apart. There are plenty of other chains with cuffs and hooks on them, but they leave these alone and don't try to attach them. I'm left fully clothed. For a second, I'm actually feeling fortunate. Then the first guy blasts his fist into my gut. I tip backward in pain. There's not a lot of give in those chains, so I don't tip very far.

They leave me like that.

I'm there for about half an hour, getting a pretty good idea how it feels to be hung on a cross, remembering how some priest told me that a person left in this position would suffocate to death as his body grew weaker and weaker. Still, I'm strong enough for now, and then Amy enters the Closet.

She's in tears. That beautiful, skin-tight, blue gown of hers shimmers as she sobs. She walks up to me, reaches up, tips my head gently to her and gives me a long kiss that seems to be begging for forgiveness.

"They're going to shoot you, you know," she says. "I overheard Father give the order!"

I don't really hear the words. I escape into a quick count of her freckles. She has 23.

She shakes her head, surprised by my unreasonable lack of fear.

"Oh yeah, OCD," she murmurs to herself. "You're hiding somewhere."

"Not really," I say (even though I am). But just that brief bit of talk snaps me out of it. "Are you okay?"

"I don't have to worry about marrying that brutal SOB from Sacramento, at least," she says.

"Sounds better."

"Not!"

"I'll be like Bunny, a sex slave. As soon as you're out of here, I'm in. Only I get the full treatment; all these chains and hooks are for me."

She bends down and picks up a device from the floor. It's a red ball with straps attached to two sides. She presses the ball into her mouth and shows how the straps buckle in the back of her head, gagging her. Next, she pulls down a pair of chains hanging from the ceiling. "For my face," she says, and she touches the small harsh clamps on the ends of the chains to the corners of her eyebrows. "They really, really hurt."

Amy shows me the pinchers on the ends of two more chains, touches them to her breasts. She doesn't have to say anymore.

She reaches for another set that's attached to the floor. "These grab my ..."

"I get it," I say. "I'm so sorry. All I had to do was give you and Veronica a C+ in Logic, and everything would have been all right."

"Better, but not all right." Amy wipes the tears from her eyes and composes herself. "Veronica and I would still be marrying the kind of guys who beat up their wives on a regular basis."

I shake my head not knowing what to say. And then she adds, "I love you," and she kisses me again.

Those Alicia eyes are full of tears, and it hurts me. The image of my wife's bloody face flits around Amy's, and I know that somehow I can't let what happened to Alicia ever happen to her.

"You've got about an hour." She kisses me again. It feels like a parting kiss for someone who is about to die, and then she runs from the room.

Twelve minutes later, my mind has escaped once more, this time into a busy count of the number of links in the chains that are dangling from the ceiling. This is actually my second count. I wasn't really sure about the first set, so I felt I had to go back and do it all over again. I'm so lost in the numbers that I can't remember who I am, where I am, or the fact that I'll be dead in a few more minutes.

That's when I hear it for the first time: a long, cruel, sarcastic laugh!

It's a jolt that causes me to jerk my head back and lose all count of the links in the chains. There's only one person in the world who laughs like that: my dead wife, Alicia.

"You are in such a mess, mi amor," she says. The words echo through the room. Her voice is familiar but ethereal.

"Guess I am."

"And who is that little puta?" There's spooky laughter in those words too.

"Puta?"

"The little whore who just kissed you."

Slowly Alicia shimmers into the room. She's standing right in front of me wearing one of her sexiest dresses, the red one that's almost as tight as Amy's.

"She doesn't even know how to kiss a man properly!" Alicia says. Then she glides up to me and gives me a long, deep soul kiss. She may be a ghost, but those lips feel very real!

I'm seeing stars, and the last thing I want to think about is counting chain links.

"You like her, don't you, Carlitos?"

"She reminds me of you."

"But, I am me, and I am here; so there's no reminding necessary."

"She's my student."

"She left her panties in your desk drawer."

"You know about that?"

She nods with a terrible grin.

"I gave them back to her!"

"But just now you were hoping she would offer them to you again."

"You can read my thoughts?"

"Those were your thoughts?" Alicia is outraged. She stomps her foot then strides up to me and stands toe to toe.

"Actually, those weren't my thoughts," I say.

"Let me remind you that you are a married man!"

"And let me remind you that you are dead."

"Carlitos, if you're not nice to me, you will also find yourself dead."

This idea stops the argument cold, and I have to come face to face with the reality of the situation. Counting chain links becomes more inviting. Instead, I ask, "Can you get me out of here?"

Alicia steps still closer. Her arms are crossed, and there's a saucy smile on her face. She's wearing heavenly high heels, so she's taller than I am.

"Of course I can," she says, "but I do like you this way." She gives me another long sexy kiss. "Magnifico!" she shouts. "Of course, with your hands free I'm sure we could do much better."

"They're coming back to kill me."

"I know. So I have less than an hour to find a way to save you. I hope I can make it in time."

"And if you can't?"

"Then you'll be with me forever in paradise, Carlitos. Either way, you can't lose. Adios."

And with that, the ghost of my dead wife vanishes into thin air.

Chapter 8

The tough guys are back. The first one comes right up to me, pulls out a revolver, and pushes it against my forehead. He and his creepy buddy came into the room exactly when Amy told me they would.

"I hope you've said you're prayers," Tough guy #1 says as he cocks the hammer of his gun.

Actually, I have started to say my prayers, because I've just realized that Alicia has never been on time for anything in her life. Why should she behave any differently just because she's dead? Then I scroll through the possibilities of what might happen when Alicia is late again. It isn't much consolation to realize that things will probably turn out exactly as I imagine.

Tough guy 2 grabs his partner by the wrist and pulls the gun down.

"Not here," he says. "Don't want blood all over these silvery chains."

Tough 1 looks at all the sparkly hardware hanging from the ceiling. I know the number of links in each of them.

"Right, not here."

He uncocks his gun and stuffs it back into his shoulder holster.

They undo the cuffs on my hands and feet. Only then do I realize that they alone have the keys that unlock them. Only then do I realize that Alicia may be waiting for them to set me free. Only then do all the chains in the room begin to rattle ominously.

The tough guys eye each other, and I consider just how gross it would be if they both shit their pants at the same time.

This thought isn't helped when Tough 1's tie flies up and hits him in the face. Then all the buttons on his tuxedo begin popping off. The buttons on the front of the other guys pants fly across the room and embed themselves in the wall. His zipper pulls open. His trousers fall to the floor. The studs in his shirt begin to melt. He lets out a scream, takes a step toward the door, trips over his pants, and rolls sideways across the floor. With all those chains down there, it must be pretty damn painful.

I laugh out loud.

"Yep," I say. "Alicia is in the house."

As if in response, there's a ghostly giggle.

Tough 1 staggers back into a corner and begins firing his pistol into the air. Tough 2 is still struggling to get to his feet. He grabs a chain and begins hoisting himself up on it.

"Shall I tickle them?"

It's my wife's sexy voice. I know she's there; I can smell her perfume, but I can't see her.

"If you wish," answers someone else unseen. He has a strong Chinese accent.

"Now we're going to have some fun," Alicia says. And suddenly, I can see Tough 1's cheeks begin to ripple. She's tickling him. He bursts into laughter. The tickles continue. An invisible Alicia rips open his tux and tickles under his arms. The guy tries to look sinister, but he's in hysterics. His pants drop to the floor revealing tight little jockey shorts. He's hopping up and down as she works on the ticklish area behind his knees. He wets his pants.

The room goes silent.

All I can hear is the heavy moaning of Tough 2 and his partner's sporadic bursts of laughter.

"What now, Mr. Fu?" Alicia asks.

"It might be wise to show yourself," the Chinese voice answers.

"In what form?"

"I've always preferred the dead rotting look. It's best for scaring people."

"Un momento, por favor!" A third ghostly voice joins the conversation.

"Alicia, it's Paco. Why are you calling in a Chinese ghost when I can do the job? I'm your favorite fantasma; remember? I can scare the hell out of anybody, anytime, anywhere."

Tough 1 listens to all this and is not sure he likes the idea of ghosts arguing over who can do a better job of scaring him.

"Alicia, do you want me here or not?" asks Mr. Fu. "This is a Chinese job for a Chinese ghost. What's your friend going to do, sling tacos at them?"

"Hey, spirit guy, your people can't even come up with a scary dragon."

Suddenly, a shuddering scream cuts through the air with such force that chains everywhere jump to life. They swing wildly, threatening to take huge bites out of everyone's arms and legs.

"STOP IT BOTH OF YOU!" Alicia shouts. "Paco, go away. I called on Mr. Fu because he knows the environment."

"Environment? When did the scare business get so scientific?"

"You'll get your chance, Paco," she says. "Now, scoot."

"I'm gone, babe!"

"Mr. Fu," Alicia then announces, "you're on."

With each exchange, the tough guys have been quietly moving farther and farther into the corner. And now a wind begins to swirl through the closet. The chains rattle again. A phantom begins to shimmer into the room. It's small at first, a circular ball of green light. Then it becomes the face of a serene old Chinese gentleman. His beard grows long. It catches fire. His face begins to melt; then it swirls toward the tough guys decaying as it comes. His eyes rot in their sockets. A body shimmers down beneath the rotting head. It wears robes from centuries ago. As it gathers form, the robes tatter away. The flesh below them begins to fester. The phantom grows and soon towers above the tough guys. It's enormous. Tough 1 and Tough 2 seem like scrawny children before this monstrous intruder. The fingernails of the dead man continue to grow until they are claws. His teeth grow too. They overlap his lips like the fangs of a snarling tiger. The monster is now fifteen feet tall, far taller than the ceiling. It hunches over the toughs and points a clawed finger at them as they continue to creep away from it.

"BEGONE!" the ghost screams.

Its coffin-breath poisons the air, and the tough guys jump to their feet and hurry out through the doorway and into the darkness.

Slowly, the cackling figure shrinks back to normal size. Then it resolves into a slight, old Chinese gentleman. His body is whole again. Alicia materializes beside him. She looks delicious. She takes me by the arm.

"Show us the way out of here, Mr. Fu," She says.

The slender Chinese ghost moves toward the doorway and leads us into the deep tunnels under Chinatown.

Alicia and I are on our way home ... together.

Chapter 9

Alicia accompanies me back to our apartment.

We are in the hallway outside our door. I pull my key from my pocket, stick it into the lock, and then turn my head toward her to say something.

I'm dumbfounded.

My wife is standing there, the wife I haven't seen in three long years. The wife I never thought I would see again!

My God, she's beautiful.

Those sparkly eyes, that perfect body, skin that is clear and pure and so damn lovely.

Her eyes sing to me invitingly. God, I've missed her. How was I ever able to live without her?

I spin forward and take her in my arms.

Her long fingers tangle in my hair; she clutches my face and turns it toward her so that she can kiss me with three long years of pent-up passion. Whoa!

I'm holding her tightly as she ravages my mouth with her tongue. I join the party as my hands swim over her incredible body, over her shoulders, down her back, I grab her backside, and she sighs. "Oh, my."

I'd forgotten the thrill of being pressed against her body. But even now, even when she's a ghost, I can feel every muscle and those large firm breasts, slim waist, long athletic legs: gorgeous legs, model's legs. For a ghost she's damn solid, I think. "Thank God!"

"Let's go inside," she whispers. I nod, backing away slowly, taking in the full beauty of her face, those smiling lips, and eyes that flash a thousand suggestive messages at me. I turn and unlock the door.

My Alicia is back! My soul screams with joy.

We step through the doorway, and tragically, my obsessions kick in. I find the same mess I left earlier that evening. Okay, I managed to scrub the catsup and mustard off the kitchen wall and used tweezers to pick all the pills from the bathtub. Those that weren't wet I immediately returned to their bottles, but all the others (693 of them) I arranged on paper towels and left them out to dry. I also stacked the books in front of the bookshelf, but have yet to arrange them on the shelves in their proper order.

Alicia, the wildcat, screeches with joy as she witnesses her handiwork. I'd complain, but I have more important things to think about.

"How were you able to come back?" I ask.

"I never left you," she answers. "I've been in the apartment with you for three years."

"Then why didn't you let me know you were here?"

"We're not allowed to, mi amor. Some of us have problems to work out before we can move on. It's not supposed to be fun. Although today was magnifico."

"Problems?" I ask. "You?"

She lowers her head like a guilty little girl and bites her lip.

"Let me guess."

"What would you expect, mi amor?"

I gesture to the messed up apartment. "Anger management?"

She nods and sighs. "I have to deal with it, Carlitos, which you can see I have not done. And, besides, I did not want to leave you. I wanted to be here with you forever. But, when I saw that you were attracted to that little Chinese puta, I could tell that you cared about her, and so I became outraged. I am so sorry."

She sighs and slouches onto the couch.

"You were moving on," she continues, "away from me. You could go, but I could not. I was a prisoner of my own sins."

"I care about Amy Joy because she reminds me of you," I say. The idea sounds lame even to me.

"Sometimes that's enough to start a love affair, mi amor. And if that's the case, I'm afraid that I will become even more angry, and then I will have to stay longer because of it, and you will marry her and bring her here, and I will have to watch you being in love ... there will be no escape for me."

She starts to cry, and my heart feels like it will explode with sorrow. This is the little girl I vowed to protect so many years ago.

"I had no idea I could keep you here," I whisper as I pull her to me and bury my face in her beautiful hair.

"You can't," she says as she reaches up and moves my face in front of her. Those Alicia eyes peer into my soul. "I can't keep me here either, but somehow things are not resolved, and as long as they are not, we can be together."

I get up and begin pacing the floor trying to understand all this.

"How were you able to show yourself to me?"

"I had to, did I not, or you would die. And now that you know I am here, you can see me whenever I want you to."

"Who makes up these crazy rules?"

"Not me, Carlitos. But I know what the rules are, and there is one very wonderful rule I also know." And suddenly those eyes brighten; they flash; they sparkle. She smiles. What the hell's she talking about?

"We are allowed make love right now if you want to." Her smile turns into a sexy grin.

I smile too as I watch Alicia get up from the couch and come to me. She puts her hands on my shoulders. "How many chances do you get to make love to a ghost, mi amor?"

She has that look in her eyes. The one that says she wants me badly.

"How will it feel?" I ask.

"Fucking amazing, Señor!"

"I always thought of you as a saint," I tease. But Alicia's expression is now so very hungry.

"God damn it, Carlitos, if I were a saint I'd be in heaven now. Are we going to be lovers tonight or not? Pretty soon you'll have nothing of me but your dreams."

I grab her and pull her to me as though the thought of losing her again is more than I can bear.

"Dreams just don't compare."

"I can make them great," she coos. "From now on your dreams of me will be very beautiful, wonderful, and very, very sexy." And just for emphasis, when she says the word she grabs me in just the right place.

"Sexy dreams, I promise," she giggles, "I'll give them to you. But we can do something even better right now. We can make sexy memories!" She steps back from me and dances carelessly into the bedroom tossing her hair back lazily as she goes. Then she looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes flame at me.

"Please come to bed with me, Carlitos."

What can I say?

#

I awake the next morning with the biggest grin I've ever had in my life. The sweet smell of bacon, coffee, and huevos rancheros fills the air. I do the usual brush, shower, shave, and step out of the bedroom in my bathrobe. The first things I see are the books. They're arranged perfectly on the bookshelf.

"Come to breakfast, my love," Alicia coos, and when I enter the kitchen I see that she's wearing the sexy black negligee that I bought her in LA.

"Come on, the coffee is getting cold."

I take my seat as this vision serves me a steaming cup. Next comes OJ, and the most fabulous breakfast I've ever had in my life. Alicia comes over, loosens her peignoir so that I have a more breathtaking view, and then she sits across from me and watches.

"Aren't you going to have something?" I ask.

"Ghosts don't eat, silly."

"Okay," I say, "today is Sunday; what would you like to do?"

"After mass?"

I look away for a moment. Alicia for all her sexy bravado is pretty religious, probably even more so now that she's dead.

"I gave that up when you were murdered," I say.

"How sweet, but you'd better stay on His good side. You never know when He'll decide that my problems have been solved and call me home."

"Wouldn't you like that?"

"Home is here with you, my love. As long as ..." and here she unpins her hair, shakes it out, and lets it tumble down around her shoulders and over her gorgeous eyes. She peers out between the curls and looks ravishing in the process. "As long as you stay away from those Chinese girls."

I finish the coffee, eat the huevos and bacon, and don't look at her again until I'm through.

"We could go to the Leland Museum," I say.

"As soon as you tell me you're through with those Joy sisters. I know what they mean by JOY."

"Alicia," I tease, shaking my head. She pouts. So I get up and walk into the living room. Suddenly I feel I need to review the order of the books on the shelves. Amazingly, I can't find a single book out of place. I start at the beginning and double check. That's when I hear dishes breaking in the kitchen. I walk around the corner and see my wife bent over the kitchen sink. She's in tears again.

"Alicia!" I call, and suddenly she turns and sends a coffee mug sailing at me through the doorway. It shatters against the wall leaving a big coffee-colored stain where it hits.

Another of Alicia's world-famous temper tantrums is about to begin.

"Would you like to see what I look like now that I'm dead?" she calls.

I can almost imagine it because, like some flickering strobe-show in Disney's Haunted Mansion, her image keeps shifting back and forth between my sexy Alicia and something hideous.

"No, thanks," I say.

"Then leave those girls to their fate. You are not the savior of the world, Carlitos. If you let go, I'll stay with you, and we can be a couple again."

"Man and ghost?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"Not at all, Querida, but ..."

"You really feel that you have to save them?"

"I do."

"Then ..." she says, as she strides proudly from the room, "goodbye, my love, FOREVER!"

"But you're only wearing a negligee."

The door slams.

What I don't realize is that she's still inside.

Then, all the books jump from the shelves and go flying across the living room. The eggs begin sizzling in their carton and explode all over the kitchen. Dishes flash from their cupboards and begin zooming at me. They pound against the walls and the counters, shattering everywhere. The place is a war zone.

I rush to the bedroom, slam the door, and slide under the covers. I close my eyes, but I can still hear the madness in the rest of the apartment.

Alicia is breaking every damn thing I own.

Chapter 10

There is a painting of a sunflower over the chair across from me. Its colors are muted browns and yellows, not cheerful at all. That's why I don't sit in that chair. The flower looks like it's going to droop down out of the painting and swallow me alive.

It's Monday, 7:15 AM, two hours and fifteen minutes before my first class. I'm in the outer office of Dr. Greer, one of the leading cognitive therapists at Leland Medical Center. The office is cluttered, and that bothers me.

I slump into the gray couch across from the killer sunflower. It's been a murderous night. Alicia's latest tantrum didn't end until 2 AM. I finally got to sleep after spending several hours trying to figure out how to keep her with me and saving the Joy sisters at the same time. An impossible puzzle, but I felt there was something in there, a clue. If I could only find it, I might be able to prevent the worst from happening: losing Alicia and getting Amy and Veronica killed in the process.

Dr. Greer pops into the room. He's spritely and cheerful for 7:24. His wall clock is wrong. I have an atomic watch, one of those with a satellite link to the world clock in Greenwich, England. I'm always on time. There's also an atomic wall clock in my living room and one next to my bed ... and one on my desk ... and one in the kitchen.

"Come on in; let's get started." Greer is too damn cheerful for my tastes.

I enter his office and take a seat across from his desk. The clock on the end table is out of sight. That's good.

"Want some tea?" he asks.

I nod. The guy makes excellent tea. And now he sets about getting a big pitcher of water, several different tea bags, a packet of Splenda, and then combines the whole assortment in a big, metal, self-heating teapot.

"Anything interesting happen since our last visit?" he asks as he returns to his chair and pulls a little roller-table in front of him. He uses it as a desk.

The stacks of envelopes on the table are a mess. I tell him so.

"Thanks for pointing that out," he responds, and he straightens them while staring at me intently, as though he had just asked a question.

I look away; the rest of the office is in pretty good order. "My wife is mad at me." I just slip that into the conversation.

"I thought she was dead?"

"Is the tea ready?"

"Not quite."

"Yes," I say. "She is dead."

"Do dead people usually get mad?"

"Depends, I guess."

"How do you know she's mad?"

"She trashed my apartment."

"Any idea why?"

"Apparently she's jealous because one of my students gave me her panties."

"A Leland undergraduate student gave you her underwear?"

"Slipped it into my desk drawer before I got to class. Is the tea ready?"

Greer gets up and goes to the metal pot. He pours me a steaming cup and hands it to me; I take a sip. "Ummm."

"You'd better be on guard against those kinds of students," Greer says.

"Tell me about it."

"But back to your wife. How do you know that jealousy is the cause of her anger?"

"She told me."

"You talked to her?"

"Almost continually for the last two days."

Greer pulls a pipe from his pocket and puts it into his mouth. He doesn't light up, doesn't add tobacco, just holds it there as though it gives him some kind of added confidence. I wonder how many pipes he has. Does he have a rack for them? He might have a collection from all over the world. Pipe collections can be very valuable, I'm told.

"And how did she seem when you talked to her last?" Greer asks.

"She was a real bitch."

Just then an empty teacup comes hurtling through the air. It grazes my ear and shatters against the big bookshelf behind me. Greer drops the pipe and stares.

"QED, Quad Erat Demonstrandum. What has been proven," I say. "My dead wife can be a real bitch."

Part 2

Chapter 11

This is Alicia. I'm sorry that my English is not good. But I have to tell you some very important things, no matter how I sound.

Right now, I hover in the corner of the doctor's office, high above the two men as they talk. The old man is asking my beloved many foolish questions; at least I think they are foolish because Carlos does not know the answers.

I am dead, but I am still very frightened. This is only the second time I have left our apartment since that day of blood. I call it that because all I can think of when I remember that day is blood everywhere. My blood.

The first time I left our apartment was when I had to go to Chinatown to rescue Carlos from those slave traders. I had to search out other ghosts to help me. And then Carlos and I returned to our little home, and we made love, and that was so beautiful. Gracias a Dios, I am dead, but I enjoyed it ... and so did he.

I listen to Carlos talking to the old doctor with the pipe, and I hear the old man say something that I cannot believe. "Your condition," he says, "is called obsessions compulsions diseases" (or something like that). "You must not allow your wife to make your condition worse."

Dios mio, I think; I was just teasing. I did not want to worsen his diseases. I would never harm my love in that way.

Carlos tells the old man that I pulled his books from the bookshelf, and then it becomes necessary for him to spend hours putting them back in the right order.

Certainly, I arranged them in the order I found them when I put them back. But I never realized that it would take Carlos long hours to do the same. Nor did I realize that Carlos was doing this to hide from a terrible fact.

The old man with the pipe explains it so simply. Carlos was so broken-hearted when he found me dead that his mind went crazy ... but in a very strange way. Instead of running around throwing things, as I would do, he began to organize things, over-organize them until he was so busy organizing that it made him forget about the day of blood.

The old doctor says that, in some ways, it is an expression of his love.

Now I feel like a bad, evil person. My anger has hurt Carlos, not in the way I intended but in a way that affects his diseases. My heart breaks. I am miserable. I want to go to Carlos and make things better at once. And that's when I hear Carlos ask, "Can I ever get over this?"

"To be honest," the old doctor says, "you may be able to control it, but there is no real cure."

Now I am even more miserable. My death has given Carlos these obsessions compulsions, and my anger is making them worse. I want to find those two China girls and make them understand how they have hurt us. I want to go to other ghosts and enlist their aid in terrifying these girls until they leave us alone. But then the doctor asks Carlos something that stops these thoughts completely.

"Who killed your wife?"

This too bothers me, first because Carlos doesn't know who killed me, and second because I have wanted to spare him from even thinking about it.

"But NO," says the doctor. "You have to face the situation head-on. Whenever you find yourself obsessing/compulsing, you must look at what is happening in your world and force yourself to think about it. Don't count things. Don't check up on other things. Don't imagine the worst possible outcomes of your fears."

Now I know that I have to tell Carlos everything: about the man who murdered me, about why he murdered me, and why Carlos's life may be in danger too. Of course, I cannot do this in front of the old doctor with the pipe. I must be alone with my love so that he will not appear foolish when he becomes frightened by what I have to say. I have to stop him from these obsession compulsives. So that when it is all over we can make love, because love makes everything better.

#

It is now 7:33 in the evening. I know because there are clocks everywhere. Carlos never had so many clocks before, and now nothing but clocks, clocks, and clocks.

I have put on my passport dress, the one I wore when I had my passport picture taken. Carlos says it makes me look business-like, and that is what I want for this discussion, to be business-like. I don't have to look for these clothes because Carlos has rearranged everything in my closet in a most logical way. I do not like this. But I understand it.

I don't have to wear clothes, of course. I can just appear in any outfit he can imagine. But perhaps seeing the real clothing on me will make him pay more attention. After all, I know that I will have to distract him from his obsessions compulsing.

Carlos lets himself into the apartment with his electronic key and hangs his jacket neatly in the closet. He looks around the living room maybe wanting to see some sign of my presence. So, "Ahem," I clear my throat.

"Alicia, is that you?"

I slowly let myself appear to him. I'm standing beside the bookshelf. The books are still in their proper order. I can see that he notices me first, then the books, and then he smiles.

"I thought you were angry with me."

"No, mi amor. I am sorry, that's all, so sorry."

He shakes his head and sighs. "You do understand that I have to help Amy and her sister." He crosses his arms and plants his feet. What does he think I want to do, wrestle? Well maybe, but not in that way.

"I have a confession," I say, and I move up next to him and kiss him on the cheek. He looks annoyed.

"What have you done now?"

"I followed you, my love."

"Then, you saw that no one left any underwear in my desk drawer today. Amy wasn't even in class."

"I know, Carlitos, I saw that. But I followed you earlier."

"To see Dr. Greer?"

"Yes, the old doctor with the pipe."

"So, you did throw the teacup?"

"Of course, who else? Only I could aim so well that I would just graze your ear."

Carlos shakes his head and smiles. "And you heard what he said?"

"That my anger is making your obsessing/compulsing worse? Yes, I heard that."

Carlos moves to the couch, and I come with him. I sit down beside him and begin stroking his shoulder.

"But there is more, mi amor," I say.

"You heard more?"

"Only that he kept asking you who killed me."

"I know; it was a guy called El Cojo."

"How did you know that?"

"You must have told me."

"How could I? When? I have only revealed myself to you in the last two days."

"In my dreams."

I'm stunned. Somehow Carlos is having dreams of me that I don't even know about.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," I say. "Because you may know who he is, but you don't really know who he is."

Carlos smiles. "You drive me crazy."

"With obsessions compulsing?"

"With your lack of logic."

"Forget the disparates, mi amor, and let me tell you what really led to my murder."

Carlos sighs. It's been a long day. He's tired. I could make his body feel so much better, but somehow I must make him better in his head. I hope the old doctor with the pipe knows what he is talking about.

"Can I get a drink first?" he asks.

"You change into something more comfortable," I say, "and I'll get it for you."

"Tequila on the rocks?"

"Just the way you like it. I remember."

Chapter 12

Carlos has his drink, and I slide down next to him on the couch. I've unbuttoned the top of my passport-photo dress so that he will look at me, any part of me that will keep his obsession/compulsions away. I reach over and stroke the hair on the back of his head. It is neat and short, but curly. His neck is shaved. Still, there is enough there to play with.

He's looking where I've undone the button.

"Carlos," I say, "my eyes are up here." He smiles and kisses my cheek. Sweet.

I begin by telling him things he already knows, that I have always loved him, that I knew it the first time I saw him. And suddenly I am a little girl again, a very little girl. It is the day after he has saved me from the bad kids. Yolanda, the girl with the birthmark, my enemy in the town, burned his hand with a cigarette, and he didn't care. But when he took me home and then left me there in front of my house, I was sure I would never see him again. Good things like Carlitos had just never happened to me before.

But now it's the morning of the following day. And there is this banging noise outside of our small house in San Lucero, Mexico.

I step outside, and there he is: handsome and funny at the same time, a round little boy just slightly older than I am, and he is kicking a soccer ball against the side of our building. He is laughing to himself non-stop as he does it.

His head is as round as the rest of him; his smile is wide, sweet, and sparkly like his blue eyes. His hair is curled with sweat. He wears long gray shorts, no shirt, and his feet are bare. Did I say he is round? His feet and toes are round too, and yet he kicks the ball with such force.

I come out and sit on the steps and watch. My hair is not as curly as his, but it's blacker. My dress is old and rumpled, a hand-me-down from my sister Margarita. But I like it because, even though it is faded, it is still sunny yellow with blue flowers and flouncy straps. I put my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands, and I watch and listen as my savior kicks the ball and laughs.

The ball ricochets and comes to me. I roll it back to him with my hand. He stops the ball with his foot. "No," he says. "Not like that. Come here."

I point to myself.

He nods and starts that silly laugh again, "Come 'ere."

I get up, dust myself off, and walk slowly toward him. He holds out one hand and points to himself with the other. "Carlos Mankowski," he says with some pride. I shake his hand and then curtsy the way my mother taught me. "Alicia Maria Mejias," I say.

"Buenos dias, Señorita," he says, and he flashes the burn on the back of his hand. It looks terrible.

"Oh, dear!" I sigh.

"For you, no big deal." Then he pulls me by the arm so that I am behind the soccer ball. "Kick it."

I kick and drive it hard into the wall. "Great," Carlos Mankowski says, and he retrieves the ball for me. "Kick it again." And I do, and from then on it is an all-out game. We are kicking the ball and passing it back and forth trying to hit a little brown smudge on the side of our building. And pretty soon I am laughing just like Carlos. And we play for the rest of the afternoon until my mother calls me to come home for supper.

"Adios," he says as I start to leave.

"Carlos," I say, "Can I ask you something?"

"Si."

"What kind of gringo name is Mankowski?"

He laughs. "Es Polaco," he says. "Está bien?"

"Esta bien," I answer. That's good. "Can I just call you Polaco?"

Carlos giggles. "I like Carlos."

"I'll call you Carlitos."

"And when I am big?"

"I'll still call you Carlitos." And then I run into the house for supper.

The very next day Carlitos is out there again banging the ball against the wall. He is six, I am five, and we make a great team. Carlitos already knows how to make plays. He teaches me. We practice setting up shots on goal and passing the ball, and that year is all endless soccer practice. I still wear a dress. And sometimes other kids come around and watch us, even the bad kids.

Luis is seven, twice as big as Carlitos, but not as fast. He was one of the kids holding me when Yolanda wanted to burn me with her cigarette ... actually a cigarette she had stolen from her mother just so she could use it to burn me.

Luis has started to admire Carlitos's footwork and skill, but he still doesn't like me.

"Hey, little guy," Luis calls after Carlitos makes an amazing shot from way across the street. "Want to play on my team?"

Carlitos picks up the ball and walks over to Luis. "Can she play?" he asks pointing to me.

"She's a big jerk," the seven-year-old answers.

"Pero sabe jugar," but she's good, Carlitos says. I blush, mostly because I know I am good.

"Hell no," Luis answers, "I hate her. She's poison." And then he spits. I'll never forget that moment, that spit. It lies on the ground like a gooey insult to my face.

Carlitos looks at the spit too. He starts to laugh; my heart sinks.

He laughs louder. My heart sinks further.

"No, gracias," Carlitos says. "Somos un equipo." We are a team.

"You're both jerks," Luis says, and he and his tough friends walk away from us.

I am in heaven. I cannot wait for the other boys to leave so that I can give Carlitos an enormous hug.

"Pendejos," Luis grunts.

"We'll play you sometime," Carlitos says, "and we'll beat you."

"Fat chance."

As Luis and the other boys walk away, one of them calls out to Carlitos. "Baby!" "Gotta play with girls," says another. Carlitos's back is to me. I can't see his expression. Then he turns. He doesn't seem to care at all. He picks up the ball, carries it under his arm, and by the time he gets to me that great smile is back.

"Amigos?" he asks, as he holds out his burned hand.

"Amigos," I say. I don't dare give him the hug he deserves, but my heart flits with the hummingbirds. It is the first of a thousand happy moments that mi Carlitos gives to me.

Chapter 13

Now, grown-up Carlos sits in the living room sipping his tequila and feeling better about life. He hasn't counted anything or shown any obsessing compulsives all through my story. That's why I dare to continue.

Now we are age 13 and going to the church high school in San Lucero. Mi Pequeño Polaco is not so pequeño anymore. In fact, he is nearly six feet tall. Many girls admire him and vie for his attention. I worry a great deal, but he does not seem to notice them. Then one day we are walking home from school, and I see Carlitos looking at me in a very different way. He is looking at my breasts.

I have had my breasts for some time by then, and he has never looked at them before. At least I don't think he has. But now there is no doubt about it. Carlitos is staring at my breasts. And then he gives a heavy sigh and grins.

"Carlitos," I say, "don't you think I have a pretty face?"

"I do," he answers, but he doesn't look up. This angers me.

"Would you like me to give you my brassiere so that you can take it home and play with it?"

I am amazed that I say such a thing and even more amazed at what he does. He nods and says, "yes." But then he smiles that crazy smile of his and I know he's kidding me again ... maybe.

We are standing there staring at each other in a hungry kind of way when Father Juan comes running up to us, cassock flying, hands waving. "Niños," he says, "there is something I have to talk to you about." And that very day the padre drags us into church and makes us sit in the front pew as he tells us everything there is to tell about making babies and how dangerous it is for good Catholic boys and girls.

In spite of the danger, or maybe because of it, the priest's words only make Carlitos more excited. I, of course, am more serious about the dangers of turning something beautiful (that we should save for our wedding night) into something ugly. Now that I remember it, I wonder how love could ever be ugly, but I like the idea of making Carlitos wait for me. He has never waited for anything from me in his life. It's about time.

Now we are walking home, and Carlitos takes me by the arm, pushes me back against the building, raises my arms up over my head and kisses me. It is a silly kiss. His lips feel like a soggy donut squeezed up against my mouth. Our faces are pressed together for a long time.

"Did you like it?" he asks finally.

"Not sure," I say. "We may need some practice."

"I could study up." He giggles.

"With who?"

"I'm sure there are girls in class who know a lot about kissing."

"Don't you dare study up with them; let's learn together."

"Okay, I'll get a book and read it."

"A book on kissing?"

"I think my father has one in his dresser drawer, under his t-shirts."

"I can't believe there are such books."

"I think so. Do you want me to steal it and show it to you?" He giggles again.

"No!" I answer. I am sure that I would never want to see such a book.

"I wouldn't want you to get caught with a book on kissing, Carlitos," I say. "Just study up, and then we can practice."

"Esta bien," he says. And then, "Adios."

He turns into his little home, and I smile all the way to mine wondering how I am going to be Father Juan's good, safe, Catholic girl, especially if Carlitos and I really learn how to kiss.

There is much more in Carlitos's father's book than just how to kiss, although, there must be a lot about kissing as well because Carlitos has many kinds of kisses to show me after he reads it. I tell him we need lots of practice. Pretty soon we are the best kissers in San Lucero high school, I am sure of it. Carlitos also becomes captain of the soccer team.

I want to try out for the same team but am not allowed. Girls and boys have separate teams. So I become captain of the girls' team and only wish that the girls could play the boys so that we could beat them. Sadly, I know that boys won't even consider playing against us.

While all this is going on, there is also school. My grades are fair. But Carlitos is amazingly smart in lots of strange ways, like geometry. He gets 100% on every test. His average for the year is 100%. He makes up problems for the fun of solving them.

#

It is at the start of his junior year that Carlos's Uncle Pablo comes to town. He is a renowned prizefighter, the middleweight champion of all Sonora.

"I have never been hit in the face," he says proudly. "That is why I am so beautiful." He winks at me, and I must admit that the man is handsome. His nickname is Chulo, which means pretty face. His face is pretty, but then so is the rest of his body. When we watch him on television and see him in the ring all sweated up and muscles tensed, he is magnifico.

Uncle Chulo watches Carlitos play soccer and sees him score goal after goal for his high school team. It is the footwork that most impresses Señor Pretty Face. He thinks Carlitos would make a fine boxer, and he asks if Carlitos can attend his summer boxing camp in Hermosillo.

With the consent of his parents, Carlitos goes to the camp and walks out of my life for two full months. I miss him every day, but it is still worth it because when Carlitos returns to me, and we go to the beach, he has the same magnificent body as his uncle: a boxer's body with chiseled shoulders and chest and a stomach like my grandma's washing board. At the beach, I love to lie next to him and run my hand over his washing board. Carlos seems to like that very much too and very often he kisses me, and yet he never touches me with anything but a kiss.

I beg Carlitos to let me come and see him fight. He has a big match just before school starts, but he doesn't want me to attend. He says there is a very rough crowd at the boxing match.

I insist. I go to Uncle Pretty Face and plead. In the end, they give in, and Uncle Chulo even let me wear a special t-shirt that he's had printed. It is bright red with black letters across the front. They spell out "Pequeño Chulo," Little Pretty Face. The shirt is tight for me, but I think it makes me look sexy. My father, who works as a gardener at the parish church, does not want me to look that way. He yells at me to cover up the tight red shirt, or I can't go to the fight. In the end, I wear a puffy dark blue cotton blouse over the t-shirt and, when I get to the ring with Carlitos and his uncle, I take off the cotton blouse.

I sit in the ring behind Carlitos's corner, and I am thrilled when Carlitos marches proudly down the aisle beside his uncle. I cheer, I jump up and down, and I whistle. The other fighter now comes down the same aisle, and I am afraid for Carlitos. The opponent is the same age as Carlos, but big and ugly with a face full of pimples, a broken nose, and missing teeth. I want to run up and stop the fight. In fact, I go to Uncle Pretty Face and tell him that. Tio Chulo laughs at me: "El joven es un cerdo," the kid is a pig, he says.

I am furious at Uncle Pretty Face for putting Carlitos in this danger. I want to hit him, but then I see Carlitos. He smiles at me. He winks. I smile back and think about how sad his beautiful body is going to look when it is beaten and broken.

I hear another sound; it is disgusting. Carlitos's pimply opponent is making kissy sounds at me. Kiss, kiss, kiss, and kiss. "Come're, gorgeous," he calls in English. He is Norte Americano. He makes those kissy sounds again; it makes his pimply face look like a sucking piglet.

"Nice tits," he yells. Can you imagine: a big fat teenager yelling insults at a girl in the crowd? Now I am embarrassed and know what my father was talking about. I want to cover up my tight red t-shirt, but it is too late. The bell rings, and the two men move toward each other and into the middle of the ring. I cannot say a word; I am so fearful for Carlitos. And I should be; the Americano immediately slams Carlos in those beautiful washboards of his. But apparently, that's what they are there for because Carlitos just shakes off the blow and circles to the right. The Americano catches him with a hit to the chest. Carlitos staggers backward. A punch to the face and Carlitos falls to his knees. There is swelling around his eye. The referee sends the pimply Americano into the corner and waits for Carlitos to get to his feet. He does it slowly. And while this is going on the Americano is making those kissy sounds at me again.

"Remember his jaw," Uncle Pretty Face says, but I doubt that Carlitos hears him. He is suddenly standing and marching right up to the American who is still looking at me and making those disgusting noises.

Carlitos punches him right in those kissy lips. The Americano staggers sideways, and Carlitos catches him with another punch in his fat pimply face. The Americano's head jerks backward, and he falls down. Carlitos goes into the corner and looks at me. His rage is immense. I can tell what he is thinking: He will get this fat Americano for insulting me. I am thrilling at this!

The Americano is on his feet again. He is wary of Carlitos, but it doesn't matter, my man is fearless. He marches up to the Americano and begins pounding him again, in his face, in his chest, and in his belly, which is not a washing board but fat like the pig he is. The Americano is down on his back. The referee is counting. Carlitos looks at me again. There is no smile, no sweetness, just an apology for bringing me to a place where I have been so insulted.

The Americano gets to his feet again, and Carlitos charges right up to him and begins the pounding once more. The fat boy's corner is calling to stop the fight, but Carlitos keeps pounding, left, right, left to the chest and the face. The bell rings. Carlitos does not stop. Uncle Pretty Face calls to Carlitos, but he keeps slugging the Americano.

"What? are you, trying to kill him?" A guy in the fat kid's corner calls. Carlitos does not answer; he just keeps pounding the Americano harder and harder. Many men rush at Carlitos then, pull him off the fat boy, and take him to his corner. Carlitos is fighting with these men now.

"He insulted my girl!" he yells at them.

The opponent's corner throws in the towel. They stop the fight.

The referees talk about disqualifying Carlitos, but they do not. He is the winner by something they call a TKO, whatever that means; I don't know; I don't care. Carlitos, who loves to kiss me, has finally called me his girl. And, forever after, that is what I am.

#

Now I come to the sad part for me. Carlos may not think so, so I ask him as we sit in our apartment in Los Altos, a man and the ghost who loves him.

"Can I tell you about the time of great sadness?" I ask Carlitos.

He gives me a look that means that it is sad for him too. He goes to the kitchen, dumps ice into his glass, pours in more tequila and comes back.

"Go ahead," he says. So I continue my story.

I am nineteen. I come running up to Carlitos in the street. He is playing one-on-one soccer with his old rival, Luis.

"Um, mama!" Luis says when he sees me. I ignore him.

"Great news, Carlitos." I still call him Carlitos even though he is now tall and handsome and all grown up. He has won many fights in the cities around San Lucero. Uncle Pretty Face is very proud of him.

Carlitos picks up the ball and comes running to me.

"Hey, we're not done," Luis calls. This boy is also big and strong and handsome, and I would like him were he not our enemy. Carlitos ignores him.

"I have gotten into the technical college at Guaymas," I say. "Now we can go there together."

I smile. Carlitos smiles, but I can tell that it is a false smile. I know him well enough.

"You don't seem very happy for us, Carlitos."

"I am ... for you."

"For only me?"

He holds the soccer ball with both hands and spins it in his palms.

"Okay, I am happy for us; we will both be going to college."

His smile is gone.

"But you will be going where?" I ask.

"Father Juan got me a scholarship to the University of Guadalajara."

"But that's wonderful!" I say. I jump up and down for joy. I am so happy I start crying. I throw my arms around Carlitos.

"It doesn't bother you that we will be so far apart?"

I stop jumping. I stop hugging, but I continue crying, in a different kind of way.

"I'll see you a lot, Alicia," Carlitos says.

"I'll see you even more," says Luis as he walks up to us. "I'm going to the technical college too." He pulls me to him and tries to put his arm around me. I punch him. Carlitos gives Luis that boxer's look that says he could break his jaw. Luis lets go of me. But still I just stare at Carlitos, I shrug, he shrugs, and then I just run home crying all the way.

These are sad days for us. Carlitos tries to console me, tries to tell jokes but I am not hearing them. I am cold to him. My lips are cold when I kiss him. I make them cold on purpose. I stop talking to him, stop smiling, and stop planning. I don't register at the technical college. Instead, when I go to Guaymas, I talk to some people there about a job.

The woman at the local employment office is nice. Her name is Ms. Alvarez. She asks me if I can type; I say no. Can I use a computer? I say not very well. Can I sing? I say a little. That one word ("little") makes me burst into tears because I am losing the boy I still think of sometimes as my little Polaco. Ms. Alvarez studies me. I can feel her eyes looking deep into my face. I am miserable.

"You're beautiful," she says. "You could be a receptionist. Can you answer the telephone?" I pull out my cell phone. I am angry now but still sobbing. I push a button, clear my throat, squeeze the water out of my eyes, and I call myself.

"Hello," I say into my own answering machine.

"This is Alicia," and then I add, "Incorporated." I think this is funny and I smile a little as I continue the conversation.

"You would like one hundred copies of me? And you are willing to pay me a billion pesos for them?" I start to giggle, wiping the tears from my eyes and smudging my mascara in the process. "Well, Señor, I am worth much more than a billion pesos. How about ten billion?" I start to laugh. Ms. Alvarez is laughing too. "You'd like to place an order? Wonderful, Señor! Can you read me your credit card number?"

Ms. Alvarez applauds. "Stand up," she says, and I do. "Turn around?" I do that too, very slowly. I have worn my best dress, a summer one that is short and shows off my soccer-playing legs; it is tight too so that my breasts (which I must confess I have let Carlitos kiss more than once in our senior year of high school—but I am still a virgin) have become very attractive, I think.

"Face the door and touch your toes." This I understand very well. She wants to check out my bottom, which I am also very proud of, so I do as she says.

"Have you ever thought of becoming a model?" Ms. Alvarez asks.

I sigh, "I have not even entered a beauty contest."

"Why?"

"I was devoted to my boyfriend, Carlitos."

"I have an opening for a model. It would require some traveling. But it pays very well. Would you be interested in the position?"

Now my smile is as big as the sky. "I would love it."

"What about Carlitos, won't he be jealous?"

"He is going to the University of Guadalajara. He has his logics to study. Let him be jealous. I don't care."

The tears are gone. My eyes are smiling. Within an hour I'm down the street at the modeling agency showing them how I look in cocktail dresses, soccer gear and four different kinds of bikinis.

I sign a contract.

I sigh now as Carlos and I sit in our little apartment in Los Altos. He grows much sadder because he knows much of the time of sadness, but not the most important thing.

"Can I get you more tequila?" I ask.

He shakes his head, "no."

I look down at the drink sitting on the table in front of Carlos, and I see that he has not touched it at all. The glass is still full.

Chapter 14

We are at the train station in Guaymas. Carlitos is getting on a train to Guadalajara to be a student; I am going to Mexico City to be a model. Carlitos is unhappy with the arrangement, and he's making me feel so guilty. He keeps getting on the train, then getting off, running back to me and kissing me and then getting on and off again. Every time he comes back to me his kisses are even more passionate: my lips, my eyes, my hair. He does this for the whole hour before the train leaves, and he keeps losing very good seats. In the end, all the seats are taken, and he's sitting on his trunk just inside the doorway. He looks so sad and lonely. God, I love him.

So, we go our separate ways. Two trains heading in opposite directions, two lovers being pulled apart by logics and modeling.

In Mexico City, I am taught the skills of being beautiful: how to stand, how to walk, how to move my hands, how to smile and hold that smile even though it feels like it is going to crack my face, which will fall off in big ugly chunks.

After only four days of training, the agency feels I am ready for my first assignment: the big Auto Show in Mexico City. All I have to do is stand next to the new 2008 Chevrolet Impala, smile and point. See the beautiful seats, see the long beautiful hood, see the sparkly wheels, and see my beautiful legs with high heels that after a day of standing are bringing tears to my feet.

Men are staring more at me than the car. One man does so more than the others. He is a big, older man with broad shoulders and a pencil-thin mustache. He wears a navy blue suit with thin white lines through the pattern. He also wears a white shirt and a yellow tie. His hair is jet black and plastered tight on his head. He is eating popcorn from a small sack he carries with him. He eats it one kernel at a time.

The popcorn man seems to be in charge of many things because he is often talking on his cell phone. Well-dressed younger men walk up to him and nod and show him things. He says a few words, and they run away to do whatever it is he wants.

That night, back in my apartment after a long day and feet that are crying, I pull off the murderous heels and the tight skirt and I "ouch" my way over to the cupboard. There are beans. The refrigerator holds cheese and tortillas. I scrape the beans onto a tortilla, grate on some cheese, and push the whole thing into the microwave. I see myself in the glass door. I am supposed to always think of myself as a supermodel. But this is not a supermodel staring back at me. This is a girl whose man prefers logics to love. So, what kind of a supermodel can I be?

The microwave bell rings, I take out the food, spread on some salsa and fold myself a taco. I take the first bite. Muy sabrosa! I turn, and when I do, I see the little mail slot beside the door. There is a letter there, from Carlitos. He writes about love, kisses, professors, soccer, boxing, logics, good food, and missing me. We will be together soon, he says. I wonder.

The next day four other girls and I ride the bus to the sea to show off our bodies in swimsuits. They are beautiful suits; they are beautiful girls. The sand is soft and warm. The popcorn man is there again, watching. This time he has a bigger bag.

So, for the next two years I am a model, and sometimes a girl in TV commercials. In them, I am a young man's desire, a cheerleader, a bikini girl, a girl in a bar drinking beer, a pretty girl walking down the street, a bank teller, etcétera. And always the popcorn man is there when we shoot, and he is always busy answering the phone, giving instructions to some younger men, never talking to me, just being there.

One day I ask one of the other girls, "Who is this man with the popcorn?" And she turns away and does not answer me. Nor does anyone else I ask about Señor Popcorn. It is like a conspiracy of silence.

And then one day something important happens. It will change my life forever. We are at a shoot, showing off new bikinis on the beach: three other girls, a creative director, two cameramen, a lighting guy, a make-up person, several assistants, and I. Señor Popcorn is there too, as usual. One of his younger men comes up to me and asks for a date. The boy is handsome and soft-spoken. I am honored, but I tell him about Carlitos. All this goes on as the popcorn man just watches. I am not sure he can hear us, but he can see me shake my head "no." The young man is angry. He is about to say something, and then we hear the popcorn man clear his throat. "Ahem."

We both turn toward Señor Popcorn, and he looks at the young man and tilts his head toward the parking lot. That is all it takes for the handsome boy to say "adios," and he is gone. Now Señor Popcorn comes slowly up to me.

"Señorita," he says, still nibbling popcorn one kernel at a time.

"Señor."

"I'm sorry that my assistant was so forward."

"That's all right," I say. "It is only that I am taken."

"Taken?"

"By Carlitos, the boy I love."

"Ah," he sighs. "But where is this boy?"

"At the university studying Logics."

"Logics? To program computers?"

I shrug.

"Logic to solve complex mathematical problems?"

I shrug again, and this time I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"Logic for the sake of logic?"

"Si." I smile sadly. "Logic for the sake of logic."

"He loves logic more than you?"

My eyes feel teary.

"That is just not very logical," Señor Popcorn laughs.

I start to giggle. "I'll tell him you said that."

"Please do. Logical would be for him to marry a pretty girl like you as soon as he can. Then give you lots of niños. If I were a younger man, I would try to woo you myself." He pops a kernel into his mouth and crunches down on it.

"I'm flattered," I say. I am, and I blush.

"So very pretty," Mr. Popcorn says, "so many young men desiring you. I think perhaps you could use a protector."

These words set off alarms in my head. I look around and see that there is no one else on the beach but the two of us. Photographers, Miss Creative Director, lighting assistants, the other models are all gone. This makes me doubly cautious.

"I'm sure your protection would be very costly," I say.

"No charge."

I am starting to feel very creepy now. The popcorn man's expression does not change, but mine must. "Surely there would be some payment required."

Señor Popcorn laughs.

"I am an old man, and you are a little girl."

I'm suddenly cold. I feel goose pimples popping up on my arms and legs. "Surely," I repeat, "you would wish for some kind of payment."

He laughs again. "Relax, Señorita. My only payment would be to have you around me."

"But Señor, you have been around me almost every day for a very long time."

"You could come and live in my house. You could swim in my pool. Eat with me. Join the other girls that live there."

"There are other girls?"

"Models mostly. I am their protector too. Mexico City can be a very difficult place."

"I don't think my Carlitos would like that."

"Ah, Carlitos. What does little Carlos know? His head is full of syllogisms."

I am amazed that Señor Popcorn knows such a word. "You are educated, Señor?"

"At the University of Guadalajara."

"Where Carlitos studies."

"We are brothers then. I'm sure he wouldn't mind having one of his brothers take care of you."

I am confused and still feeling cold and goose-pimply.

"It might make him jealous," Señor Popcorn suggests.

"I would like that."

"Well then, you think about it. Ask the other girls here. Many of them live in my mansion."

"Mansion?"

"Si, Señorita. My name is Fernando de Cervantes, and yours?"

"Alicia," I say before I can even decide if it is the right thing to do. "Alicia Maria Mejias."

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Señorita Mejias." He clicks his heels and bows. I curtsey.

"Adios." He says, then turns and walks back to the parking lot. I follow him with my eyes, and when he is out of sight, everyone is back on the beach.

Sylvia is one of the other girls. She is dark-skinned, dark-haired, with big lips, and bright eyes.

"You got the invitation," Sylvia says. "Señor de Cervantes wants you to become one of his girls. Sweet."

"Are you one of his girls?" I ask Sylvia.

"Proud of it. Those invitations are hard to come by."

"But what does he want in return?"

"Nada," Sylvia says. "It's one big party with no strings attached. The old fart just likes pretty girls. He has a dormitory full of us. Plus he offers his limo to drive us around, great meals every day, a fabulous pool, expensive new clothes."

"And he doesn't require sex in return?" I'm surprised that I am so blunt, but the question is too important not to ask.

"No one understands it. He's more like a grandfather than a lover. And if any guys who work for him get fresh, they pay the price. He once had a man murdered because he raped one of us."

"I don't think I would want to be under the protection of a murderer."

"Best protection in the world. No one will harm you, ever."

I notice that the cameramen and the other girls are all busy doing other things. It is as though this conversation with Sylvia has been set up ahead of time.

"I'll think about it," I say, "and talk to Carlitos."

"Your boyfriend? Forget that. No boyfriend would be willing to compete with Señor de Cervantes."

"It will make him jealous?" I ask.

"Wouldn't you be jealous if some rich cougar let your boy move in with her?"

"Will it make Carlitos think that marriage is more important than logics?"

"Duh," Sylvia answers. And the expression on her face tells me exactly what that means.

Chula Contreras approaches us. She is one of the most beautiful models of them all. "Time to get back to work, girls," she calls. One of the assistants runs up with a bright blue and white beach ball.

"Let's play catch, Alicia," Chula says as she grabs the ball and tosses it to me. "They like it when we're really having fun."

"So do I!" I answer with a squeal.

And we do have fun. Chula and Sylvia have beautiful smiles and curvy bodies, and a photographer is down on his belly shooting up at us, and the make-up artist comes and dusts powder on our faces, and we are laughing and throwing the beach ball, and kicking up in the waves, and, somewhere in the middle of all of this, Chula leans in to me and whispers, "Better not blow this chance, lucky girl."

Chapter 15

It is spring break, and Carlitos and I are making out on a park bench in San Lucero. For two years, we have only been able to see each other on the holidays, and for a few weeks in the summer. Still, we are so much in love. We are in our early 20s now, and still little old ladies give us dirty looks as they walk by. We are so hungry for each other that our hands are swimming everywhere. I don't care. I let him touch me wherever he wants to. I am still a virgin, even though I am now living in the house of Señor Fernando de Cervantes, even though I have not told Carlitos about it.

The time will be right, and I will tell him, I think, and then Carlitos speaks up.

"I have something important to tell you," he says.

"To tell me or to ask me?" My heart is fluttering with anticipation.

"To tell you. You'll like it."

Carlitos leans away from me, and I am sure he is going to pull a ring from his pocket. I can already picture myself in the mansion of Señor Popcorn showing the ring to Sylvia and Chula and all my new friends.

Carlitos folds his hands and looks at the ground.

"I took a big step last week," he says. And then he waits.

Hurry up and tell me, I want to say. But I don't. I merely smile and sit upright so that my posture is perfect the way they taught me in modeling school. I make my eyes wide. They taught me that too.

"It is important for both of us," he says.

I nod and take a deep breath hoping I can look even more inviting.

"I changed our name."

"What?"

"You won't have to worry about being Mrs. Mankowski, anymore."

"Up until this moment, all I ever dreamed about was being Mrs. Mankowski."

"Well, now you can dream about being Mrs. Mann."

I wilt. I get angry. I look around for something to throw. "Dream ... about being Mrs. Man? And who will you be, Mr. Woman?"

Carlitos laughs. "I thought you'd like the new name."

I nod my head and try to smile. There is no ring. My Carlitos is so slow in understanding what I need. Logics must be clouding his brain.

"I have important news for you too, mi amor," I say almost to get even. "I have moved in with a man."

Carlitos almost falls off the park bench.

"What man?"

"He is a very nice man and many models live in his mansion."

Carlitos is speechless for a long time. Maybe he now wishes I was already wearing his ring. I hope so.

"And what are the requirements for living in this mansion?"

"Nothing. He treats us like princesses, like his daughters."

"Does he spy on you?"

"What does that matter? Yes, he sees us in the swimming pool; we have supper with him. His chauffeur drives us around Mexico City. But he does not spy on us in our bedrooms or our bathrooms ... I don't think. I never thought of that."

"And what is his name?"

"Do you think you know him?"

"I might."

"Yes, you might; he went to your university in Guadalajara."

"Fernando de Cervantes," Carlitos states it like a fact.

"How did you know?"

"He's only the biggest, baddest drug lord in Mexico City. Have you started using drugs?"

"Carlitos, I do not use drugs, you know that. And I have never seen drugs in his mansion. I have never seen any of the other girls using drugs. He just likes to have pretty girls around him all the time. What's wrong with that?"

"And what about his guys?"

"He will kill them if they touch us."

Carlitos looks down at his hands; they are powerful now. They are boxer's hands. I want them on me, not folded the way they are. I want them squeezing me, but instead, he is wringing them out with worry.

"If he even so much as touches you ..."

That's what I want to hear.

"Come here, Mr. Man," I say. I pull him to me and for the next hour, our wild kisses are distressing all the old women who wander by. I don't care. I am still a virgin.

#

It is almost two months later, two of the longest months of my life. Carlitos and I have not seen each other for all that time.

But then Sylvia goes to Guadalajara on a modeling assignment, and I tell her to look up Carlitos and surprise him.

It is nearly midnight of the first night that Sylvia is away when I receive a text message from her.

—Alicia, I am @ University

—Found Carlitos?

—Looking right at him

—Where?

—Outside Library

—How does he look?

—Very handsome! : )

—Is he studying?

—Talking to a girl

—What? Is she pretty?

—Very beautiful :-(

—Shit!

—YES. They are talking logic

—School stuff. That's better : )

—Seems crazy about her :-(

—A beautiful girl has made Carlitos crazy?

—Keeps calling her Yolanda

—Shit! Does she have red birthmark on her forehead?

—Yes

—Is she smoking a cigarette?

—Yes

—I'm coming there right now

I click off my phone and march into the office of Señor Popcorn. He is sitting behind his desk going through a big pile of papers.

"What is it, niña?" he says when he sees my face. "What's wrong?"

"It is Carlitos," I say. "Sylvia is in Guadalajara with him."

"Good."

"No, not good, she found him with another woman!"

Señor Popcorn jumps backward in his chair as though he can't believe it.

"Is he sleeping with her?"

"Just talking."

"Oh."

"But this woman is my worst enemy. She tried to burn me when I was a little girl. I can't believe he's with her at all."

"What do you need, sweetheart?"

"A way to get to the university fast!"

The popcorn man smiles at me for a moment. Then he yells: "MIGUEL, COME IN HERE!"

Miguel rushes into the room. He is Señor Popcorn's right-hand man, and like most people Señor Popcorn employs, he is very handsome: tall, with black wavy hair and a big sexy smile.

"Alicia needs a ride to the University of Guadalajara tonight. Take her there."

"Si, Jefe."

Miguel looks at me and sees that I am filled with rage. He moves to me, puts his arm around my back and begins to lead me from the room.

"If you touch her, Miguel," Señor Popcorn adds. "You will lose both your hands, understand?"

"Si, Jefe."

Miguel and I drive through the night to the University. I say nothing to him for the entire ride. My anger is building and building. We arrive early. Sylvia meets us at the entry. She has been texting where she is for the last hours.

"Oh, poor baby," Sylvia sighs as I get out of the car and hug her. "They are having breakfast in there." And she points to a building, which must be some kind of cafeteria. But the traitors are already coming out of the building. Carlos is smiling. Yolanda is smoking. How can he stand her?

I rush down the walk to the building; Sylvia and Miguel follow. Carlos sees me. He smiles, he waves. But I recognize Yolanda and her smoke. I break into a run and soon am standing right in front of him. He takes me and kisses me. But my body turns to stone.

"Mi amor," he says still very excited, "Guess who I ran into? Your old friend. She's studying logic ... gonna be in my classes." He gestures to Yolanda.

She gives me this victorious smile, like she just won the trophy. That's it.

"Bastardo!" I call and slap Carlitos across his smiling face so hard I almost knock him over.

"Pendejo!" I slap him again, and he falls backward as I turn toward my enemy.

"Whore! Bitch!" I jump at her and knock her down. Then I fall on top of her and begin scratching at her face.

"I want your eyes!" and I reach my claws toward those eyes just as Carlitos pulls me off of her.

"I'll kill her!" I yell, and I break away from him, jump on Yolanda, and rip the front of her dress open. My long nails dig deep into her chest. Blood bubbles out. Then I reach for her eyes again. I scrap my nails over that evil birthmark on her forehead and draw blood there too. I'm glad.

"Stay away from my man, you bitch!"

Carlitos pulls me off Yolanda again, and now he puts his hand over my mouth. I bite it, then raise my legs in the air and begin kicking. I don't care that my dress is up to my waist now. I don't care that I'm spitting and my nails are dripping with Yolanda's blood.

"If you touch him again ... if you ever come near him ..."

I hear police sirens begin to scream. A small crowd has gathered. They are cheering.

Miguel suddenly jumps forward and snatches up a very dazed and bloody Yolanda. She has even dropped her precious cigarette. Miguel holds her like a prisoner.

"I'll take care of her, Niña," he calls to me. "She'll never bother you or Carlos again."

"Kill the bitch, tear her fucking heart out!" I scream. "Burn a bigger scar in the middle of her forehead. That's what she tried to do to me.

"How could you forget that," I yell at Carlitos, and I march away from everyone: the stunned Sylvia, the shameful Carlos, all the students who have gathered to look at us, and the police who are just now starting to arrive on the scene. But Miguel has already pulled Yolanda into Señor Popcorn's limo and driven away with her.

I hope he fucks her! I say to myself. I hope he fucks her to death. But I don't know that he does, and I never find out. Because I never see her again, and no one ever mentions her name to me after that morning, not Miguel, not Señor Popcorn, not Sylvia, not even Carlitos.

But now in our living room in Los Altos Carlitos drains his glass of tequila. As he does, I see the burn on the back of his hand. The mark is still there ... put there by Yolanda. How could he forget?

He runs his hand through his hair and looks up at me like a sinner on his way to confession. "Mea culpa," he sighs.

"Yes, my love," I say. "When you wonder why I feel so angry about the Joy girls, remember your faults and that bitch who was trying so hard to take you away from me."

"She had just transferred into my major," he says.

"SHE WAS TRYING TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME!"

Carlitos nods and then wanders into the kitchen to refill his glass with Tequila.

Chapter 16

The worst part of the time of great sadness begins when Carlitos actually does propose to me. And like everything else that happens at that time, it is most illogical.

It is a year after Carlitos has changed his name, nine months after everyone has forgotten about Yolanda (but me). Carlitos and I are walking on the beach together. He is wearing a Speedo and I my sexiest high-fashion bikini (which I must admit I have borrowed from my latest modeling session).

"If you don't want to be Mrs. Mann," Carlitos says, "I will change my name back to Mankowski."

"But I am just getting used to thinking of myself as Mrs. Mann."

"You are?"

I nod. The waves are crashing; the sun is setting, the breeze is warm, the seagulls are flying high and not making their usual screeches. Things are so sweet.

"In that case ..." Carlitos says, and he pulls a small golden box from the back of his Speedo and holds it up with a flourish. Just then a wave crashes, the box disappears, I look around frantically, and then turn back to Carlitos who seems to be four years old again, laughing non-stop. As soon as the waves pull back, he falls to one knee and reveals the box still in the palm of his hand. He opens the box.

"Te amo. ¿Quieres casarte conmigo?"

My eyes burn with the beauty of the ring. The stone is enormous. The band is white gold.

"I love you too," I say. "Of course, I'll marry you."

Carlitos pulls the ring from the box and slides it onto my finger. We kiss, the waves crash in, we fall over and still kiss as the surf pounds on us. The gulls are now cheering; the sunset brightens.

I pull myself to my feet and lead Carlitos up onto the beach. I push him back against the edge of a bluff. I kneel before him, reach for his Speedo, pull it down, and do for Carlos what so many blonde California girls have done for so many blonde California boys in so many R-rated American movies ... off-camera of course. And I am pleased that I am still a virgin ... technically.

We talk, we laugh, and Carlitos is no longer a little boy. He is a big strong man. Mine. He holds me. But now he is growing sad. See what I mean about illogical? I have just agreed to be his wife, and he is unhappy.

"¿Por qué tan triste?" Why are you sad? I ask.

"No es nada," he answers.

"This is the happiest moment of my life," I say. "Something must be making you sad."

He sighs.

"I had hoped to marry you next year and take you with me to America," Carlitos says, "to Leland University for graduate school. I wanted to surprise you. But I can't. My fellowship didn't go through. I don't have the money to attend."

"I have some money saved," I say.

"The tuition will be a hundred thousand dollars. And that doesn't count room and board."

"¡Dios mío! I don't have that kind of money!" I start racking my brain for a way to come up with it. And finally, I have a great idea. "Señor Popcorn," I say. "He is a very wealthy man. He will lend me the money. He may even give me the money."

Carlitos doesn't share my enthusiasm.

"I can't take money from a drug lord."

"But he's my friend. He is so good to me ... and to all the girls." And again I start imagining that I am showing my ring to all my friends and how excited they will be, and then a terrible realization comes to me. I haven't seen my dearest friends in quite some time. Sylvia, most of all, is missing. She went away on assignment four weeks ago and hasn't returned. Then Chula Contreras disappeared, then Rosa Varela, and then many of the others.

I hesitate to tell this to Carlitos since he is already upset. Instead, I decide to talk to Señor Popcorn. He will know where they have gone and when they will come back. I will talk to him. I will ask him for the money.

That decision, as Carlitos would say, is very logical. QED.

Chapter 17

"One hundred thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of money," Señor Popcorn says, but he is still smiling. "I could never give you that much. But you might be able to earn it."

The old man looks almost handsome. He wears in a cream-colored suit with a cream-colored shirt and tie and even cream-colored shoes and socks. He smiles more broadly. I shift in my seat. I was nervous when I came into his office, and now I am even more nervous. I am wearing the most stunning dress I can borrow from the photo shoots, a little black evening dress with very high heels that make me almost tall.

"And how would I earn it, Señor?"

He tosses a kernel of popcorn into his mouth and shrugs.

"By having sex with you?"

The Señor begins laughing and then coughing. He is choking on the kernel that he put into his mouth. His eyes are watering; he is gasping for breath. I rush up to him; hit him on the back hoping to dislodge the kernel. He continues to laugh and cough and cry at the same time. I hand him a glass of water from the table beside his chair, and he gulps it down. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him.

I am afraid, but his look is that of a stern father.

"Sex is a very inexpensive commodity, niña," he says. "Don't cheapen yourself by selling it. You have much more to offer. You are young, beautiful, and most of all you are clever."

I step back and straighten my dress. I blush. I am still frightened.

"Where is Sylvia?" I ask, as though her whereabouts has something to do with the dangers of doing a job for Señor Popcorn.

The old man starts laughing again, and I am afraid that he will start choking. But he does not. Instead, he reaches to the end table and grabs a remote control. He points it at the window blinds, and they roll up automatically. Outside I can see Sylvia. She is washing a car. It is bright, new, and red. Even I can recognize a Mercedes.

"She is fine and healthy," Señor Popcorn says. "And I have never asked her to have sex with me. You should know that. No one touches my girls, not even me."

"Her job is washing your car?"

"That is her car, niña. She earned it doing a series of jobs. And that car did not cost one hundred thousand US dollars ... not even close. But if you did enough jobs for me, you could earn 100-K."

He smiles. I sit down. Now my stomach is gurgling. I hope he doesn't hear it.

"So, what is the job?"

"It's very simple. You go across the border into El Paso and buy something for me."

"Drugs?"

"Maybe you are not as clever as I think you are, Alicia. The Gringos buy drugs from us. What do we buy from them?"

I shrug and feel stupid.

He waits and pops another kernel into his mouth.

"Guns?" I ask in a tiny voice.

"Right, there's my girl. We buy guns, which we give to our operators or sell to other operators. And the profit is huge."

"Is there a name for this job?"

"Not really. Not when a beautiful young woman like you does it."

I remember a word from an old John Wayne movie I saw back in San Lucero. "Gunrunner?" I ask.

"Si, Señorita."

"But I know nothing of running guns."

"You are clever, and you'll have a partner." Señor Popcorn picks up his cell phone and punches in a number. We wait no more than a moment, and then someone enters the room from behind me. I turn and let out a small scream.

The man who enters the room is tall, handsome and has a big smiling mustache. He didn't have it when Carlitos played soccer with him in the streets of our village. He called us both jerks. Then later he put his arm around me when he thought we would be together at the technical college.

It is Luis.

#

In Los Altos Carlos drops his glass on the coffee table, and even though I am now a ghost, I scurry around to get a paper towel to clean up the mess.

"Luis?" He growls. "You were involved with Luis?" He gets to his feet and begins pacing back and forth across the floor.

"Si, mi amor, I am so sorry."

Carlitos comes back and sits down beside me.

"It's all right," he says. I can see he's trying to calm himself. He takes my hands and squeezes them. It's like he's holding on for dear life. And I can understand that. After all, Carlitos knows this story ends in tragedy. I am already dead.

"Then what happened?" he asks.

So, I continue.

Señor Popcorn realizes that we know each other.

"Luis is one of my best men," he says. "And Alicia is my best girl."

"I'll bet." Louis leers at me, and I look at him with distrust.

Señor Popcorn smiles then. He pulls out the drawer of his end table and takes out a little wooden box. He hands it to me. I open it and let out another small scream. There is a gun inside.

"If he gets fresh with you," Señor Popcorn says, "you have my permission to kill him."

I shake my head.

"Yes, you must do it," the popcorn man says. "Now, about your training."

Chapter 18

Luis is driving a nondescript Toyota up through the deserts of Mexico. I am sitting beside him. The AC is on; there is a money pouch in the trunk. It contains ninety thousand dollars in cash. I've seen it.

I am wearing shorts and a black t-shirt with a red rhinestone heart. Under it are the words, "I'm taken."

The little gun is in my purse, which sits between the door and me and away from Luis. Over the last two weeks I have learned how to shoot surprisingly well, or at least my instructor says so. Luis has watched me learn, and hopefully, he understands that I will kill him if I need to.

He hasn't mentioned the engagement ring I wear, nor does he talk about Carlos Mancowski (perdóname, Carlos Mann) until we are deep in the desert. Then he starts.

"So, the pendejo finally broke down and got you a ring, huh, mensa?"

I stick my tongue out at him. I am not a mensa, a stupid woman. Luis waits for a moment, snickers, and then just continues.

"And how's he doing at the university?"

"He's doing very well," I say. I don't really want to talk to Luis about Carlitos, but what the hell.

"He's been accepted into Leland."

"Leland University? In Los Yunaites States."

I nod.

"How can the pendejo afford it?"

"Stop calling him that."

"Sorry, mensa."

"And stop calling me mensa!"

"All right, all right, jee-ZUS!"

We drive on in silence for several miles. I close my eyes and try not to look at or even think about Luis. And then he starts talking again.

"Bet you guys are doin' it all the time, huh?"

"No way," I say. "I am still a virgin."

"Yeah right, puta!"

I cross my arms and don't say another word for many more miles. Then stupid Luis is at it again.

"So how's he gonna pay for Leland?"

"Carlitos got a full scholarship." I lie proudly just to keep things simple.

"Mierda, the guy's that inteligente?"

"You have no idea how smart he is, and you don't have the brains to figure it out."

Luis slams on the breaks and then pulls over to the side of the road.

"Look, mensa," he says as he leans right into my face, "I didn't pick you for this pinchi job. You've got a sweet ass and all, but you're a real ball breaker; everyone knows that."

I shrug and turn away, but Luis keeps on talking.

"I know the old man will murder me if I get fresh with you. So I'm behavin' like a saint. I'm gonna be so pinchi good, that by the time we're through you'll be calling me Saint Luis. You know, like the city."

"What city?"

"St. Louis, USA, mensa! You are a stupid woman."

I cross my arms and slide back down into the seat. I don't say anything for a long time; neither does Luis. Then he finally starts the car and pulls back up onto the highway. There is fiery anger in the air between us.

After a few hundred miles maybe, I relax. I slide out of my shoes and put my feet up on the dashboard. My knees are together turned toward Luis just so that I can be comfortable. I fall asleep that way, and I dream of Carlitos. I'm walking on the beach with him the day he gives me the ring. He kisses me. I am smiling and singing. Carlitos holds me and tells me he loves me. But then, for some reason, he begins shaking me. He is shaking me very hard. I am flying around everywhere. And that's when I wake up.

Luis and I are bouncing across the open desert, going faster than a Toyota is supposed to go when it is not on the road. The radio is blaring some song about Las Migras. Luis is singing. I reach for my purse. It isn't there. It's on the driver's side, at the feet of Luis.

"Buenas noches, mensa," he says. "¿Dormistes bien?"

"Yes, I did sleep well; I was dreaming of Carlitos."

"Your love? Too bad the pendejo will never see you again."

"Give me my purse," I say.

"Sorry, there was something in there I needed," and he holds up the gun. "There's been a change of plans."

"What change?"

"You and me, babe; we're stealing the old man's cash and heading up to Los Yunaites States."

"Luis, are you loco? He'll kill us both."

"There's plenty of room to hide up in el Norte Glorioso."

I shriek, reach over, and grab Luis by the face. I try to gouge my fingers into his eyes. He fights me off and brings the car to a stop.

He rushes around to my side of the car and pulls me out by my hair. It hurts like hell. I am screaming and swinging my arms like a wildcat. But he is so strong. He throws me into the dirt and then pulls out my gun and points it at me.

"Up, on your knees, bitch!"

I do as I am told. Then he smiles. "So, you're still a virgin, Alicia?"

I don't even look at him. I look at the ground, at his feet, and I see something that terrifies me and gives me hope at the same time.

"Let's just find out what kind of a virgin you really are!"

And now Luis starts to pull down his pants. He hops around as he tries to lower them with one hand while the other still points the gun at me. It is really swinging around aiming at the sky, at the ground, and at me. I still don't dare move.

Luis hops and jumps, and then he screams. A gigantic rattlesnake has leaped up and sunk its fangs into the side of his leg. He drops the gun and reaches for the snake. He grabs it with both hands and rips it from him. He throws it far across the desert. And then he screams again. A baby snake has caught him by the ankle. He reaches for the baby, and a third snake bites into his hand. He is standing in a bed of snakes and bellowing like a bull.

I get to my feet, grab the gun from the dirt, and rush to the Toyota. Gracias a Dios, the keys are still in it. I get in and drive away from him. I follow our tire tracks toward the main road. As I pull out I can hear Luis calling.

"I'll get you for this, bitch!" But I don't think he will. I think he will die right there with the snakes ... because he is one of them.

Bastardo!

Chapter 19

Carlos stares at me. He can't believe it. I can't either, even though I was there.

"More tequila?" I ask.

He smiles. "That really happened?"

"I swear."

"And then what?"

"Don't you want more tequila?"

He gestures to his glass on the coffee table. It is still full.

"More ice?"

"More story!" he says. And so I continue.

Now I am standing at the counter of the gun shop in El Paso. The border crossing took forever, and I was very nervous, but Señor Popcorn had all the paperwork ready, and I got into the United States easily.

At the gun shop, I am even more nervous.

"Where's Luis?" the guy behind the counter asks. The guy is an Americano, very gray, very wrinkly, and very old. I wonder if he is Polaco. I don't think so. The problem is that I don't know how to answer his question.

Luis is dead with the snakes, I hope. But I don't know that for sure. So, what do I know that I can tell? At best Luis is feeling very bad. There is the answer. I think Carlitos would be very proud of my logic: QED.

"Luis got sick along the way," I say. "I had to leave him so he could recover."

"And you came by yourself, niña?"

"Señor de Cervantes needs his guns."

The wrinkly Americano takes the list I give him and heads into the back of the store. I stare at the different kinds of pistols in the glass case beside the counter. Many of them look so heavy that I know they would break my arm if I tried to shoot them. I am very comfortable with my little pistol and grateful that I did not have to use it on Luis. He is a victim of his own evil.

The wrinkly Americano returns and smiles.

"We have it all, niña."

"Please don't call me that. I'm not a little girl."

"Right," he answers. "With the cojones it took to come here by yourself, I should probably call you Señor."

He laughs; I don't. He stops laughing and looks very serious.

"We'll bring the car around back, and my boy will load it up. Then pay me and get the hell out of here, okay?"

"Si."

I go across the street and get myself a donut and some coffee at the little stand on the corner. Ummm. I try to enjoy every bite, but I can't. I'm just so nervous knowing that Luis is dying in the desert and that guns are being loaded into a car that I will soon have to drive back through the border-crossing into Mexico. I am squeezing the donut a little too tightly, and now there is white powder all over the front of my black t-shirt. The boy behind the counter is watching me as I try to brush it off my front. He has a dirty smile on his face. I don't like it, so I stop, look crossly at him, and leave without tipping.

I walk into the back of the shop where my car is parked. There are crates of guns beside it. The doors are open, but nothing has been loaded.

"What's wrong?" I ask a handsome American boy who is standing beside the car.

"It just takes time," he says. And then he leers at the front of my shirt, at the sugar that is still there. It looks sloppy I think, but it is making him smile.

"Maybe you could give me a little incentive," he says.

"Incentive?"

"Encouragement."

"You want a tip?"

The boy blushes; he is so cute. I give him my best smile.

"I was actually thinking of some sugar," he says, and then he walks up to me and begins massaging my shoulders. I know where he is going, and I don't like it. My smile goes away. So does his; he is no longer cute and harmless. I try to reach into my purse and pull out my little pistol, but the boy grabs my arm and pulls it back behind me. My purse falls onto the floor. He spins me around so that I am facing away from him, and he bumps his hips up against me.

Dios Mio, two rape attempts in one day? Have all the men in the world gone crazy?

"Let me go," I start to scream, but after the first word the kid's hand is over my mouth. His other hand is sliding up under my sugary t-shirt. His hips are grinding against me.

"You like this, don't you, Señorita." His hand is on my breast. I hate it. These places are reserved for Carlitos. I bite the hand over my mouth. The kid lets go, curses, spins me around so that I am facing him, and pushes me back against the wall. Now both his hands are holding my arms above my head, and he is pressing himself against me.

"Relax, baby," the kid says. "You'll enjoy this. All you chicas do!"

He has managed to grab both my arms with one hand, and now he is holding them above me as he uses his free hand to pull down on my shorts. I start to scream, and he presses his lips to my face. He tries to penetrate my mouth with his tongue. I won't let him. He has my shorts down around my knees now. I bite his lip.

"Bitch!" he cries, and he reaches up and slaps me across the face. Then he grabs my neck and starts to squeeze.

"Come on chica, relax," he says. "Open up."

And now his hand is at the top of my panties pulling down quickly on them, and then ...

A bullet zips right past my head, a shot from a big, noisy gun. The kid lets go and turns.

"What's wrong with you, asshole?" calls the wrinkly Americano. "This is one of Fernando's Girls. When she goes back and tells him about this, your ass won't be worth shit. Now get back here and pack the goddamn car. After that come and see me."

While the boy is being lectured, I am straightening myself as best I can. My jaw feels like it is broken.

The boy goes back to the car. The wrinkly Americano comes up to me.

"You shouldn't have come back here, Miss. These guys never see anyone while they're working. They don't know who's who or what's what."

"But it was taking so long."

"I'm sorry about that." He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead. "Please don't tell Señor de Cervantes about this. I'll fire the kid this afternoon. You can stick around and watch me do it if you want."

"That's all right," I say, though I would actually like to see the kid begging for his job. That would be very sweet.

"I know Fernando's a very rough customer. If you mess with his stuff, he'll take it out on you."

"I'm not his stuff," I say. "And this is the second time someone has tried to rape me in the last day. Do I look like such a victim?"

"Not at all," the guy says. "I told you I thought you had cojones." He smiles. "I can beat the crap out of the kid if you want me to."

"That won't be necessary," I say. I see that the car is loaded. I reach into my purse, take out the packet containing the cash and hand it to him. He flips through it quickly.

"The guns are all up inside the doors and in a compartment behind the rear wheels," he says. "But the border guards won't look. Fernando owns them."

I nod, go to the car, get in, and drive away.

My trip back to Mexico City is without incident. And soon I am standing before Señor Popcorn.

#

Senior Popcorn is not surprised to see me. Still, as soon as he does, he rushes to me and embraces me. I think he is going to kiss me on the lips he is shaking so. But instead, he gives me a fatherly kiss on the forehead and leads me to a big chair in the living room.

"Alicia, mi niña," he says. "How are you?"

I smile at the old man with his thin pencil mustache. His hands are shaking as he sits down across from me on the couch. He leans forward and stares into my soul. His intensity frightens me.

"A little beat up," I say.

"Only a little, with Luis attacking you in the desert and then that kid trying to rape you at the gun shop?"

"How do you know all that?"

For the first time since I have seen him today, Señor Popcorn smiles.

"This is the twenty-first century, niña. There are cell phones."

I giggle, like a little girl. "But how could anyone have reception out there in the desert?"

"We have our own network. Luis called us, said that you had stolen our money and abandoned him. My compadres wanted to go after you and kill you immediately, but I asked them to wait. We could track you without killing you, and I had a feeling you were too clever to do the wrong thing.

"Then we got the call from the gun shop. The owner was over apologetic, and so we got him to admit that one of his boys tried to rape you. He said that he loaded the guns as he had been instructed and that you were bringing them back. Our man at the border noted your return. That's when we knew that Luis was the snake, Alicia, and that you had been a very good girl."

I smile, "Si, a good girl gunrunner."

Señor Popcorn reaches for his bag of kernels. He tosses a few into his mouth and looks at me proudly. "I am going to reward you, niña." He whistles through the popcorn, "big-time."

"Big-time?"

"Si, I am going to give you the money for your fiancé's tuition."

I jump to my feet and run to the old man. I pull him to his feet and hug him. I kiss him a thousand times on the cheeks. Then I put both hands on the sides of his face and kiss him on the lips. He is embarrassed and pushes me away, but I still squeeze him and won't let him go.

"Niña, niña," he says as he leads me back to the seat and forces me to sit down. "I can give you seventy-five thousand dollars today and the other twenty-five next year." Then he shrugs. "Even banditos sometimes have cash flow problems."

I am giddy. I giggle like a schoolgirl. The old man rises to his feet and goes to his big desk in the corner. He takes out his checkbook and writes a check right there: seventy-five thousand US dollars.

He hands it to me, and I dance around the room with it, twirling in images of handing it to Carlitos. But then Señor Popcorn rises to his feet and takes me by the hand and sits me down again.

"There is one more thing you need to know, Alicia."

"¿Que?"

"This is probably not important, but still ..." his look is suddenly one of concern, and it worries me.

"What is it, Señor?"

"I sent a chopper to the desert to pick up Luis. We had his location via the GPS on his cell phone. But when we got to the spot, the cell was there, but Luis was not. We knew he had snakebites. We knew he was weak. By then we were even starting to suspect that he had lied to us. Maybe he understood that too. When the chopper did not find him, I sent many men into the area. But we couldn't track him down. We checked the hospitals. Nada."

"So Luis may still be out there?" I ask.

"Unlikely. We thought at first that he was doing okay. He said he was in pain but nothing else. Then his last calls were frantic. We got there as quickly as we could. But he was gone."

Chapter 20

"I did learn what happened to Luis."

"No way," says Carlitos.

"Way."

"How the hell?"

"Through a friend, through a conversation which would be most difficult to explain."

Carlitos takes the watery tequila into the kitchen, and I hear him dump it into the sink. In a moment he returns with a Diet Coke. He sits down in the chair across from me. He is much more relaxed now. He knows the time of great sadness, the time of our long separation, has passed, at least in my story. In real life, it has only begun. But in my story, we marry within two weeks of his graduation in Guadalajara. I slide a simple wedding band onto his finger beside his huge college ring, and we even pose with our hands together showing off our rings. He is very proud.

The application to Leland goes through. He journeys to Los Altos, and I follow him two months later. But while all this is going on, Luis is recovering.

An old curandero, a shaman, medicine man, native healer has found him in the desert. The guy is spiritual. Luis is unconscious. The curandero takes Luis to an old cabin far off in the hills. He treats Luis with faith and charms and herbs. Luis is delirious: praying, cursing, and suffering.

Luis finally escapes from the poison of the snakes. But it has left him with damage to his right legs, the leg of the largest snakebite. Even after he recovers, Luis still walks with a terrible limp.

Luis and the curandero argue about prayers, about healing, about the will of God. In the end, Luis kills his healer in a fit of anger and bitterness. And then Luis heads off to get money in the one place he is sure he can find it, outside the gun shop in El Paso.

Another gun run is being made for Señor Popcorn. This time it is a bright red Mercedes that drives up and stops outside the gun shop. Luis jumps into the back seat before anyone can leave the car. He pulls a huge knife and presses it hard against the throat of the driver. He asks her to hand over the gun money. It's another ninety thousand dollars in cash. The driver is my friend Sylvia. The guy riding with her is called Jose, and he freezes as he sees the knife threatening my friend. Sylvia does what she is told, hands Luis the money. He slits her throat anyway, swipes a horrible gash across her neck and blood squirts out wildly, all over the front windshield of the car. Before Jose can react, Luis spins toward him and buries the knife in his chest.

Then Luis ducks out the back door of the Mercedes and is gone to hide out in the deserts of America.

Once again Carlitos is stunned. "How the hell do you know all this?"

"They told me," I answer. "Their ghosts. I met them: Jose, Sylvia, and the curandero. His name is Don Mario.

"We ghosts can talk," I say. "We can plan, and we can work together."

But at the moment Sylvia is killed, I am still alive in Los Altos. Señor Popcorn calls me and rages about Luis, how he has killed Sylvia, and how he—Señor Popcorn—is going to have his men cut Luis up into little pieces and feed him to the scorpions.

I am in the kitchen when I get the call; Carlitos is at Leland. I go nuts. My friend Sylvia is dead. Luis is alive. What justice is this? I throw everything I can reach at the walls, at the ceiling. I smash dishes on the floor and jump on them. I break the mirror behind the stove. Then I run from the building. I walk for hours by myself among all the expensive homes of Los Altos. I decide that it is better that Carlitos not know about Luis or Sylvia.

I am brave. I have cojones, remember? So I hide my sorrow over Sylvia and my fear of Luis. I tell Carlitos that my anger was over a soap opera that I saw on television. Carlitos loves me so much that he believes me.

I smile a lot. I laugh as often as I can. Most of the time I feel happy. I am with Carlitos, and we are man and wife. Life is beautiful.

But in the depths of the night, I am so afraid.

#

It is Christmas time in our third year of marriage. Carlitos has completed the work for his advanced degree. I am very happy. We fly to Mexico and celebrate with our families. We are beautiful people. Everyone in the village is proud of our success.

We return from Mexico and are driving down the freeway. I smile and look over at the driver of the car beside us, hoping to share my joy with that person. Then I scream. There, in the car next to us, I see the leering face of Luis. He has grown fat and now has a very heavy mustache, but it is Luis, I am certain.

We go home. I am trembling. I get the mail, and there is a note stuffed into the box. "I will get you, mensa," it says, and it is signed El Cojo. I have never heard of El Cojo, but I reason that after the snakebite Luis must have a limp, must be a cripple; he must be El Cojo. And I am filled with terror.

It is evening of the very next day. I have been pacing all day long while my husband is at the University. He is still gone even now when it is night. What would Carlitos advise me to do about this? I ask myself. The answer is easy: whatever is logical. And the logical answer is easy too. I need to be saved from El Cojo. Is there anyone who can do that? "The popcorn man," I say aloud and smile. QED.

I place a call to Señor Popcorn on my cell phone. I turn the speaker on so that it is easier to hear. The phone rings forever. Finally, there is an answer. This is his direct line, only for his girls.

"Hola, Señora Mann!" he says as my phone number identifies me.

I say nothing.

Staring at me through the bedroom window is the evil face of El Cojo. Luis moves to the right and disappears. He is heading toward the front door. I run there, knowing that it might be unlocked. Step slide, step slide, I hear Luis limping very quickly. I throw myself against the door, but it is too late. El Cojo has his shoulder against it; his dead foot is in the doorway. I scream. He pushes it open. I still have the phone in my hand; Señor Popcorn is shouting now because he hears my screams.

"No!" I cry as Luis pushes me back into the bedroom. He takes out a switchblade and opens it. I see my purse on the table; my little gun is inside. I try to move toward it. Luis slaps me hard across the face, and I fall. I drop the phone. Señor Popcorn is raging in confusion. We can both hear him. I crawl toward the purse and the gun. El Cojo grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me forward.

"Sálvame Jesús!" I scream. El Cojo laughs and slashes his knife across my chest. The slit immediately fills with blood. I put my hand up to protect my face and another gash rips down the side of my arm. The blood is pouring out.

El Cojo looks down at me; his mustache curls into the most hateful expression. Then he slashes me low across the front.

"Bastardo!"

"I wanted to fuck you first, puta," he grunts. "But now you're just too damn bloody."

"Luis, you crazy bastard," Señor Popcorn is yelling in some electric voice from the phone. "Leave her alone!"

"Fuck you, asshole," Luis calls, and then he rises up and slashes the knife across my chest in the other direction.

"Jesus Christ!" I kick back at him with the little energy I have, and he grabs my leg and starts slicing across it, back and forth, back and forth. I kick with the other leg, hit him right in the balls, and he falls back. He staggers, grabbing his crotch. He is doubled over. I crawl toward the purse and my gun. My fingertips are inches from it when he grabs my wrist and spins me around. He spits in my face, and I think of Jesus on his way to the cross. I offer this suffering as a prayer that God will somehow protect Carlitos from this madman.

"Kicking me was a big mistake, mensa," Luis says in a low hiss, "because now I am going to make you pay." And then begins the real cutting, while I am still alive, slashing, shredding all over my body until no part of me is left without blood. In the phone, I can hear Señor Popcorn. He is saying something very softly. I recognize it: a prayer, the Hail Mary. He is praying for me. The other sound is El Cojo; he is breathing heavily because all of this cutting is wearing him out. I close my eyes. Pain and blood cover every part of my body ... except for my throat. That is the last cut he makes, a deep hard slash across the front of my neck. The last words I hear are Señor Popcorn's:

"Pray for us sinners

"Now and at the hour of our death.

"Amen."

Chapter 21

I turn to Carlitos. He is white with rage and sorrow.

Carlos knows much of this. He saw me moments after I died. He found me when he returned from class, and the police came and charged him with my murder. But that is another story.

At this moment I can see that Carlitos has pictures to match my words. And they are killing him.

"It is all over, mi amor," I whisper.

I move in beside him and hold him close. I wish I could pour my strength into him, but somehow I cannot. Carlos must find his own strength, which has been replaced by obsessive compulsions.

I take him to bed. I cuddle with him as though he were a baby. After an hour he turns to me. His eyes are full of hate.

"I'll do the same to that pendejo."

"Calma," I say. "No, you won't."

"But you deserve revenge."

"Yes, I do." I brush back his hair and kiss him on the forehead. "But it will be my revenge. Not yours, not Señor Popcorn's; no one else can punish him for me. Love lives on after death, mi amor, but so do jealously and hate. And I am so filled with hatred! You go save your Chinese girls from their murderers. I'll help you. Just remember that you are my husband forever."

Carlitos smiles and kisses me. He smells like delicious tequila.

"Have you ever made love to a ghost?" I ask.

"Didn't I just do that last night?"

"Yes. And did you enjoy it?"

"Very much."

"Good," I say. "So why don't we do it again."

Part 3

Chapter 22

I wake from the most wonderful dream I've ever had in my life, a recap of the ghost sex that Alicia and I shared last night. I'm half off the bed, my head and shoulders on the floor, my legs extended across the sheets. I look like the letter Z. I'm trying to remember just what kind of acrobatics got me into this position when the wonderful smell of breakfast overcomes me. It's not Alicia's famous huevos rancheros, but pork and duck stuffed into steamed buns, other kinds of dim sum, and congee.

I struggle to my feet, do a quick toothpaste, shower, and shave and make it into the kitchen where Alicia is sitting at the table watching that thin Chinese ghost whip up something fantastic.

I slide in beside my dead wife, and she snuggles up to me as though last night was the best sex of our lives... Which it was.

"There is important business for you to attend to, Dr. Mann," the Chinese ghost says. He turns, pours me some tea, and smiles. He only has a few teeth, and they are unevenly separated by big spaces and yellowing gums. "As you would expect, your girls are in grave danger."

"These Chinese students are not his girls, Mr. Fu," Alicia says immediately.

"No, of course not," he winks at me. "Forgive me, beautiful lady, but you must understand that a teacher cares deeply about his charges; isn't that correct, Dr. Mann?"

I nod. "Charges, good word."

"I can tell you now," Fu says, "that this evening the Joy sisters will be transported to Sacramento where they will face a most cruel destiny."

"Amy and Veronica?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Mr. Fu turns back to the stove, takes a warm tray of dim sum and slides them onto the plate in front of me.

"From an ancient recipe. Careful, they're hot."

I pick one up, and his statement is immediately verified. I drop the pork-filled dumpling like a hot potato.

"Your charges leave from Chinatown at 9 PM this evening. It is a two-hour drive to Sacramento. I can give you the exact location of their arrival. You should meet them there and rescue them."

"Will you be able to come with me?" I ask Mr. Fu.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Mann, but my presence is required at a piano recital by my great, great granddaughter."

"You can't get out of it?"

"Even ghosts have family obligations."

I turn toward Alicia. "And you?"

"So sorry, mi amor, I too have an obligation."

I study my wife for a moment. Her eyes are tearing up as she stares across the kitchen, away from me. Then she suddenly jerks her head back in my direction.

"What?"

"Will you be all right?"

"Of course, I'll be all right. What could happen to a ghost? I'm dead, remember?"

"When will I see you again?"

"Oh Carlitos," she says and grabs me and kisses me. Then she pulls herself away and rushes from the room.

I look at Mr. Fu. He holds up his hand. "Give her a few moments," he says. "She has business, I have business, and you—my friend—also have business. Yours is to rescue your charges."

Alicia has calmed down, and now she comes and sits beside me again. She takes my hand and kisses it.

"It's all right, mi amor," she whispers, "I'll be back soon."

"Even though we cannot be with you, Mr. Mann, you will need someone's help. Is there no one who cares about these young charges as much as you do?"

I try to picture Leland faculty members who would dare to risk their lives for Amy and Veronica Joy. Dr. Charlotte Burke? I don't think so. And then suddenly I have the answer. I smile.

Mr. Fu smiles back and nods. "Come," he says, "let me give you all the details. Then you can say your goodbyes to your lovely wife and go recruit a worthy partner."

#

Assad steps out from behind his assortment of albums by The Rolling Stones.

"No," he says. "You can't change the organization."

I feel an immediate need to argue but realize that I have more urgent matters to discuss.

"Remember the young Chinese women who visited the store last week?"

"Veronica Joy and her sister?" Assad's face immediately brightens.

"Their lives could be in danger."

"From that ominous gentleman that brought them to the store?"

"Him and another guy who's just as nasty."

Assad shies away from me. "My physical prowess has never been noteworthy," he says.

"You were never good at any sport?"

"Iranian baseball."

"They play baseball in Iran?"

"We call it chartook," he answers.

"And you used a bat?"

"Indeed."

"Then go get it, man."

"But ..."

"At 11 PM the girls will be delivered to a sadistic doctor who has paid dearly for the privilege of torturing them to death."

Assad shakes his head in disbelief.

"Seriously. Some sick fuck has paid Amy and Veronica's parents two million dollars so that he can torture and rape them before he murders them both."

"How do you know this?"

"Friends in the Chinese underground." I don't say how far under ground.

Assad paces back and forth across his store; he looks uncertain and confused. Then he charges into the back room. I wonder what he's up to. And—just for a minute—I also wonder just how hard it would be to bring better order to his collection of Rolling Stones albums. I am fighting off the urge to reorganize when Assad reappears, bat in hand.

"Let's go," he says. "I am ready to knock their collective blocks off." He takes a tentative swing with his bat, spins, trips, and almost falls face down on the floor.

I find it anything but reassuring.

Chapter 23

My new/old Chrysler 300 rumbles up to the appointed destination at exactly 10:46 PM. The house is in an expensive residential area of Sacramento. All the homes sit on spacious lots with circular driveways. Big wrought iron gates surround many of them. Fortunately for us, the home in question has no such protection.

A Mercedes SUV is parked just beyond the brightly lit entryway. In front of that sits a brand new Jaguar. It's a hideous shade of lime green. The house is dark except for the porch and a single dimly lit room at the far corner of the building.

Assad is slapping the barrel of the bat against the palm of his hand by the time we arrive.

"Guess you're ready to kick some ass."

He smiles. He's sweating nervously and biting his lip. "If they have harmed Veronica ..."

"Unlikely. Don't think they'd be allowed to damage the merchandise."

Mr. Fu explained that the customer in question is one Dr. Creighton Hoi, a renowned cosmetic surgeon who enjoys practicing cruel procedures on young women in his spare time ... sometimes without anesthetic.

Amy and Veronica can look forward to a year of unspeakable pain as they become more and more disfigured with each passing month. I tell all this to Assad knowing that such information will probably spark even more aggression when the bad guys arrive. I'm dead right.

When the Lincoln Town Car drives into Dr. Hoi's driveway, and the two tough guys begin getting the girls from the car, Assad is already barreling across the street toward them. He clocks the first guy with the bat as soon as he turns away from the car. The blow sends the guy sprawling onto the front steps.

Tough guy 2 sees what's going on and reaches for his gun. But I'm there by then. I grab him by the back of the head and slam his face against the doorway of the limo. Payback!

Tough 1 is on his feet again. He pulls a gun and aims it at Assad who swings the bat for a perfect hit. It drives the gun well over the tall cypress trees that line the property. Another swing clobbers Tough 1 right in the jaw, and he's down for the count.

Assad reaches into the back of the limo and pulls out a very drugged pair of young women. He drops the bat and carries Veronica toward my car while Amy tags along behind. Her eyes are closed, and she's taking short sleepy steps as she hangs onto the back of his shirt.

Meanwhile, I'm venting all my frustrations on Tough 2. I use his head as a punching bag. Then I start driving my best shots into his midsection. The guy is in perfect condition, but I'm damn good, and I'm wearing him down ... just not quickly enough. As I hear the door of the Chrysler slam with Assad and the girls inside, I see Tough 1 back on his feet and marching around the corner of the limo. His gun is drawn and pointed at me.

"Enough," he calls. "Hands up."

I raise my hands above my head, and Tough 2 immediately slams his fist into my gut doubling me over just as he did in Father's office.

"You guys never learn, do you?" I gasp as I stagger to my feet.

"Perhaps it is the other way," Tough 1 glowers at me. "Now please bring the young ladies back to us so we can finish our delivery."

I don't say a word, so he strides up to me and presses the gun-barrel right into my temple. His face is a bloody mess. Assad's baseball bat has done some nice work.

I don't say anything, so Tough 2 comes up to me and wraps his powerful hands around my neck. "Tell your friend to bring the girls back to us," he says.

I still don't respond so he starts to squeeze.

Tough 1 keeps the barrel of the gun pressed against my temple while Tough 2 is strangling me. Everything is turning white, except my face, which must certainly be bright red.

"Get them over here!" Tough 2 shouts as he loosens his grasp for just a moment.

"Assad," I gasp.

"Not loud enough,"

"Assad!"

Tough 1 stands right beside his partner now. He cocks the gun and presses it even harder against my temple, "I'm afraid your time has come, Dr. Mann!" he says.

Just then the heads of the two tough guys slam together, ramming right into each other. The gun flies up in the air and falls onto the driveway. The tough guys fall backward and land like two enormous sacks of shit, which in my opinion, is what they are.

I look around for an explanation.

"It's Paco," I hear a high-pitched Mexican voice calling. "You didn't really think we'd send you on this mission alone, did you, amigo?"

I spin around three times still looking for the source of the voice. The tough guys start to stir.

"Get your ass out of here, Señor Mann," Paco calls. And I do. Now I'm running toward my car. Looking over my shoulder, I see Tough 1 crawling toward his gun. Suddenly his arms kick out from under him, and he slams face-first into the driveway. Now Tough 2 is up. But he's immediately smashed by Assad's baseball bat. Except Assad is nowhere near the action. He's back at the car opening the door for me and helping me in. The bat seems to be swinging itself at the two tough guys, pounding them in the face, knocking them to the ground, then hammering on their backsides as one or the other starts to get to his feet.

Inside the car, I snap on my seatbelt and peel off down the road.

I turn to Assad, and he's white as a sheet.

"Didn't know you had otherworldly friends," he mumbles.

"A pal of my dead wife," I say. "Didn't expect him."

Assad is in shock. He's sitting in the front with me. Amy and Veronica are in the back. Both girls are again unconscious from the drugs. We drive on in silence, my friend trying to process all the events that have happened in the last hour.

Halfway back to Los Altos, Amy opens her eyes and sees me in the rearview mirror.

"Dr. Mann," she sighs. "You've saved us."

"At least for now," I say.

I turn to Assad; his face is frozen in hysterical confusion.

"Ghosts, Assad, that's all. Time to become a believer."

He shakes his head quickly as though trying to clear it and then turns to me and asks, "What now?"

"A place to hide the girls, someplace no one knows about."

"I have such a spot," Assad answers, "a little apartment adjoining the Torquemada warehouse in South City."

"No one's there?"

"Not on the weekends. By the time we get there, no one will be around except three guards who patrol the exterior of the building, one more inside the door, and the dogs, of course."

"Sounds pretty good to me," I say. "But we'll have to come up with a long-term solution quickly. Mother and Father aren't going to give up without a fight."

"Not to mention the guy in the window," Assad adds.

"What guy in what window?"

"The guy in the window in the back corner of the house. Bald head, pointy teeth, a real monster."

"You saw all that from the street?"

"Your binoculars, bro." Assad pulls my expensive Bausch and Lomb's up from under the seat where I always keep them.

"Had a good look at him?"

"Mostly I was watching you, but I couldn't help but check him out. Looked like he was making a phone call."

Amy suddenly stretches and yawns. Veronica starts to stir. They are both wearing gray sweat suits and tennis shoes. As beautiful as they are, right now they just look cuddly. I watch them in the rearview mirror, and then Amy turns on those Alicia eyes.

"How can we ever repay you, Dr. Mann?" she asks.

"And don't forget your repayment to Assad," my friend adds raising his hand as though volunteering.

"Oh yes, of course, Mr. Assad. There must be something we can do."

"Maybe," I say, "Except we haven't rescued you yet. We'll hide you in the Torquemada warehouse for now, but we're going to have to find a more permanent safe house."

Veronica is now waking; she's still groggy. She stares out the window of the 300.

"Hey, I like that car," she slurs. "But OMG what an ugly color."

"Not now," Amy says.

"No, hey, it's sooo ugly. Look."

I flash on the car pulling up beside us, the one Veronica thinks is such an ugly color. It's the middle of the night; I don't think I can tell the make or the color. Then the glare of headlights from an oncoming semi strikes it for just a moment. It's a lime green Jaguar, not unlike the one in Dr. Hoi's driveway. It's probably a coincidence, right? I force myself to think so.

"Go back to sleep," Amy tells her sister. Veronica nods and dozes off immediately.

"Where will we be able to find a long-term safe house?" Amy asks.

"With someone strong enough to protect you from your evil parents?" Assad wants to know.

Amy tucks her hair behind her ear a la Alicia and shakes her head. "Can't imagine anyone strong enough to take on Mother and Father."

I shrug, but then the answer pops right into my head. Out of nowhere. I smile.

"Fernando de Cervantes," I say. "Senior Popcorn."

Chapter 24

Amy Joy looks absolutely radiant when she opens the door to the safehouse in South San Francisco. She's wearing a light pink Chinese silk gown.

"Dr. Mann," she says by way of greeting. Then she bows. Behind her, Veronica looks even more radiant. She too is wearing a light pink gown. Both girls are wide-awake now, and their eyes sparkle with a feeling they may have never known in their lives: hope.

Assad pushes past me and goes right into the small apartment at the back of his warehouse.

"Nice of you to provide a shower," Veronica says as she moves up beside him and takes the large paper bag he's carrying. "What's this?"

"Breakfast," Assad answers. "But where'd you get the fresh clothing?"

"We had it with us. It was in a pack that I grabbed when you pulled us from the car," Amy says. "We were supposed to wear it when we met Dr. Hoi."

"The plastic surgeon?"

"The devil," Veronica answers.

"We just couldn't get back into those sweats," Amy says. "We need other clothes. Is it safe to go shopping?"

"I'd love to buy some new outfits for you," Assad says to Veronica. She turns her eyes down shyly.

"Hey, I'm an old married man," I say, "I've bought women's clothing for years. Just write down what you need, and I'll get it."

"We couldn't let you do that," Veronica responds.

"You can pay us back someday. We'd just like to offer you a few more options than sweats and silk gowns."

"Sounds good to me," Amy says. "Now how about some breakfast." Veronica moves to a small table at the back of the room.

"There's some congee. It should still be warm," I say.

"Also tea."

"You are both so thoughtful, and you saved our lives," Veronica whispers.

"From a torturer."

Assad takes the bag and begins setting out plates. There are heated containers of congee and dim sum. He places cups around the table and pours hot tea from a thermos.

"Love congee," Veronica says to Assad as she slides into the chair beside him. "It's rice porridge. Oh, and this has bits of fish in it too."

She samples the congee. "Delicious. How did you ever make it?"

"A friend stopped by and whipped it up yesterday morning."

I consider telling Veronica that my friend is a two-hundred-year-old Chinese ghost, but then I think better of it.

"So, what'll we do today?"

"Don't think you can leave the safe house together," Assad says. "I mean, I did see the old man in the window making phone calls last night."

"Do you think they'd be after us so soon?" Veronica and Amy glance at each other in alarm. And then Amy starts giggling.

"A chick flick," she says out of nowhere. "When you go to the store, why not rent a chick flick? We're seldom allowed to see them."

"And maybe a pizza and a bottle of wine." Veronica is now giggling too. "It'll be fun."

"Why not Chinese take-out?"

"Nope."

"We're craving a really good pizza."

"We hate Americanized Chinese food."

I've polished off my fifth helping of dim sum and feel stuffed. Thinking about pizza is the last thing I want to do. Still ...

"Okay, girls." I stand and move away from the table. "Put your wish list together, all the clothing you'll need for a few days' stay: toiletries, any feminine products. Don't be shy. Remember I'm an old married man. I used to shop for this stuff every damn day."

The girls have finished their breakfast, but can't stop giggling. "Give us just a minute, okay?"

Assad nods, gets up from the table, and leads me across the room and out the door. We walk through the main warehouse and into the morning fog.

"I am such a happy man," he says. "She likes me. She's not just grateful. She likes me."

"Then you won't mind keeping an eye on the girls while I go off and get supplies."

"Not at all. In fact, I thought that Amy might be able to join you."

"If we split them up it's less likely that someone will try and take them."

Assad nods.

"Still, this can't go on for more than a day or two. I have to contact Señor Popcorn and see if he won't let us bring the girls down there."

"Señor who? Down where?"

"Mexico City. The guy's rich and loves having beautiful women around him. And he's got the army to protect them from anyone, even the Chinese mafia."

"Can he be trusted?"

"I trusted him with Alicia," I say without admitting that I was very uncomfortable with the arrangement.

Just then Amy comes out of the safehouse. She's back in her sweats.

"Dr. Married-Mann," she smirks, "I think I'd like to go with you to the store. We could leave Veronica and Assad here together."

"We were thinking the same thing."

"Who was thinking?"

"We both were, well maybe Assad more than I, but still ..."

"That's wonderful," Amy cheers. "Mr. Assad, why don't you keep Veronica company, while Dr. Married-Mann and I go shopping?"

"And Miss Veronica will consider it acceptable?" Assad asks.

"She's a modern girl. She's probably dying to make out with you."

"She would do that?" Assad's voice is suddenly two octaves higher.

"Probably."

"I'm not sure I could let myself, though," my friend stammers.

"Whatever. I'm just saying that it may be worth a try. Veronica thinks you're a hero. We were pretty drugged up last night, but we still saw the way you handled that baseball bat."

Assad doesn't even correct her, doesn't even point out that it's a bat used for the Iranian game of Chartook. He just turns beet red and slowly wanders back to the safehouse.

Amy takes me by the arm. "Here's the list," she says. "I'm ready to go."

I smile and pull her toward my car. "What kind of chick flick, did you have in mind?"

"Veronica and I have a favorite. We only saw part of it once, but we still think it's the best one ever produced."

"Which one? My wife made me sit through quite a few."

"Ghost!" she answers enthusiastically.

#

Veronica sips her red wine and cuddles with Assad. They are both in tears. Amy has her head on my shoulder, but I'm not being very encouraging. We're nearing the end of Ghost; Patrick Swayze is turning and walking out of Demi Moore's life forever, going into whatever place ghosts go to next.

Tears cover my face. Where's my Alicia? Why isn't she here to cause a scene about this pretty girl who is trying so hard to get closer to me?

The music swells. The chorus sings:

God Speed Your Love to Me.

Amy buries her face in my sleeve, and it suddenly becomes soaking wet. She's crying too.

"I think we'd better let these girls get some sleep," I say as the closing credits run their course.

"Noooo," Veronica whimpers. She's more than a little plastered.

Assad plants a soft kiss on her cheek. "We'll see you again tomorrow."

He stands and gathers up three empty boxes of world-class pizza and then carts them to the trash.

Amy grabs the big bottle of red wine and pulls it to her. "We'll take care of this for you." Then she turns to me sadly. "Poor choice of chick flicks, huh?"

I shrug, and she can see that I've been crying.

"Sorry to remind you of your own personal ghost."

I pull her to me and kiss her on the forehead. "Me too."

My longing for Alicia is killing me. She had just come back into my life, and now she's gone again. I can't stand it. I need her. I picture her standing in the kitchen the last time I saw her.

"Of course, I'll be all right. What could happen to a ghost?"

Too many terrible things, I'm afraid ... whatever the hell they are.

Assad and I make our way to the door of the little apartment that we call the safehouse. "Be very careful," he says to the girls. "Don't let anyone in."

"Just the pizza delivery guy," Veronica slurs drunkenly. "We're never allowed ta eat that kinda food, ya know."

I'm too blue to let that bit of information sink in.

Things seem even blurrier as I make my way out into the night. Visions of Alicia spin through in my head. Alicia dancing along the beach in San Lucero, through the streets of our little town when she learned that she got into the technical college, and on our wedding day. The image settles into my heart.

Assad nods at the guard posted at the front entryway, then smiles at the Dobermans that are barking wildly from behind the fence.

"Good protection, huh?" he asks me.

I nod hardly listening at all anymore.

The two outside guards are talking. One of them turns to us. "Hey, where's that expensive car of yours?"

"Left it in the garage," Assad jokes as we head to my new/old Chrysler 300.

Whatever the guard says next is too damn faint to hear as we're walking away from him. It's something like "Nice fag, beard cooler."

Assad turns to me. "Was that some slur against the gay community?"

I shrug. I don't know or care about any of it. Besides guards talk about stupid shit like that all the time.

We get into the big Chrysler and drive back toward Los Altos. We're leaving our charges in a safehouse protected by dogs and guards with guns.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 25

I'm in a cold sweat, tossing and turning in my bed; there is no sense of protection by Alicia's ghost, no sense that anything is right. My brain is caught in an endless loop. It's the obsessive side of my Obsession Compulsing Diseases, as Alicia calls them.

I'm hung up on the conversations of the afternoon. Somewhere during the day, someone said or did something that makes me feel extremely threatened. But what the hell was it?

I've been replaying bits of the conversation in my head all night long. Like this one:

"Poor choice of chick flicks," Amy says.

"So sorry to remind you of your own personal ghost."

"Me too," I say.

Is my sense of losing Alicia enough to keep me up all night? Of course, but it isn't threatening. If anything, Alicia would love the idea that I'm heartbroken over the movie Ghost and that I only kissed Amy on the forehead.

I replay the conversation again, this time going a little further:

"So sorry to remind you of your own personal ghost," Amy says.

I kiss her on the forehead. "Me too."

"Be very careful," Assad says to the girls. "Don't let anyone in."

"Just the pizza delivery guy," Veronica answers. "We're still damn hungry."

Could that be it: the idea that they'd be expecting a knock on the door and would open it for anyone who called out the words, "pizza delivery"?

Sound like the cause of extreme obsessions?

Maybe, but the girls have to be smarter than that, I think. So, I play through the rest of the conversation, all the way through our exit from the building and our exchange with the guards.

The two outside guards are talking. One of them turns to us. "Hey, where's that expensive car of yours?" he asks.

"Left it in the garage."

"Nice fag, beard cooler," he calls out to us as we walk away from him.

That's enough to get me up on my feet pulling my slacks on as quickly as I can. I suddenly remember the line a lot more clearly this time. "Nice fag, beard cooler" was actually, "Nice Jag, bad color," as in a lime green Jaguar just like the one in Creighton Hoi's driveway in Sacramento.

Would that be enough to get you up in the middle of the night and send you racing up to South San Francisco? It is for me. I figure the sadist's lime green Jag has already visited our little safe house and scouted out the area. On the way up there I call Assad. He's been up all night too, visions of Veronica teasing him, but he remembers the lime green Jaguar, and soon he's in his old Toyota barreling up the San Francisco peninsula to the industrial area where the girls are still safely tucked away ... we hope.

#

Assad and I arrive within minutes of each other. Our worst fears are confirmed. The gates are open. Two guards and three Dobermans are lying dead just outside the warehouse. The warehouse doors are open too. Another dead guard is sprawled just inside.

Assad and I race into the interior of the building, through the narrow corridor to the little apartment in the back. The door is smashed in; the place is torn apart.

The Joy sisters are gone.

Chapter 26

It's later that night, and I'm back in my apartment pacing the floor. Assad sits on the couch, leaning forward wringing his hands.

"My Veronica," he sighs, and I'm not about to challenge his ownership. If we're able to save her, Veronica can be all his if she wants him, and I'm almost certain that she does.

For the first time in years, the place is way too orderly for me. The books are arranged on the shelves in just the right way; my desk is a model of decorum. I want Alicia to come back and tear things apart, to make me aware of her presence. But there's nothing.

"Alicia," I call.

I go into the bedroom. "Alicia, mi amor!"

I move into her closet. "Alicia, ¿estás aquí? Where the fuck are you?"

I hear that crazy little wind chime of hers. It's tinkling up a storm, and there's no wind to make it happen. The window isn't even open. I step back into the bedroom and stare at the thing. It's singing to me. It's almost playing a tune: La Cucaracha?

"HOLY SHIT!" Assad calls from the living room.

I run in there, and my friend is pulled back onto the couch, his legs up on the cushions, his hands pressed back against the wall behind him. There's an expression of sheer terror on his face as though a boa constrictor is slithering toward him. But there is no snake, just a small Mexican man who has materialized on the chair across from the couch. He wears a loose shirt, tan work pants, and sandals. The guy's expression is grave, but even so, he looks like the famous Mexican comedian Catinflas: short, with the hint of a mustache sticking out from the corners of his upper lip.

"Bad news, amigos," the ghost says as he leans forward and puts his hands on his knees. "Terrible news."

"Who is this guy?" Assad asks.

"A ghost," I answer, "friend of Alicia's; he's on our side." Then I turn to the apparition. "Paco, right?"

"Si, soy Paco."

"I've only heard your voice," I say.

"Right," he answers, "in the Closet when those bad guys were going to hit on you."

"And at Dr. Hoi's when you helped us get away from those other evil men," Assad adds.

"So what's happening?"

"Unfortunately, you are not the only one with friends in the ghost world," Paco answers. "The Joy family has some powerful spirits operating on their side as well."

"Shit." Assad and I say the word at the same time. I sit down on the couch beside him and listen.

"Apparently the Joy family has ancestors who started this damn slave trade generations ago. They were in it while the railroads were being built, selling human flesh to the miners and mine owners. Señor Lum, the creator of the whole operation, is still presiding over it in spirit form. He still feels proprietary, amigos. He wants to protect his own."

The ghost takes out a cigarette and lights it before I can say: "No smoking in here, please."

"Hey, no problem, bro. It's a ghost cigarette." He blows a puff right at me. "You smell anything?"

"Guess not."

"Course not, ghost smoke."

Paco pulls a bit of tobacco from his tongue, looks at it for a moment, wipes it on his shirt, and continues.

"Mr. Fu was captured and is being held somewhere, don't know where. The girls may be with him. The next time Mother and Father move them, they'll make damn sure Amy and Veronica get to their destination without your interference."

"What makes them think they can get away with that?" Assad asks.

"Cause you'll be dead by then, man," Paco answers. He laughs for a moment, realizes what he's said, and coughs nervously.

I can hear Assad start whimpering. I glance over at the bookshelf. Maybe the books aren't organized as well they ought to be.

"But here's the good news, amigos," Paco continues. "To get to you, they'll have to deal with me." And he stands up, puts his hands on his hips and twists back and forth menacingly ... all four foot eleven inches of him.

Assad and I look at each other, and the danger bleeds into our consciousness. I get to my feet, walk to the bookshelf and start rearranging my books.

"Stop it, Dr. Mann," Paco calls. "This is no time for hiding inside some stupid mental game. We need to work together."

"How do we do that?"

"Donno," he answers. "But I do know where we can find the answer."

"Where?"

Paco smiles, takes a drag on his ghost cigarette, and then, like Catinflas playing the part of a magician in a film, he curls the cigarette into the palm of his hand and makes it disappear. "Purgatory, amigos. We can find the answer in Purgatory."

Chapter 27

An anxious young woman dressed in high heels, nylons and a business suit almost knocks me over as she rushes to meet a grungy geek with a scraggly beard. They embrace and duck happily into a nearby restaurant.

"Go for it," I mumble to both of them, but I'm sure they can't hear me.

I'm out in front of the Purgatory Bookstore. It's tucked in between two fine restaurants on University Avenue in Los Altos. Paco tells me that there's something like an AA meeting for ghosts held here every Monday night at seven after the doors close. Actually, it's not AA, but GA, Ghosts Anonymous. The ghosts sit around a table, share experiences, and try to help each other. They need to work off their penances so that they can make it to the next world. I'm skeptical, but then I have to remember that I'm getting the information from an actual ghost. So, what's not to believe?

Paco said he would meet me in front of Purgatory at 6:15 PM. It's now 6:59. No Paco.

I can see the proprietor, a tall grouchy-looking senior citizen with a bun in her hair and probably a stick up her ass. She walks to the back of the store to shoo out the remaining customers. I wonder how she can make a profit when she's more concerned with closing time than sales.

The last customers come out of the door. The owner is still in the back. What can I do but duck in and head for the stairs? The ghost meeting is supposed to be on the 3rd floor.

#

"Paco," I whisper as I make it to the top of the staircase. No answer. The whole floor is one big storage area, a warehouse. Boxes are piled haphazardly everywhere. Some have labels announcing shipments of popular novels. I lift a box containing thirty copies of Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James.

Christ, it weighs a ton.

The disorganization of the place makes me very nervous, and I want to rush down the stairs and out the door, but I can't. I have to save Amy and Veronica Joy.

"Paco?"

The bookstore lights go out. I hear the door lock. Now there's only the faint illumination coming through the window facing University Avenue. Piles of boxes obscure the light and throw most of the space into blackness.

"Paco?"

I'm feeling very unsettled. I start counting boxes going from the front stairway to the back window, but then ...

"Shit!" I clench my fists.

There's a silhouette right in front of the window. A big man, broad-shouldered, fat. He's not moving. I can't see his face, but somehow I know he's staring at me.

I turn, and a skeletal black woman flares up within inches of my face. It's as though there's a flame inside of her, burning through her bleached bones, melted flesh, and tattered garments. Her face is dissolving, as are the fingers of her hands as they poke into my chest and leave trails of green slime oozing down the front of my jacket.

"Private party, stranger," she groans. And her image dies with the words. I jump and fall backward into a pile of boxes. It starts a chain reaction that rumbles across the whole 3rd floor.

When the boxes finally settle, I can see the entire front window clearly. There are now two silhouettes framed in the dim light. One is the same ominous fat guy; the second is a slight wisp of a girl slouching beside him.

"Beat it, dork," she says.

"Scram, shithead."

The man rumbles the words like some awakening volcano.

I look up, and a huge spider begins moving down from the sloped ceiling. It's as big as a full-grown man. It lands on the top of the boxes and begins stalking toward me. It glows blue as it moves, brightening the whole room. I can see the undead faces of the couple by the window now. The girl's is flat white with dark Goth circles under her eyes. The guy's face is round, Irish, and should be cheerful, but it's not. I turn to see a pile of bones where the black woman burned in and out of existence near the stairway.

A gaunt man's face now appears as the head of the spider. It smiles and laughs at me, but its eight hairy legs aren't funny, neither are the mandibles that show themselves when he opens his mouth. Saliva pours from his hungry jaws. He's very close to me now. I can smell his chemical breath. The mandibles chatter.

"Do em!" the Goth girl commands.

"Now, you all know that isn't very nice," says a very different kind of voice. "Just stop it!"

The room brightens, and a tall, handsome gentleman with a bowler hat and a well-tailored gray suit steps forward. He takes off his hat, removes a pair of fine leather gloves, drops them into the hat, and then tosses it all across the room. The hat and its contents settle neatly onto a table in the far corner.

The brighter light reveals that the spider is actually a very boney old man who has been creeping toward me.

"Come on, Carlyle," the old man grouses. "I love to see em sweat."

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Friedman," the handsome guy responds, "but he happens to be a friend of mine." Then he turns to me. "You are Dr. Carlos Mann, are you not?"

I nod.

"Paco sends his condolences. He's been unavoidably detained."

The handsome ghost has a British accent.

"Not very dependable, is he?" I ask.

"I can't comment on that and wouldn't if I were you. After all, he has volunteered to help you."

"Help me, or Alicia?"

"Ah Alicia," the handsome gentleman whispers to himself, and for just a moment he becomes transparent.

"What a woman." He shudders all over at the thought of her. "And you, of course, are her dear-departed."

"Actually, it's the other way around."

"Yes ... well, you're husband and wife anyway."

"We are."

I hear a decidedly romantic sigh from the entire group.

"Well then, Dr. Mann, we're committed to helping you. My name is Carlyle August."

The devilishly handsome ghost steps closer and shakes my hand. He smells like musk, vanilla, sandalwood and looks like Cary Grant.

"That spidery old gentleman is Mr. Friedman. The man-mountain is Charles O'Sullivan, and the Goth girl is Miss Jenny Beck."

"Whatever," Jenny groans, and she slumps over to the table where Carlyle tossed his hat. She slouches into one of the chairs and begins twisting her stringy hair with her fingers. O'Sullivan gives me a friendly smile and a thumbs up. Friedman nods.

"Oh, and this is Chantal Nightingale," Carlyle adds. I turn to the stairway and see that the ghoulish figure is really a tall, attractive, African American woman who now sports a crisp white nurse's uniform but surprising red high heel shoes.

"We'll be happy to attend to your needs, Dr. Mann," Carlyle says, "as soon as we dispense with our weekly business."

"No way, not while he's here," Jenny responds without looking at anyone in particular. She's wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt that has Gothic lettering spelling out the words "Sexy Dead Bitch" across her tiny breasts. She crosses her legs and begins pumping the top one up and down nervously.

"I'm afraid we have to conduct our weekly session first, Jenny. The rules, you know," Carlyle says. "Now, why don't we adjourn to the work area and get things started. Come along, Dr. Mann."

"Make that Carlos."

"Excellent."

"Oh please!" Jenny groans.

We move to the table, and each of us takes a seat. Carlyle August takes his hat from the table and sets it neatly on one of the boxes by the window. From this vantage point, there is adequate light, and I can make out the features of each ghost. I'm at one end of the table, Carlyle at the other. One seat is empty. Carlyle gestures toward it with a frown. "Anyone know the whereabouts of her majesty?"

Jenny shrugs and slumps even deeper into her chair. She has one arm over the back of it, and the posture actually makes her slender figure seem shapely.

Suddenly, there's a strange swooshing sound, and a slick biker dude zips through the wall of boxes as though they weren't even there. He just zooms right through them, and skids to a halt like he's sliding into third base. His hair is spiked in red white and blue. He wears sunglasses, black jeans, a skin-tight black t-shirt, leather vest, and, of course, motorcycle boots.

"Hi, girls," he says and minces a little as he walks around the chair to take a seat.

He squeezes Jenny's hand, and she lays her head on his shoulder. "Gotta love a gay boy," she says.

Carlyle August clears his throat. "Royce Brilliant," he says nodding to the new kid, "may I present Dr. Carlos Mann."

Royce forms pistols with the fingers of each hand points them at me, and shoots "Pow! Pow!" Everyone laughs. Apparently, they all dig Royce.

Carlyle lets the group settle for a moment, and then the meeting begins.

"Let's just go around the table and have everyone report on his or her progress.

"Chantal, is everything going well?"

The African American ghost is sitting right next to me. She is actually beautiful now that her face has stopped rotting.

"Haunting Mercy Hospital in Sunnyvale," she beams. "Been able to stop two nurses and a surgeon from doin' drugs. Caught em in the act, worked a scary little routine on em, and Bam! They quit right then. Praise the lord."

"Amen," Carlyle says. "You were a great nurse, Chantal, even when you terminated those forty patients whose cancer had gotten so deadly. But when you poisoned the chief of staff after he found out about it ..." Carlyle looks for a minute like a priest hearing confession. "Somebody up there must really like you. Premeditated murder is usually an elevator straight down to the basement."

"I know I'm lucky to be here," Chantal says as though it's a mantra she repeats to herself every night before bed. Carlyle smiles at her and turns to the Goth chick.

"Jenny Beck died in a skateboard accident, but her big sin was theft. She can't make it through the pearly gates until she stops a thousand shoplifters. How are you doing, Jennifer?"

"Just hangin' in the cell phone stores," she says. "Anybody looks like they're gonna lift a new phone, I call it, and when they answer, I do this creepy death wail."

She turns to me with a smug look and lets out a screech that almost melts my eyebrows.

"If they don't answer the phone, I materialize at my worst. Either way, it scares the shit out of em."

"Very nice," Carlyle says, and then he turns to me. "If you ever need great scary effects, Carlos, she's your girl."

"... a genuine horror," Royce adds.

"As if ..." she answers.

Carlyle continues. "Royce is here for Jealousy. I don't believe that will be of any help to you, Carlos."

"Hold on," Royce answers. "We're talking stealth, handsome. Spying, you know. I can get him all the juicy details any time he wants them."

"I can imagine. And how is the rehab going?"

"Preventing jealousy by haunting a gay couple in the Castro. They haven't killed each other yet, though personally, I'm ready to murder both of them. They are just so uncool."

"Just remember your mission," Carlyle says. He makes a note and goes on. "Mr. Friedman, how's your work on safe cracking and embezzling?"

"I was working on a bank president named Walsh who embezzled millions from his firm," the old man begins. "I trailed him home and found that he and his wife were both cheating on each other. I started to play the poltergeist: rattling around whenever one or the other was into their affair. Walsh had his secretary over to do some late night work while his wife was out of town. Turns out the Mrs. was spending a weekend with their plumber ... getting plumbed, I'm sure.

"Anyway, Walsh and his secretary were doing it on the couch and just as they reached the magic moment, I exploded a six-pack of beer right next to them; the fountain of suds practically swamped the place. That did it. Walsh is still shaken ... hasn't had the strength to embezzle from his company (or cheat on his wife) since."

"You're amazing," Charlie O'Sullivan laughs and slams Friedman a high five.

"And what was your sin again, Charlie?" Carlyle asks.

"Gluttony. Doin' great, lost fifteen pounds. Of course ..." and now the entire assemblage chimes in and recites the rest of Charlie's overworked excuse, "When you've got over 200 pounds to lose, it takes a lot of time."

"Yeah, right," Jenny adds as a final footnote.

"Okay," Carlyle says, "I guess we're all making progress. Keep up the good work, folks, especially you, Ms. Nightingale. I have a hunch you'll be the first one to head upstairs."

Chantal nods gratefully.

"So, are we done with our weekly meeting?" the handsome ghost asks.

"Nope," O'Sullivan responds. "There's one ghost in the room who hasn't updated the rest of us, Carlyle. What about you?"

The handsome ghost smiles. "You all know my sin. I'm sinfully good looking." He winks at Jenny Beck, and for the first time all evening, the Goth girl smiles.

"I believe it's time for a break," Carlyle says, and he stands and walks away from the table.

Chapter 28

Fifteen minutes later, the ghostly meeting resumes. Now they're ready to deal with my problem. I sum it up in a few words. Alicia has disappeared, and the women I'm supposed to protect are gone. No one knows where they are, not even my ghost friends who have vowed to help.

"He doesn't know about the zones," O'Sullivan whispers to Jenny.

"Shit, no wonder he's a zero," she says.

"Don't know about what zones?"

"The Dread Zones, boy. They're all over the place," O'Sullivan says. "We ghosts can pretty much go wherever we want, anywhere in the world. And we can meet and talk with other ghosts too."

"It's called the Ghost Network," Friedman says. "Hell, there are plenty of ghosts around trying to complete their assignments. So we help each other ... as long as there isn't some family feud or something happenin'." He chuckles and shakes his head. "If you want to see just how bad things can get, try hooking up on the wrong side of a Sicilian struggle."

Royce winces. "Been there, done that, gurls," and he pinches Jenny just for the fun of it. She slaps him.

"Normally," Friedman says, "if one ghost has a problem, he brings it to his ghost friends who bring it to their ghost friends, and the next thing you know ... mazeltov. The ghost network really works."

"Except for the Dread Zones." Jenny seems to enjoy the hopelessness of the situation. She's still slouching, twisting her hair around her fingers.

"Unfortunately, Jennifer is right," Carlyle says. "There are some areas of the world where the geo-spiritual forces are so great that ghosts take real risks in going there. Other ghosts lose track of us. So they can't help."

"Our ghostly powers are zonked," Jenny adds.

"And there's the real danger of being erased, poof! Out of existence." Friedman snaps his fingers as he says that.

I picture my Alicia suddenly evaporating, temper and all. I've just found her, and now I might lose her again. "Where are these Dread Zones?" I ask.

"Sinaqua Arizona for one," Carlyle offers. "There are great spiraling vortexes there, and they have amazing strength. They energize the living, but our ghost powers are simply overcome."

"I'm SO not going there," Jenny adds.

I glance from ghostly face to ghostly face. They all seem to be on my side now. But they all have this hopeless look about them.

"And you think Alicia is in one of those Dread Zones?"

"If she's chasing Luis, I'm afraid she is," Carlyle says.

Royce adds, "We all know that this Luis guy is just so shitty that he'd head there just to take her down."

"She won't be able to kill him in a Dread Zone?" I ask.

"Alicia's a powerful ghost with the temperament of a rattlesnake," Carlyle answers: "But the forces in the area will make her job very difficult, and of course there's always the chance that she'll cross one of those vortexes and ..."

"Nothingness," Jenny intones hopelessly.

"What do I do?"

Jenny unwraps a rosary from around her wrist. It's so tangled that it's no more than a Goth bracelet. "Try this," she says.

I swallow hard. Everyone is silent for a long time.

Charlie O'Sullivan gets to his feet. "As for your Chinese girls, Mr. Fu has filled us in on some of their problems. I'll bet Mother and Father are holding them in one of the Dread Zones in Northern California. That's why we don't know where they are."

"But we're a little bit lucky," Friedman pipes up. "There are only three Dread Zones in this part of the state: one up by Mount Shasta, another along the Monterey coast, and still another in that little town in the Sacramento delta. What's the name of it?"

"Lumling," Chantal volunteers.

"Chinese," I say.

"And a very likely place for their imprisonment," Friedman adds.

"Then let's go there," I say as I start to get up from my chair.

"Hold your horses, my good man!" O'Sullivan raises a big, fat, cautionary hand. "Let me check into it, son. I've got my own connections in Chinatown. Used to do long haul truckin' for one of the families. It was their load of explosives I was totin' up I-5 when it happened." He shrugs. "They told me it was fireworks. Suddenly this little group of deer cuts across the road; they're the cutest things I've ever seen. I swerve, jackknife, fly off the road into a culvert, turn upside down, and KABLAM! I'm part of the ghost network."

Carlyle looks skeptically at O'Sullivan. He shakes his head but says nothing.

"Tell ya what, son," O'Sullivan continues, "let me do some more checkin', then I'll show up at your home tomorrow morning, and I'll take you to them."

"I thought you said that Amy and Veronica are in a Dread Zone, and no one will know where they are."

"Oh yeah, but these ghosts still talk to each other; someone probably told somebody somethin'. Course, that somebody was sworn to secrecy. But maybe I can call in a few favors."

"Favors are the currency of the ghost network," Carlyle adds.

"I may not be able to take you right to their door, son," O'Sullivan continues, "but if your girls are in Monterey, for example ... well, we all know where that Dread Zone is there. I'll get you so close you can walk right to it. Got a good car?"

"Old Chrysler 300."

"Hemi?"

"They're all Hemis."

"Sounds good, my man."

There's silence at the table for a long time, we all stare at each other except for Jenny who continues to twirl her hair and gaze off into space. She starts to hum randomly. Friedman raises his hand. "I move we adjourn."

Carlyle flashes his big Cary Grant smile. "Yes. I'd like to thank you all for coming and for offering assistance to our friend Carlos."

One by one the ghosts pop out of sight, except for Carlyle who sits there looking very concerned. "Your wife was a living doll," he says. "I envy your good times and regret all the sadness. Don't worry, though. We'll find her for you."

"And the girls?"

"O'Sullivan's your man there." But Carlyle's expression seems far from confident.

Chapter 29

At 8 AM the next morning, O'Sullivan materializes in my kitchen. I'm preparing bacon and eggs. Assad is already there. I called him late last night, and he insisted on coming. I figured I could use his help.

"God, I love the smell of bacon," O'Sullivan says. "Course, I can't eat any, being a ghost an' all."

"So what's this horseshit about losing weight?" I ask.

"In the spirit world, it all has to do with coveting. You know that crapola. If I don't want it, then I lose the weight."

"Are the Muslims in your afterlife confined to the same ridiculous rules as you are?" Assad asks.

"Donno," O'Sullivan answers, "Haven't met any of your brothers. That's not to say they aren't floating around out there somewhere, just haven't met them."

"They'd kick your ass."

"No doubt they would, my man. Won't argue with that." O'Sullivan chuckles. "Now about saving those Chinese broads ..."

"Yes, tell us!" Assad jumps to his feet and walks directly up to O'Sullivan. He's nearly bending over backward as he stares up at the much larger man.

"Mount Shasta's the place," the ghost says. "Did a little bartering last night. To make it work, I had to stage a rather touchy haunt right on Grant Avenue. But it got me the info."

"What'd you learn?" I ask.

"All in good time, my man."

Assad's neck must be breaking as he looks straight up at O'Sullivan. "Then tell us about your haunt," he says.

"In the car on the way up to the mountain."

I wolf down my portion of bacon and eggs, dump my coffee into a travel mug, give it another good shot in the microwave, grab the mug and a coat, and I lead my little expedition out to the car.

"You have a gun, of course," O'Sullivan says.

"Don't own one. I'm a former semi-pro boxer, and Assad has a baseball bat."

"Neato." O'Sullivan shakes his head and rolls his eyes in sarcasm. "That should do the job nicely."

"It was more than enough the last time we rescued the girls," Assad says. He has tea that he carries in an enormous open cup. There's milk and lots of sugar in it. It sloshes around in his hands now, often spilling on his thin Leland hoodie. I can't imagine that the tea is still warm, or how he can drink all that sugary sweetness, but then I'm sure he feels the same way about my coffee, not to mention the Starbucks venti mocha Frappuccino's that Alicia used to crave.

"So, you'll now kindly regale us with tales of your haunt in Chinatown last night," Assad says to O'Sullivan.

The part owner of Torquemada is riding shotgun; the big ghost is sprawled out across the back seat. At least he was when I drove up from my apartment's underground garage. But now, as we tool down University Avenue, he's gone.

"What do we do?" Assad asks in quiet panic.

"We just keep driving," I say. "If he's like most ghosts, he'll show up when the time is right." Of course, that has not been my experience entirely, but I don't want to tell that to Assad.

#

Nearly seven hours later we're roaring up I-5 almost to Mt. Shasta City. The peak has been looming over us for about a hundred miles. In the absence of O'Sullivan, I've been telling Assad different legends about the mountain. My favorite one is that it's really a dome built by aliens who have constructed an entire city under 14,000 feet of rock and ice.

Other legends confirm the kind of forces that would suggest a Dread Zone: growing spirituality and insight on the part of humans who spend time there, strange light and cloud patterns in the sky, frequent reports of UFO sightings.

"Sounds like Sinaqua, Arizona," Assad says.

"Did I tell you about Sinaqua?"

"No, what about it?"

"Just that it has evidence of spiritual forces."

"Like the kind at Mt. Shasta?"

"Christ, will you guys knock it off. It's like being at that God damn ghost network meeting again."

It's O'Sullivan who has just materialized in the back seat. "Enough of this horseshit," he says. "Take the next off-ramp to Mt. Shasta City and then follow my directions through the town and up the mountain."

Fifteen minutes later we're climbing the Everett Memorial Highway directly up the side of Mt. Shasta. After about two miles, O' Sullivan tells me to pull off at a turnout on the right-hand side of the road.

"This is as far as I can take ya," he says. "Just hike up the road another few hundred feet, and you'll see a sign for Bunny Flat. Hike into the area, and that's where you'll find the girls."

"Yay!" Assad is overjoyed.

"Here's the deal," O'Sullivan continues, "four of Father's goons will be holding them there. They're instructed to turn them over to you tonight. Don't talk to the bad guys, don't argue, just face them down and collect your women."

"I knew I liked you," Assad says to O'Sullivan.

"The feeling may or may not be mutual," the ghost answers, "not sure yet." And then he disappears.

I lock the car, and together Assad and I start trekking up the side of Mt. Shasta. It's already 8,000 feet and we're instantly out of breath.

"No one told me about this part," Assad moans as we finally catch sight of the sign for Bunny Flat.

We hike into the meadow. Huge pine trees glower down on us in the gathering darkness. They look like ogres about to move in and start stomping. Suddenly, four Chinese tough guys surround us. They come pouring out of the little restroom by the edge of the wood. I turn from face to face to ugly face and don't recognize any of them.

I look at Assad wondering what to do. He shrugs, smiles and turns to the biggest of the four.

"The girls, please," he asks.

The tough guy laughs and slugs him hard in the gut. Assad doubles over, gasps for breath, and before I can say anything, he mutters, "O'Sullivan sent us."

Now all four of the toughs are laughing as they move even closer. They pull their guns.

"Get closer together," the new Tough Guy 1 says, and Assad and I step toward each other until we're only inches apart.

"What is this?" I ask.

Tough 1 presses the gun barrel against the back of my head.

"Possibly a mistake?" I ask.

Now the other toughs press their guns against us: four guys, four guns aiming right at our heads. None of them says anything.

"You made a deal with O'Sullivan," I say.

"It's still good," Tough Guy 1 responds. "He delivered the goods according to schedule: the two of you, right into our hands."

"Doublecross," Assad says.

"Double fucked by a ghost!"

"Don't waste your time worrying about it, gentlemen. Better concentrate on saying your prayers." Tough Guy 1 cocks his pistol.

My compulsions take over, and I'm counting again. It's my favorite escape mechanism; I recognize it now, and as important as it would be to stop counting, I can't. I'm hearing a rhythmic shuffle coming from the woods. It's loud: a staggering gait, the kind that might be made by a couple of fugitives running close together or by a big wild animal. As I turn toward the sound, the toughs do too, and an enormous bear breaks into the open. It rears on its hind legs and charges us. The tough guys fall away and begin shooting at it. The bullets seem to zip right through the bear.

I'm busy counting shots when Assad grabs me by the arm and spins me toward the road.

The toughs are so preoccupied with the creature that they don't have time for us. They pump lead into it and get nowhere. The bear delivers a roundhouse swipe at Tough Guy 1, and the guy turns, slips and half his face rips off as he falls hard onto the rocky earth. That's all I see.

Now Assad and I are charging down the highway. Shots are still being fired behind us ... at the bear.

"I'll kill that motherfucking O'Sullivan," Assad screams.

"He's already dead."

"Then I'll kill him again."

We make it to the turnout and the safety of the big Chrysler 300. I do the remote unlock as soon as we get close enough. We dive in, slam the doors, and lock the car from the inside. We continue to hear shots from up on the mountain. From the sound of the bear, the bullets don't seem to be doing much damage. The bear's roar sounds almost ghostly. A ghost bear? I wonder. A ghost impersonating a bear? A few moments later, while Assad and I are still catching our breath, the last shots pop. The bear roars, a man screams, and there's silence.

"We made it, bro." Assad starts to giggle.

I'm not quite so comfortable.

Even though the car was locked all the time we were up on the mountain, someone has gotten inside.

I know it.

I can smell her perfume.

Chapter 30

"Good evening, Doctor," she says politely, "and Mr. Assad."

There is a stirring in the back seat, and then the more beautiful and dominant of the Joy twins (Helen Tiger Joy) pulls herself up from the floor of the car. She's holding a pistol in her hand, and now she points it at us.

"Those boys are so sloppy. Don't you agree, gentlemen?"

Assad turns toward her. He looks past the gun barrel and into Tiger's sparkly eyes.

"Another beauty," he sighs and forms a weak smile.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Assad," she says, "and you'll be happy to know that, unlike those foolish boys, I don't intend to kill you."

"You don't?"

"Of course not. I'll take you back to Mother and Father and let them do it."

"That's very kind," Assad mumbles uncertainly.

I adjust the rearview mirror and take in the full beauty of Tiger Joy. Her hair, as always, is perfect: long, silken, cascading around a perfectly formed face. Her eyes are big and brown. Her mouth looks like a blossom-kiss, but with a twist to the corner that suggests incredible cruelty.

She wears a skintight black jacket that, for all its tightness, can't suppress the phenomenal breasts that Mother and Father have purchased for her. She deftly spins the gun in her right hand and brings the handle down hard on Assad's head. He slumps into his seat, instantly unconscious.

"Now get out of the car," she commands, "and put Mr. Assad in the back."

I do exactly as she says, and while I'm at it, I run seven or eight scenarios in which I overpower this beauty and beat it the hell back to Los Altos. All of them seem like they'll fail. So instead, I drive down from the mountain with good old Assad slumped in the back seat and the beautiful Tiger Joy riding shotgun.

Tiger is wearing those tight leather dominatrix pants that you see on all your basic S&M websites. Her eyes, for all their beauty, are painted with blue eyeshadow. She wears long false eyelashes and dark liner.

"You're a very attractive man," she says to me. "I'd like to own you."

"You're into slavery, huh?"

"Absolutely!"

"And what would you do with me?"

She turns and looks me over like a kid checking out a puppy in a pet store. She reaches over and draws a sharp fingernail down the side of my face. It breaks the skin and blood dribbles out.

"Torture you. Would you like that?"

"Is that what men are for?"

"Mostly. Women too."

"I'd like to suggest a different arrangement."

"You and I?"

"If it has to be that way."

"If it's that way, then it will be MY way."

#

As we drive the hundreds of miles back from the mountain, Tiger takes the opportunity to explain the history of S&M as she's learned it. It sounds like Caligula and the Marquis de Sade dreamed the whole thing up, maybe in collaboration. Her enthusiasm is a real turn on. She sits there relaxing, elucidating on the purpose of different kinds of bondage, positions of discomfort, kinds of whips, methods of torture and humiliation. Her gun is still trained on me, but she's holding it loosely enough that I might be able to grab it away ... except that I'm hypnotized by her words.

And now I'm suddenly flashing back to Alicia, and her temper, her possessiveness, and her need to own me, and then I move past all those ideas to Alicia's eyes and her hair and her sweet perfume and the way she dances when she walks and everything I love about her. And then I remember again that she's gone. I had her back for a moment, but she's off again, and this time it may be forever. Still, there was a brief reprieve from loneliness. If I'm lucky it may continue, but not if I fall victim to Tiger and the Joy Lum Clan. I've got to get away.

I jerk the wheel hard and swerve down off the freeway and onto a narrow country road. It's the dead of night. I twist the wheel hard again, do a 180, spin the Chrysler completely around, and bounce Tiger off the side door.

In a flash, her seatbelt's off, and she's kneeling up on the seat. She grabs me by the face squeezing both cheeks the way an angry mother might grab a naughty little boy. She leans right into my face.

"STOP THE CAR, ASSHOLE!"

I slam on the brakes, and she's thrown up onto the dashboard where she hits her head against the front windshield. But she's like a cat; she falls back into place with the gun still in her hand, still pointed at me.

"NICE TRY."

She pistol-whips me. Blood spurts out of the side of my cheek and nose. She looks at me in wicked fury, and then she smiles and calms.

"Mmmmm," she says, and she leans forward and licks the blood from my face.

"Tasty." She giggles. Then she pounds me on the back of the head with the butt of her gun, and the lights go out.

I wake up some time later, still in the car, and I see pretty Tiger Joy with a syringe she's gotten from god only knows where.

"Afraid you're a little too hot to handle, Dr. Mann," she says as she jabs the needle into me.

I go down for the count.

Chapter 31

A woman's screams provide the torturous melody for my awakening. They intensify the throbbing in my head.

I find myself in a small drawing room. The overstuffed oriental couches and chairs are pulled into a very tight space around a coffee table. Enormous black-lacquered cabinets loaded with celadon vases, porcelain figures, dolls, and Buddhas stand against the walls. Dusty oriental lamps hang overhead.

Across from me sits Mother of the famous comedy team of Mother and Father Joy. Mother's wearing a classic high-necked, sky-blue sheath with a big slit up the side. Her high heels are characteristically enormous.

"I'm sorry for the harsh treatment, Dr. Mann," Mother says.

I'm groggy as hell, but still, I have to ask, "Who's screaming?"

"A lovely sound, don't you think?"

"No, I don't."

"Pity. It's one of your girlfriends. Care to see her?"

"Definitely not."

"Oh, I think you'll benefit from the sight." Mother picks up a remote control from the coffee table and points it at the largest of the black-lacquered cabinets. The front opens to reveal an enormous flat-screen TV. Another click and I'm looking at Veronica Joy. She fully clothed, sitting in a room much like the one I'm in. She's in a very comfortable chair. No one is near her, nothing I can see is hurting her, and yet she's screaming wildly. Her fingers curl up to her lips and hold there trembling before she lets out another wail.

I turn to Mother. "What the hell?"

"Perhaps you need to be aware of what Veronica is watching," Mother says. She presses a button and the camera shifts to the big picture window across from Veronica. Through it, she watches her sister.

Amy Joy is stark naked except for all those chains and hooks she told me about. They're employed exactly as she said they would be, clipped onto the most delicate parts of her body. Everything is being pulled and stretched. The only apparatus that hasn't been employed is the ball that would have fit into her mouth and gagged her.

"We thought she would provide a little commentary for you," Mother says.

"She's not screaming."

"Unfortunately not, so we have to rely on her sister."

I'm disgusted, angered, and heartbroken at the sight.

"Would you like to end their suffering, Dr. Mann?"

"How can I?"

"Simply by making a trade: the lives of you and your friend for our girls."

"I can't speak for Assad."

"You'll have to. This is not his choice. It's yours."

Mother uses the buttons on the remote control to guide the camera that's focusing on Amy. It zooms in on her face. Clamps dig into the sides of her eyebrows and squeeze them away from her face. She must be in terrible pain, and yet her expression is stoic, except for her eyes, which are filled with hatred.

"How long can you keep this up?"

"Not forever. It would be a bad investment. Dr. Hoi won't find our daughters very useful if they're disfigured."

I can't bear to look at Amy any longer. I hide my face in my hands.

"Your lives for theirs," Mother repeats.

"You'll set them free?"

"We'll end their torture the moment you agree. Then they are off to Dr. Hoi."

"To be tortured even more. No deal. I'm not sure you'd honor the agreement anyway."

Mother's smile seems downright evil.

"Touché, Dr. Mann," she says, crossing her legs in my direction, letting the sheath fall away to reveal their full beauty. My shrink would say that her body language suggests positive feelings for me. But I don't think so.

Mother's eyebrows arch imperially. She pulls out a cigarette and fits it into the end of a long cigarette holder. She hands me a small book of matches. There's a Chinese puzzle on the flap. In seconds I'm drawn into it. I'm tracking through a labyrinth as though I'm inside of it, running through narrow corridors where there's no way out.

Mother grabs the matches from me. "We all know about your condition, Dr. Mann. If you hide from the decision, our daughters will feel greater and greater discomfort, first one then the other. You can help them."

"At the cost of my friend. And it won't really help them anyway."

Mother lights the cigarette herself. She sucks the smoke deeply into her lungs and lets it escape through her nose. A cloud billows up around her.

"You're playing with me, aren't you?" I ask.

"Am I?"

While this foolish conversation goes on, the screen shifts back to a close up of Veronica's face as she screams over and over again. She's hoarse, her face is red, and her nose is running. Only a woman as gorgeous as she is could maintain her beauty in the state she's in, and yet she does.

Mother and I stare at each other for a long moment. Her upright posture and imperial smile never change. She sucks on the cigarette holder serenely. The smoke billows. Meanwhile, the screaming is becoming unbearable.

My eyes move away from the screen and into the glass windows of one of the cabinets. It's a veritable OCD playground. I begin surveying the figurines. How many are men, how many women, and how many children? What kinds of animals are there? The screams fade far away, so does the room, so does Mother.

"Stop it, Dr. Mann!"

Mother picks up a cell phone from the table. Her hands are shaking with rage.

"Release the girl," she says, and I get a glimpse of Tiger stepping into the room and loosening Amy's chains just before Mother shuts down the TV.

"You'll pay for your indecision," Mother says, and then she zaps me with a stun gun, and I'm out.

#

When I come to, Mother is gone. The screaming has stopped. My chest, the site of the stun attack, feels like it needs a root canal. I struggle to my feet and stagger around the room. I lean on one lacquered cabinet, and my face falls against the glass.

God, my whole body is in pain!

The cabinet is full of puzzle boxes.

The door to the cabinet is unlocked. I slide open the glass and study the boxes. They are arranged into a triangle. The box at the point is very different from the others. A hand-carved dragon snakes around the sides of the box and its head rises up over the top. I reach for the box, lift it, and study it. I flip the top open; below the opening is a thin bamboo strip. I hear a great sigh.

"Thank you, Dr. Mann." It's the voice of Mr. Fu.

"What happened?"

"It's the family ghost of the Joy Lum Clan, a very potent spirit," Fu says. "He called many of us together, and then his family used these ghost traps to imprison us. Paco, many of my friends, and I are all trapped here, each in our own box."

"Ghosts from the Purgatory bookstore too?"

"Many of them. Fortunately, Carlyle August, the leader of the group, was off somewhere. Someone said he needed to take possession of a bear."

"So that was he?"

"If you say so."

"And my wife?"

"She went away just as she said she would, went after her killer, somewhere where the space is dead so that even the spirits cannot track her."

"Is she all right?"

"No one knows, but she is a very strong girl with a powerful aura."

"That, I know."

I take Mr. Fu's ghost trap back to the couch, set it on the coffee table and continue our conversation.

"How the hell do I save Amy and Veronica and Assad?"

"And all your ghost friends, as well," Fu adds.

"Yes."

"I have come up with a possible solution, but it's hazardous."

I can't let myself think about the risk, or I'll start tripping on the possibilities and fall into a never-ending cycle.

"What's your idea?" I ask.

"The Joy Lum family ghost shares a weakness with many of our ancestors and descendants."

"A love of soy sauce?"

"Please."

"An unbelievable work ethic?"

"Don't patronize me, Dr. Mann. It's gambling. We all know how addictive it is. I may be able to arrange a wager with the family ghost. Perhaps you could challenge him to some kind of contest."

"What kind of contest would a Chinese ghost be interested in?"

"Something that could provide a test of skill for both of you."

I think for only a minute, and then I smile. "Simple logic, Mr. Fu."

"Yes. What is it?"

"Logic!"

"Yes, I'm sure it's logical, but what?"

"A logical puzzle, Mr. Fu, a logic contest!"

There is a very long pause with no sound whatsoever coming from the ghost trap. And then I hear:

"A challenge to see who is better at solving logic problems."

"Exactly."

"Let me see if I can arrange it." And the lid of the ghost trap slams shut almost taking my fingers off in the process.

Chapter 32

Vapors shimmer through the room in red, yellow, white, and gold. They crackle like fireworks for a minute and then resolve themselves into the shape of a fat Chinese gentleman who weighs in at least three hundred pounds. The guy looks like a cross between Buddha and Jabba the Hut.

He sits on the couch motionless, and then a similar process occurs, but now the colors are maroon, brown, and gray. These swirling vapors fizzle weakly before they turn into the humble shape of Mr. Fu.

The old man smiles at me, and then he looks to the fat gentleman.

"Mr. Lum," Fu says with a bow of his head.

The fat guy has sunk deep into the cushions of the leather couch. It's the very spot where Mother sat much more delicately. The doors of the television cabinet are open, and on the screen, I can see live video of Amy Joy in chains. I know I need to blot it from my mind. It's only there to distract me.

"Mr. Lum," Fu continues, "I am pleased to announce the commencement of a contest for the health and safety of all concerned."

The fat ghost laughs and answers with a very deep voice, "Or the destruction of one Dr. Carlos Mann."

Fu shrugs. The wager he arranged is extremely dangerous. Amy and Veronica, Assad, the ghost friends, and I will be set free if I can beat Mr. Lum in a logic puzzle contest.

If I lose, everyone continues to be his prisoners ... except me. I'll be executed according to some bizarre ritual dreamed up by Mother and Father.

To assure that there is fair play (at least in the contest), Mr. Fu has been able to get the ghost of Aristotle himself to preside over the event. What could be better?

Tiger enters the room with a pot of tea and some egg tarts. She's dressed as the fantasy image of a flirty schoolgirl: short pleated checkered skirt, knee socks, starched white blouse ... another attempt at distraction.

Mr. Lum waves her away. As a ghost, he does not need food or drink or fantasy images. I wave her off too. Who knows what's in those tarts.

She puts the tray on the table between the ghosts and me and moves to the back of the room.

"I'm here if you need me," she says excitedly. Unfortunately, I know she's excited about the prospects of my execution.

Aristotle now shimmers into the room. He looks exactly the way he's pictured in those old philosophy textbooks. He holds a scroll in one hand and greets us with the other. Then he turns to Mr. Fu.

"Have the contestants been briefed on the rules?" he asks.

The elderly ghost says, "Yes."

"And are they prepared to begin?"

Mr. Lum and I both nod in agreement.

"You realize that you'll have to do all the work in your head. You will have to answer each question without the aid of notes or diagrams."

Lum and I both nod again.

"The first one to complete a puzzle correctly is the winner. If the first player to answer is incorrect, then the other must answer; if he is correct, he wins. If both solutions are incorrect, we move on to another puzzle and continue until one person gets a specific puzzle fully correct. Is that clear?"

We nod a third time.

"Then," Aristotle says with a wry smile, "let the games begin."

Tiger jumps high into the air, does the splits, and gives an enthusiastic high school football cheer.

"Here's the puzzle:

"Five philosophers are students at the Academy in ancient Greece. Upon graduation, they go on to work in universities around the Mediterranean. Each is a specialist in one branch of philosophy. From the clues I give you, you must identify the five philosophers, their places of birth, each one's specialty, and the universities where they end up working."

"Should be no problem at all," Mr. Lum says gleefully.

"Yay!" Tiger cheers.

"The philosophers are named Diana, Helen, Hector, Panos, and David.

—Diana specializes in Poetics.

—The birthplace of the logician is not Nexus, nor is the logician's name Hector.

—The University at Syracuse is where the philosopher from Agrigento works."

And so it begins, the classic spooling out of facts that are neatly hidden in short but complex statements. If I had a pencil and paper I would draw a grid, merely check off the boxes that are obvious clues and then review and dig for others until I had all the answers. But since neither of us has writing instruments, we have to do the work in our heads.

"Those are all the facts you need to solve the puzzle," Aristotle concludes after only six statements.

I stare at the surface of the table before me. On it, I imagine the grid, and into that grid, I begin checking off boxes where the known people, places, and skills intersect. I lay down what is stated in the clues and draw conclusions about what is not. Within minutes, I have almost all the details locked into place.

I hear Mr. Lum humming, but I can't let him distract me. The grid I imagine has to remain fixed in my consciousness. I can't let anything else get in the way. Then Tiger's sexy face pops in front of me obliterating the grid I'm picturing. "Hi," she coos.

Mr. Fu shoos her away. I quickly rebuild the grid in my mind and announce that I have all the answers.

Mr. Lum groans. Tiger walks up behind him and begins massaging his shoulders as though he's a prizefighter who has almost been knocked out.

"Tell us your answers, Dr. Mann," Aristotle says. And so I do.

But after I have revealed three of the four answers (all of which are correct), I pause for a moment. Tiger is now sitting on the couch beside the fat Chinese ghost. I'm drawn into the organization of the checkerboard pattern on her skirt. The squares aren't exactly regular; they're twisted into subtle Escher-like designs. I start following the shapes, trying to decipher their mysteries.

"Dr. Mann," Aristotle asks, "do you know the rest of the answers?"

Then he turns to my opponent, "Get ready, Mr. Lum. The good doctor seems to have dropped out."

"Go Team!" Tiger calls when she hears that, and pumps her fist. The sharp cheer jerks me back to reality.

"Where was I? Oh, right."

The logic-grid jumps back into my mind.

"Panos of Delphi teaches Metaphysics at Alexandria."

"Yes ..."

My smile broadens.

"Helen of Macedonia teaches Logic at Rhodes, and ..."

Lum's expression turns desperate.

"Hector of Thessalonica teaches Epistemology at Cronos."

"Right in every case, Dr. Mann," Aristotle announces. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lum, but you lose in the very first round."

Lum is shocked. "This was a memory test, not a logic puzzle," he shouts, and ghostly thunder breaks inside the room! A wicked downpour begins drenching the furniture, the papers, the egg tarts and all of us. Tiger turns witchy; she skulks into the corner; her black hair blows wildly in a gale that blasts open the front doors. Lum struggles to his feet shooting lightning from his fingertips. He conjures up a dragon, and the colossal beast begins moving toward us from the far side of the room.

I glance over at Mr. Fu, and he looks like he's ready to run. But then the tromping of feet drowns out the sound of the dragon and the thunder. The ghosts of Greek warriors pound into the room. They seize Lum and Tiger and begin to drag them away. Lum flashes his hands through the air calling up a host of terrifying ancestors. They shriek and squeal, beat their breasts, and swoop around the room, but they don't seem to be able to touch us. They're merely conjurings of the ghost mind of Mr. Lum, and they dissolve as quickly as they appear.

The television shows Amy as the Greek warrior ghosts rescue her. She peers into the television camera and calls out, "Thank you, Dr. Mann."

Within minutes the Greeks have us out into the streets. We seem to be in an old Chinese village somewhere far from the Bay Area. The Chrysler 300 is sitting there, revving. Carlyle August is at the wheel. He slides over as I dive into the car. Amy and Veronica (now wrapped in flimsy silk robes) run from the old building and hop into the back seat. Assad follows the girls, and behind him comes a stream of spirits including two ghosts from Purgatory.

"Didn't know Aristotle would provide security," I say to Mr. Fu as he glides into the car.

"Actually, he didn't," the old man answers. "It was a pupil of his."

"Of course," I answer remembering my ancient history, "Alexander the Great."

A gigantic Humvee rumbles up behind us. It's filled with the usual Joy Lum family Tough Guys. I floor the 300, and it powers away from the oversized vehicle and its crew. I zip down the narrow main street and make it onto the freeway before the Hummer can gain any ground at all. We lose the toughs before we even get to the Bay Bridge.

Chapter 33

It's midnight as we turn onto University Avenue in Los Altos. Lightning crackles through the neighborhood, and thunder explodes right beside us.

"The wrath of Mr. Lum," Fu observes.

"Whatever," Jenny Beck responds. She was one of the ghosts that the Joy Lum Clan captured, and now the Goth girl has squeezed herself into the very back of the Chrysler, between the Joy sisters and Assad, and she's twirling her hair and staring vacantly off into space.

"I'm scared, hon," Royce Brilliant whispers to her. The gay biker with the spiked hair is the second purgatory ghost they captured.

"I wish we were back in the bookstore safe and sound," he whines.

"Almost there," I say as I cut into one of the vacant parking spots in front of the Purgatory Bookstore. Sirens sound all around us. I look across University Avenue and see that the entrance to The Gap is wide open; all the lights are on, and the alarm is raging. Cop cars are already in front of the place, and police are stringing yellow tape everywhere.

"Drive to the back," Carlyle calls. "You don't want to be here with all these policemen around."

The sky blisters white with lightning, and a barrage of thunder lifts the car and bounces it two feet toward the center of University Avenue. I peel out, quickly motor around the corner, and park in the lot behind Purgatory.

"I've got a key," Carlyle says as he zips up to the back of the store and lets us all in: the Joy sisters, Assad, me, and the ghosts: Mr. Fu, Paco, Jenny, and Royce.

I lead the way up the stairs, and when I get to the top, my heart catches in my throat. There, sitting at the table near the back window, is Alicia.

"Mi amor!" she cries when she sees me, and she rushes to me and begins kissing me frantically. It's spectacular. Lightning blares through the window. Thunder follows right on top of it. Both are dramatic special effects for our reunion.

Alicia holds her arms around my waist and puts her head on my shoulder. We stumble toward the table, and she pushes me into a seat. Her hand grabs very high up on my thigh, and only then do I realize that it's an ownership thing. She's laying claim to me again, to make sure that everyone there, especially the Joy sisters, knows that I belong to her.

Carlyle August makes his way to the head of the table and smiles at my wife. He's crazy about her too, I realize. I take Alicia's hand, kiss it, and let her return it to my thigh. (Ownership!) Carlyle shrugs and sighs, "As it should be," he admits.

"We haven't got much time, my man." It's O'Sullivan.

"No time at all for you," Assad answers as he rushes at the enormous Irish ghost. Assad tries to tackle him, but O'Sullivan simply dissolves and reappears in the far corner of the room.

"What's with that guy?"

"He seems to think you betrayed us," Carlyle says.

"Me? No way. Why would I do that? I was tricked just the way you were."

"The punishment for traitors is quite severe," Carlyle says. "Who here can testify that O'Sullivan was working with the bad guys?"

Assad and I raise our hands. After a moment Alicia does too.

"Have you any proof, beautiful lady?" Carlyle asks.

"Well, no. But if Carlitos says the Irishman is a traitor, then I agree."

"Not enough, girl," Royce responds. "No ghosts have any real proof. The observations of the living don't carry much weight around here. So, I vote that we just watch the boy."

"Unfortunately, I disagree," Carlyle says. "I shadowed you two nights ago, O'Sullivan, followed you into Chinatown, watched as you met with Mr. Lum and set the trap that led to the capture of these two good men. I had to turn myself into a bear to rescue them. As you know, I really dislike that transformation business. It always seems to end up wrinkling my best suits."

"I never liked you, O'Sullivan," Friedman says.

"Hang his ass." It's Chantal Nightingale.

"Right on!" Assad holds up his fist in solidarity.

"Cook em." That's Jenny Beck.

"Jenny?" O'Sullivan moans. He looks genuinely hurt.

A volley of thunder and lightning explodes around the building. Carlyle pounds the table with a big heavy book. "Charles O'Sullivan," he pronounces. "I vote that we sentence you to the sternest punishment the ghost network can dish out."

O'Sullivan turns white as a sheet.

"Not shunning."

"No place to go, no one to talk with, no help with your redemption ... ever!"

"I agree," says Chantal.

"Here, here." That's Friedman. And one by one the others raise their hands too until Royce Brilliant finally agrees and raises his hand as well.

"Royce?" O'Sullivan begs.

"Jenny?" The girl wants to say something but knows she cannot; she just sits there twirling her hair and staring right through him. And so O' Sullivan (the traitor) dissolves slowly into thin air without another word.

"Alicia," Carlyle continues after a long moment. "Are you back with us?"

"For now," she answers. "But there is unfinished business with this Luis person. I need the help of my husband. But I also have to protect him ... from these Joy girls."

"I'm okay," I whisper to her.

"No, you are not, Carlitos. They have their designs on you."

Alicia stands and moves to the back of the room where she has laid out some rather conservative women's clothing. "I brought these for them, from The Gap."

"You set off the alarm," Royce giggles.

"Not I. A ghost cannot set off an alarm. It was the clothing that did it. I had to break open the door to get it out of there. Anyway, put on these clothes, you Joy girls, and I will help you get away from your enemies ... and from my husband."

"We need a safe place to hide Amy and Veronica," Carlyle says.

"Senior Popcorn!" Alicia and I both say together.

"Drive them down to Mexico City," Assad adds. "I'll come too."

"Me too." That's Paco. He's been hanging at the back of the room very quietly.

"I also suggest that the lovely dead Señorita come along," he says.

"Which Señorita would that be?"

"The one who resembles a beautiful nightmare," Paco answers.

"The Goth girl?" Royce giggles. "You tell it, boy."

"I find her perceptive, provocative ... and muy sexy," Paco adds.

Jenny blushes, and for the first time since I have known her, she seems to be paying attention. "That is so awesome," she whispers so that only I can hear her.

"It's my duty to stay with the Joy girls," Mr. Fu says. "So, I must also come along."

At that moment thunder and lightning bomb the bookstore. The front door smashes in, and the Joy Lum tough guys and spirits come charging up the stairway. Royce Brilliant moves to the head of the stairs and begins tossing boxes of books at them.

"It's time for action," Carlyle calls. "Alicia, Carlos, and company, go out the back. Get the girls to Senior Popcorn as fast as you can. We'll hold off Mr. Lum's little army."

Amy and Veronica grab the clothes that Alicia has provided, and we rush down the back stairway just as the Joy Lum ghosts and thugs fight their way through the boxes and launch themselves into the room. They are met by another wicked counter-attack led by Carlyle, Friedman, and the remaining Purgatory ghosts.

"Good luck," Alicia calls to her friends as she accidentally-on-purpose smashes into Amy and sends her sprawling against a large pile of boxes. I take my wife by the arm and lead her down the back stairs and out into the bombastic, rain-soaked night.

Four humans and six ghosts jam into the Chrysler 300, and off we roar, leaving behind police officers investigating the break-in at The Gap and a pitched battle raging between Carlyle's ghosts and Mr. Lum's tough guys on the third floor of the Purgatory Bookstore.

Part 4

Chapter 34

This is Alicia.

It's nighttime, and at this moment Carlitos and I are driving down I-5, the great road that leads from Canada to Mexico. Everyone is asleep but my beloved and the ghosts ... who never sleep.

"Carlitos," I say. "I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but I cannot kill Luis by myself."

Carlitos puts his arm around me and pulls me to him. I nuzzle his handsome neck. I nibble his delicious ear.

"Your friends are watching," Carlitos whispers.

I look to the back of the car. Those evil Joy girls are sound asleep in their silky bathrobes. They have not even put on the lovely clothes I stole for them. Assad is likewise asleep. He smiles a wicked smile, and I wonder how he would like having both Chinese girls for himself. No matter. Señor Popcorn will settle all of that business very soon.

The ghosts sit on the back deck of the car. Paco is talking excitedly to Señorita Jenny. She merely stares at him like a little girl lost in a store full of candies. Mr. Fu has his eyes closed. He is meditating.

"Carlitos," I sing to my husband. "The meadows are wonderful here. Could we not stop for a few minutes and make love by the side of the road?"

"How can you tell if the meadows are wonderful?" he asks. "It's pitch black out there."

"I am a ghost remember? I can see into the darkness. It looks very comfortable to me."

"I'd like to make love. But right now we have to escape the Joy Lum Clan." And then he smiles his secret sexy smile. "Maybe later, okay?"

"There may not be a later," I say. "Not after I tell you about Luis and the things we must do to him."

Carlitos's jaw tightens. I can see that he is as anxious as I am to look at Luis in hell.

"Can I tell you about my pursuit of Luis?" I ask.

Carlitos nods, pulls me closer to him, and so I begin my story.

#

It is many weeks earlier. I am haunting the dreams of Señor Popcorn. I am surprised that he is chaste even in his sleeping, for I find myself wearing an uncomfortable one-piece bathing suit as I dive into the big swimming pool of his dreams. The swimsuit is too confining. It makes me look like an old woman, and so I swim to the side of the pool hoping to find a nice skimpy bikini. And suddenly, Luis is there. He swings a machete wildly, driving me back into the water.

As Luis prepares to throw the machete at me, Señor Popcorn steps out of the bushes and grabs his arm. This is a young, handsome Señor Popcorn, the kind who would only exist in the old man's dreams. This muscular popcorn man throws Luis to the ground. He takes the knife and presses it toward his throat. I run from the pool screaming, "Do not do this! He is my murderer. I should be the one to kill him."

Señor Popcorn looks at me. His eyes become wide with excitement, and then they show nothing but terror. He becomes very old. I realize that Señor Popcorn is no longer in a dream. He is awake in his bedroom, sitting up in bed, looking at me, and what he sees is ... a ghost.

"Alicia, mi niña, is that you, sweetheart?"

"It is my ghost, si."

Señor Popcorn's shaky hand reaches to his end table and picks up a glass half full of something like brandy. He almost spills it as he brings it to his lips.

I try to make myself as beautiful as possible so that I will not scare him anymore. The popcorn man takes a sip, then another and slowly calms.

"I will not hurt you," I say to him. "You are my friend, but I must have Luis to myself."

The popcorn man rubs his eyes and studies me. Finally, he is satisfied that I am the same señorita that served him so well when I lived in his mansion.

"We have finally found Luis, niña," he says. "It took three long years to track him down."

"Tell me where he is, and I will kill him."

"He doesn't know that we have found him."

"Say nothing. I want to see him. I want to terrify him. I want to make him so frightened that he will welcome death when I bring it to him."

The Popcorn man struggles to his feet. "Perdón un momento," he says, and he makes his way into the bathroom. I hear assorted watery sounds, flushing ... then gargling.

Señor Popcorn returns to the room drying his hands on a towel. "Luis has come out of hiding," he says, "from somewhere in the Great Plains. He is now in the town of Kankakee, Illinois. It is a place that I hear is very friendly to Mexicans."

"I will go there," I say. "I will begin terrifying him. I will have him on the run and then ... I will have my revenges."

"One revenge should be enough," Señor Popcorn says with a fatherly smile. "Okay, niña, go to Kankakee. Kill the monster. I need to bring my men home anyway. There are new threats to my business, and I need everyone around me."

"I can take care of the pendejo," I almost spit out the words. "Leave him to me. I will kill him all by myself."

Little do I know how impossible this will turn out to be. But on that night I am confident. I move up to Señor Popcorn and make myself even more beautiful. He smiles. I kiss him on the forehead.

"Thank you," I say. "Pleasant dreams," and I push him back onto the bed. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. I pull the covers up around him, say a prayer for his well-being, and then I head off to Kankakee.

Chapter 35

The distance from Mexico City to Illinois is so great that even a ghost must take time to travel. And so it is the next evening before I arrive. I go to a swanky hotel in the center of town where I know I will find Señor Popcorn's main man, Miguel.

When I enter the room, I hear sounds that remind me of my childhood. It is the sound of a pig being slaughtered by someone who is not very good at it. There are wild bellows, moans, and groans, and it is a very long time before I realize that the sounds are coming from the bedroom, from some puta that Miguel is enjoying. I make my way into the room and watch from the corner as Miguel lies over her, perhaps (from the sounds of it) stabbing her to death. At last, he lets out a long groan like a bull and rolls from her in exhaustion. The girl gets to her feet and waddles into the bathroom.

She's tall, blond, still wearing high heels. Her breasts are watermelons. This is not the kind of girl that a man as handsome as Miguel should be having for love, I think. Not a girl with a false body like that. Not a girl who makes love sounding like a dying pig.

I wait in the corner until the girl has collected her money and made her way from the hotel room ... until Miguel is in the bathroom by himself. Then I use my favorite trick. As he stands in front of the mirror washing his face, I slowly appear in the mirror beside him.

"¡Hola, Miguel," I say in my friendliest voice. His eyes bug from his head. His jaw drops in shock. His fist tightens on the toothpaste tube, and he launches a stream of toothpaste into the air. It lands in a glob all over the water glass and the countertop. And then he recognizes me. He smiles, even starts to get excited at the sight of me.

"None of that, Miguel," I say to him. "I am a married woman."

"And a ghost beside."

"Put on some pajamas, and let's talk," I say, and I disappear.

Moments later, Miguel comes out of the bathroom wearing a very nice pair of silk pajama bottoms. His chest is muscular and chiseled. I like that. I am looking my best, hoping to remind Miguel of the sweetness of Mexican womanhood, which he has chosen to trade for some blond Kankakee puta. I'm sitting in the big chair in the living room of his suite.

"I know why you're here," Miguel says. "Señor Popcorn called me and told me about your visit."

"Yes, I want to find and torment Luis."

"Do you have a plan?"

"I thought I would toy with him before I kill him. Try to drive him insane." I can feel my eyes sparkling and my face smiling gaily.

"God, you look beautiful," Miguel says.

"Like many of my sisters in Mexico," I answer. "Why don't you marry one and start a family?"

"Señor de Cervantes (Miguel uses the popcorn man's real name) does not want married men in the killing business."

"Muy bueno!" I say. "Saving killing for the single men. That is as it should be."

"He is calling us all back to Mexico tomorrow. A drug war is about to begin. Maybe when the battle is over, I will find a nice señorita and retire."

I nod approvingly, and he smiles showing me the fabulously white teeth that I have always admired.

"If you did not want to murder Luis all by yourself," he laughs, "I would have executed him tonight."

"Before or after the puta?"

"Before, of course. You need to be hungry when you kill a man."

"I know."

He looks at me with a little fear. "Maybe we could kill him together, tonight."

"You cannot kill him!" I stand and stamp my foot. "I will scare him again and again and again, and then I will kill him terribly, just as he killed me."

Miguel shrugs. "Whatever turns you on."

"Si. So please tell me where I can find the pendejo."

Miguel moves closer to me and starts explaining. His chest is hard; muscles ripple over his arms. When he finishes, I smile. I thank him for the information. I move up to him invitingly as though I were going to kiss him. And then I slap him hard across the face.

"What's that for?"

"All the beautiful chicas who need your love while you are out banging blonde American bimbos instead. Remember your heritage, Guapo!" Then I power up my beauty, flash my dark Mexican eyes invitingly at him, and vanish.

#

It's morning in Kankakee. I have made myself visible and am walking happily down the street. I wear a short flouncy skirt and a halter-top. Many men look at me admiringly, but there is only one I am looking for.

Across the way I see him coming toward me. Actually, he is limping toward me: step, drag, step, drag, he pulls a nearly dead foot behind him. He is El Cojo, the cripple, also known as Luis. He smiles at me when he sees me from a distance. So, I cross the street, come directly toward him, and he follows me with his eyes. As I approach, his look turns to panic. He recognizes me. I wink at him as I walk by. Luis has not seen me since he left me in a pool of blood on the floor of our apartment. He trembles all over. This makes me so happy that I decide to do it again.

A few minutes later I pass him as he hobbles through a park. I'm wearing a sexy tank top and short shorts now. When he sees me, I whisper, "Muerte por muerte," death for death. He ducks into the bushes and becomes very sick. I can hear him throwing up. I come up behind him with a concerned look on my face. Now I am wearing a flowery sundress that you can practically see through. "Oh dear, can I help you, Señor ..." I say in such total innocence, "... BEFORE I KILL YOU!"

Luis looks up, recognizes me, screams, and takes off running and hopping away.

A day later, a still very nervous Luis is staring into the windows of downtown stores. He moves from one to another, perhaps trying to get rid of the idea that I am haunting him.

I become a mannequin in the window. I have on a tiny string bikini. He is studying my body. But when he looks up to my face I leer at him, and he jumps back knocking over several staring executives as he tries to get away from me.

Luis won't look in store windows from then on, but as he hobbles along the main street, he bumps right into me. I have become a latex doll in front of a novelty shop. I'm wearing high heels with goldfish inside of them, also a flimsy pink negligee and panties. My mouth has become a permanent "O." I wonder why.

I actually catch El Cojo's dead foot; I trip him, and he grabs me and pulls me down on top of him. "I will kill you slowly and painfully," I whisper in his ear, though my mouth never changes from that strange letter "O."

In an instant Luis is hobbling away from me. His arms swing around wildly as though he is fighting his way through a nightmare. I laugh. What fun this is.

Luis decides to get out of Kankakee. He drives to St. Louis, and I follow him. After dark, he stops in a motel. I stop there too. I am thrilled with the torment I am causing. I decide to leave him to his own nightmares this night.

The next morning my killer comes down for breakfast in the small coffee shop attached to the lobby. He seems much more relaxed in spite of all my scares. That bothers me. I want him to be miserable all the time. As he slides into a booth, I take on the uniform of a waitress and approach his table. He is buried in the menu and doesn't even look at me.

"Coffee and huevos rancheros," he mumbles.

"Is that all, Señor?" I ask sweetly.

"What else would you suggest, Señorita?" He looks up but doesn't recognize me.

"PERHAPS A BUCKET OF MY BLOOD," I scream at him, and I lunge toward him showing my death face.

Luis roars in terror, jumps from the booth, and thrashes his way out of the coffee shop. Several patrons watch him, but none of them can see me. That is the joy of my teasing. They just think he is loco.

Luis runs and hops and runs and hops from the hotel as he hurries along the streets of St. Louis. He's heading toward a little drug store. He's fumbling through his pockets, perhaps for some prescription that he has with him.

The pharmacy is in the back of the store. I'm already there, assuming the white coat of a pharmacist. I make my face as blank as possible so that he will not recognize me.

"Señorita," he says, "Can you fill this prescription?" His hands are shaking as he passes the small slip of paper to me.

I take it and study the words: something for a nervous stomach, I guess.

"Si, un momento."

I return in a matter of seconds, not with his Rx, but with a sharp letter opener. I hold it up on my side of the counter.

"What's this for?" he asks as fear creeps onto his face.

"What do you think?" I ask. And I plunge the letter opener into his hand impaling it on the counter.

Luis shrieks, grabs the letter opener, and pulls it out of the counter and his hand. He snatches a handi-wipe from a nearby display and covers the wound. The wipe stings him, and he jumps. In seconds his hand is drenched with blood again. Still bellowing, he staggers away.

An old man weighted down with packages of Depends is barely able to give him room. Luis turns back to me and points. "She's dead," he screams.

The man looks at him in confusion and then steps up to the counter. "That guy's nuts," he says.

I nod my head in agreement as my eyes follow Luis, who is hobbling down the street screaming like a madman.

The next stop for Luis is the emergency room of the hospital. A tall, chubby, middle-aged doctor named Barbie ushers him into one of the treatment rooms. She immediately begins cleaning the wound.

"How'd this happen?" she asks, making eyes at Luis. My murderer has gained more weight and has a shaggy mustache, but some women may still find him attractive.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says.

She begins sewing up the wound. "Been around here long?"

"Just passing through."

"Don't have a local doctor then?"

"I'm heading out this morning."

"Better wait a day if you can. Then come back and show this to me. I'll make sure it isn't infected."

Luis just nods. Both Dr. Barbie and I know that he won't be back, that he'll be out of St. Louis as quickly as possible.

Dr. Barbie reaches into her pocket and pulls out a blank prescription pad. She scribbles on it for a moment and hands the top sheet to Luis. "Vicodin," she says. "Just take this to the drug store down the street. They'll fill it for you."

"Noooo!" Luis screams. He grabs the prescription and bolts for the door. I'm outside of course, and as he leaves, he runs right into me.

"Welcome, my love," I say, and slashes suddenly begin appearing across my face and chest until I am as bloodied as he left me in Los Altos. Luis turns in horror and trips over a rolling bed that is against the wall behind him. He falls onto it, and in seconds I have him strapped in. I rush down the hallway with the bed and Luis. I'm still bleeding, still undead, while El Cojo struggles with all his might to escape from me.

Elevators doors open at the end of the hallway. I push him through them and press the button for the basement. Luis is frantic. He's tearing at the restraints, rolling back and forth, trying to reach for me and strike me somehow. I start to laugh in spite of my bloodiness. I know I am horrible to behold, and yet I like that very much. El Cojo is raving.

The elevator hits the basement floor, and now I run down the dark hallways knowing exactly what I'm looking for. It's the garbage chute that funnels all hospital debris onto a great dump truck parked in the sub-basement. I roll Luis to the chute and begin unbinding him. Luis is still tossing and turning and grabbing at me. Of course, he merely gets big handfuls of ghost, which are really handfuls of nothing. Still, he tries to push the straps out of the way, and as he does this, he tears open the wound in his hand. Blood gushes everywhere. I think it's terrific. Blood is all over the straps, all over the rolling bed and then all over the chute as I pull myself up to monstrous height, reveal my full dead image, and scream at him with breath from hell: "YOU MURDERER!"

He dives into the garbage chute and yelps all the way down to the mountain of garbage on the dump truck.

Now I'm at the controls of the truck. I drive it from the sub-basement and up onto the street. I start the rotary compactor on the bed of the truck, and El Cojo, along with all the rest of the garbage, starts being sucked into the sharp blades that compress the waste.

I look in the rearview mirror and see Luis pulling himself from the compactor at the last minute and throwing himself out onto the hard blacktop of the highway. He crashes into the road and then scrambles to his feet just as a big city bus is about to plow into him. He hobbles down the street and away from me.

I don't care. I will find him again. I decide that tormenting my murderer is almost as much fun as my honeymoon with Carlitos.

#

I trail Luis from St. Louis down across Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, making mischief all the way. El Cojo drives a dusty red Toyota. I wonder why, since I know he can afford any car he wants. He has stolen that much money from Señor Popcorn. The next afternoon, I have moved ahead of him on the road and snuck behind a billboard where two New Mexico state troopers are hiding waiting for speeders. I sneak up to them, pull open the car door and give them my banshee wail. They both jump from the car and run into the open desert where the rattlesnakes are waiting. I hope these peace officers do not suffer the same fate as El Cojo on the day he tried to rape me.

I am behind the wheel of the cop car now. My dress is that of a state trooper. I start the car and wait for Luis. It's getting dark. The old Toyota soon rumbles by in the twilight. I turn on the siren and rush after it ... slowly. It's barely going 50.

Luis pulls over and shuts off the engine. I climb from the cop car and march up to his window. I wear a helmet and goggles so that he cannot recognize me.

"Goin' pretty slow there, boy," I say, trying to sound like a gringo.

"It's all she'll do, officer."

"Why dontcha get a better set a wheels, son?" (I'm loving this role-playing.)

"Can't afford it."

"Oh come on now, dude. You look like someone who mighta robbed an old Mexican gent of hundreds a thousands a dollars."

Luis begins to look suspicious.

"Kin I see your driver's license, boy?"

El Cojo reaches into the glove compartment and hands me what looks like a legitimate license. I take it. "Wait here," I say, and I mosey back toward the cop car. As soon as I get halfway to my vehicle, Luis floors it and peels away.

I run to the car, get in it, and take off in hot pursuits. El Cojo has more horses in his car than I thought. He soon reaches 100 miles an hour. No matter, my cop car is made for the chase. I catch up to him at 110 and ram his bumper. He jumps ahead of me. I ram him again. Again he jumps ahead, and now he gets fantastic speed from his old piece of jalopy. He's at 120. I pull up next to him and slam into the side of his Toyota.

All ghosts are excellent drivers. Did you know that? It thrills me.

I slam into the side of him again. El Cojo spins around, slams on his brakes, goes into a skid, and ends up hanging off the edge of a bridge. A creek sometimes flows there, under the highway. Today the creek is dry, but it doesn't matter. If El Cojo had not stopped in time, he would have flipped upside down and fallen hundreds of feet into the creek bed. My plans for murdering him would have ended far too soon. Killing Luis in a car crash is just not what I have in mind.

I stroll up to the old Toyota. It teeters on the edge of the bridge. I open the car door and lean on it, my weight helping to hold the car in place. I hand Luis his driver's license.

"Well, son," I say. "It appears you tried to run away from an arresting officer."

He nods meekly.

"There are also some irregularities in your record."

"What irregularities?"

I hand him a form and ask him to sign on the big red "X."

"What's the charge?"

I point to the enormous word I've scrawled across the top of his traffic ticket:

MURDER!

I rip off my helmet, and Luis sees my grinning death face. Just then I step back and push the car forward so that it begins to slide over the embankment. I turn and walk away knowing that somehow El Cojo will manage to escape. He always does.

As I climb into the cop car, I hear the Toyota crash into the dry creek bed. I start the engine and crawl up to the bridge where Luis is hanging by his fingertips.

"Buenas noches, Luis," I sing out. "Disfruta de tus amigos los serpientes."

Yes, I do hope he enjoys his friends the rattlesnakes.

Sometime later ... somehow, El Cojo climbs up over the side of the bridge and hitchhikes to Sinaqua, Arizona. Somehow, by bad luck or el diablo, he chooses the one city in the entire Southwest that spells death for ghosts. As I follow him into the rich tourist area, I begin to wish that I had killed him out on the New Mexico highway.

Greater and greater dread fills me. It should. After all, though I don't know it at the time, Sinaqua, Arizona, is a Dread Zone.

Chapter 36

It is the next morning, and my stomach has started a war with itself. My head is crashing with pain. These things should never happen to a ghost. Yet, in spite of them, I know that I must follow my plan. So, I pull together all my strength and go to the public library. El Cojo has just entered the building.

In the far corner of the main room, there is a great display. Big and small books are laid out over many tables. Above the books, a large banner reads:

Sinaqua—Enrichment—The Inspirational Experience!

I do not know what enrichment they can be talking about since fears are filling my mind, my joints are on fire, and I think I am going to throw up. Still, I slide into a chair, try to look lovely, and pretend to be the hostess of the area.

El Cojo soon walks up to the display and begins gathering booklets: Psychic Counseling, The Metaphysical Realm, The Sacred Land, and five different works about the Vortexes of Sinaqua.

One of the vortex booklets begins by saying, "A vortex is a mass of fluid with a whirling motion that forms a cavity in the center of a circle." This is exactly how my stomach feels.

El Cojo does not seem to feel the same way. In spite of his troubles of the night before, he is smiling. His face looks bright; his shoulders are bigger and have more muscles than ever. Can this be the Luis I left hanging off the edge of a bridge last night? I want to be sick, but I cannot. I must scare him, and I do. I stand up behind the display and moan out all the terrible feelings inside of me. Even though I do not try to make my face look dead and ugly, it seems to be that way naturally, because Luis takes one look, gives out a cry, and runs from the library. Yes, I said it, he runs. El Cojo runs. Among the many healing powers of Sinaqua, there seems to be the power to cure cripples, at least the cripple, El Cojo, that I have come to hunt and kill.

I pick up a book by the Sinaqua Spiritual Society. I hope it will tell me what is going on. It talks about the wonders that native people have found in connecting with this land. I can only think the connection must be between living people and the forces of nature. Because whatever these forces are, they seem to be healing Luis and killing me.

I make my way out the library's front door. My head is swimming; my stomach is churning. I wonder if there is such a thing as ghost vomit because I would like to direct some at El Cojo before I kill him. And then I spot him across the street. He gets into a bright red Ferrari convertible. He is so cheerful that I know the spiritual forces are helping him, and I want to find these spirituals and direct some of my upcoming ghost vomit at them too.

Luis drives off, and I follow him, surprised that he soon drives up to an ancient church and enters it.

Do I want to kill him in a church? I ask myself. Do I want to slit his throat and send him straight to heaven? I decide I do not, but maybe I can scare him from the sacred place and then murder him.

I walk by the new Ferrari and see that there is a paper taped to the front windshield. It is some kind of agreement. In the few hours that Luis has had since his escape from the bridge, he has decided to buy a new car. This seems impossible. And yet it must be true.

I can barely move now, I am so dizzy and in so much pain that I am sweating ... ghost sweat. My hair is wild, and it has turned blue. ¡Dios mío! It is blue and wild. I look at my skin. It is almost purple. And this is the good me, not the witchy undead one. This is the Alicia that I would want to share with Carlitos. But now I have blue, sweaty, tangled hair and purple skin that shows red blotches from diseases.

I can barely get the church door open, but I do, and as I enter I am suddenly feeling better. The aching begins to fade; the blueness of my hair turns to blackness. My purple skin loses its blotches and then stops being purple at all.

Luis is kneeling at a side altar lighting candles to the virgin.

"Do not forgive him," I pray in silent anger. "This is my murderer."

I walk up behind him. I open my purse and pull out a black veil. I pull it over my head and use it to cover my face.

Is El Cojo praying, or merely pretending to pray? I wonder this as I draw closer. Then I see exactly what he is doing. He is pulling up an old stone from the ancient church floor. He is pulling up a box that is under the stone. He is gathering a great deal of money from the box, perhaps to pay for the car that he has sitting outside.

"You see, Virgin Mother," I think in my prayers. "He is still an evil man. Thank you for that. Now, may I kill him, please?"

The virgin says nothing. But the expression on her statue is so full of peace that I take it as a "yes." And so, I wait until El Cojo has returned the box to under the stone. I wait until he has stuffed the money into his many pockets, and then I move onto the kneeler beside him. I hold out my hands. "Alms," I beg.

El Cojo looks at me with contempt.

"Money for the poor?"

"Get away from me, you filthy thing." Luis pushes me away and moves from the front of the church. I turn on him. I lower my veil and reveal the face of a demon that is even more evil because I am here in a church.

I scream. "I will kill you, Diablo!" and I chase him from the church. He runs out the back door, across a stretch of desert land that leads right up to a great ravine. He is standing on the edge, nowhere to go, no means of escape. I can reach him. I can tear his eyes out, scratch away his flesh, and as he struggles to get away from me, he will end up throwing himself off the cliff.

I love it!

I go toward him, my rotting fingers tearing at the air, my teeth growing long and dead and hungry for his flesh. And then the pain begins again, the blueness of my hair, the red blotches on my purple skin. They grow and spread and blister. My stomach feels explosions inside of me.

El Cojo cannot tell how much of this is aimed at him and how much is my own suffering. That is good. But then I slam into something hard, like a huge cast-iron wall. I fall to the ground. I feel a swirling motion all around. It must be one of the vortexes snatching at me, turning my entire body against itself. I begin clawing at the air like a dying lizard.

El Cojo cannot believe his eyes. Something is saving him, directly or indirectly. He runs to his new Ferrari and drives away. I hear him laughing. And all the while the vortex tugs at me, and I feel myself being swallowed up into nothingness.

Chapter 37

"You're alright, hon. Yes, you are."

I hear a voice and feel someone pulling my body back from the edge of deadness. I can barely see. My dead skin is turning on itself, and then—as I move away from the vortex—I start becoming whole again.

"Those vortexes are nasty things for ghosts," the voice says. "Any livin' soul would benefit from them. But ghosts ... we oughtta write a suicide note before we come here."

I'm back into the shade of the church, and then I feel myself being carried inside.

"What's happening?"

"You're gettin' saved is what's happenin', ya stupid broad."

The swirling in my stomach begins to calm. The pain in my joints begins to fade. At last, my vision clears, and I see Friedman standing there. Across from him is Chantal Nightingale.

"We had ta risk life and limb to come in here and save yer sorry ass," Friedman growls.

Chantal slaps him playfully on the shoulder and smiles. "Just stop that. We're ghosts; we don't have life and limb."

"Figure of speech," Friedman answers, "and if I did have life and limb, I don't think I'd risk them on a girl stupid enough to enter a Dread Zone without taking precautions."

"There are no precautions, old man," Chantal says. "Just get in and get out, that's how you do it, and if you can find a church along the way, stop there for a little rejuvenatin'."

I sit up and feel the headache going away. I pull my hair in front of my eyes and look at it. It is no longer blue ... not even tangled anymore.

"But I was doing so well," I say. "I was playing with El Cojo."

"When you're going to kill someone, maybe you should do a little less playing and a little more killing," Friedman says.

"I didn't realize."

"Killing murderers, good. Playing with murderers, not so much."

"Enough advice for now," Chantal says. "Let's get this girl outta here as quick as we can. Before the vortexes do her in."

"But what about El Cojo?" I ask.

"Bad news there, child," Chantal answers, "I think he knows you can't touch him in here."

"He feels safe and whole again," Friedman adds. "Time for a new strategy."

"But first, let's get you back to Purgatory. That, in itself, is going to be a real bitch."

Chapter 38

As we leave the church, we are not only struck by the heat of the day but by the muscle pain, sick stomachs, and horror that must strike all ghosts in Sinaqua. We think that if we go around the center of the town, we will be safer. But we are not. Things are just as awful beyond the city streets.

"Is no ghost safe from the curse of this place?" I ask my companions. Friedman shrugs. Chantal Nightingale smiles through her suffering.

We are attempting to get beyond the city limits. Then we can take off and fly freely to the Purgatory Bookstore in Los Altos.

"I'm sure the local ghosts have managed to adapt to these forces, hon," Chantal says.

"You mean the local gringo ghosts?"

"I think it's more likely to be the ghosts of Apaches long dead," Friedman answers. "This is part a their territory."

"Dios, ¡NO!" I remember my history lessons and how the Apaches raided my village and killed so many of my people.

"Better to be safe and try to make it on our own," I suggest.

But this is not so easy. The forces that were at work when I entered the village this morning are now much stronger. These forces are tearing at us. Our ghostly glide has turned into a slow, painful crawl.

Friedman has the worst of it. He was an old man when he became a ghost, and these forces are now killing him all over again.

"What will happen to us?" I ask. But I really mean is what will happen to Señor Friedman, because whatever will happen to all of us will happen to him first. He has propped himself under some scrubby bushes now. His lips are blue; his skin is purple. The red blotches are popping, oozing, and spreading all over him as we watch.

"Nothingness," Friedman gasps in despair. "Nothingness."

"No heaven or hell?"

Chantal Nightingale sits down beside him, pulls him to her, and cradles him like el niño.

"We don't know that, sweetheart," she whispers. "It may all turn out for the best."

But now she is purple too; those blotches are swarming. Her eyes seem to have fallen into hollow pits in her face.

"Totally, utterly hopeless," Friedman says. And the nasty old man begins to cry.

I am feeling awful too. 'Dread Zone' is a good name for this place, for I am filled with the dread of what is to come. The only hope for me is to picture Carlitos and dream of the happy times we spent together. But of course they ended with El Cojo, and then I think of my murderer and how he left me shredded on our apartment floor. And now, I realize, Luis is safe and whole, no longer a cripple, no longer El Cojo. He is laughing and happy here in Sinaqua, and we are facing nothingness.

"What kind of revenge is this?" I shout to no one at all. "Revenge on me for being so angry and selfish and jealous and all those other sinful things of my life? I am covered with guilt. No wonder God is punishing me like this."

Chantal squeezes my hand, and I look back at her. Her face is almost totally red now. The blotches have spread everywhere like an evil ghost cancer. Her dirty yellow eyes stare out from the bottom of deep, hollow pits. Her hair is stringy. And yes, it is blue and hideous. She is a dying ghost, as is Friedman, as am I. He lies in Chantal's arms, eyes closed, mouth half open, lips blue against red, swollen skin.

"Mi Dios! What is to become of us?" I wonder aloud. And gradually dread gives way to total despair.

#

"Señorita," I hear someone call. It is the voice of Carlitos, and I know it is a dream. It is Carlitos as a little boy. My face is burning up. I can hear the red blisters on my face as they pop and ooze green sticky stuff all over me. I scratch my face, and when I look at my fingers, I see slime on them. I try to scream but I cannot. All that I can offer is a hoarse little croak.

Friedman is probably dead, Chantal close to it.

"Señorita!"

I open my eyes, and there is a little boy there. It is Carlitos only really an Indian boy, an Apache boy. "¿Necesita ayuda?" he asks.

Do we need help? What kind of stupid question is that? But the boy's face is so kind and so much that of mi amor that I can only answer, "Si, please help us."

The boy whistles, and up out of the mirages of the heat, a small band of Apaches begins moving toward us. I would run if I could, for three of them are warriors on horseback. The tallest and most decorated of them all goes to Chantal Nightingale and lifts Friedman gently from her arms. Then another warrior takes Chantal too. They lay my friends on their horses. The third warrior comes and takes me. I want to fight him. These are the Indians that schoolbooks say hated and killed so many Mexicans. But these ghost Apaches do nothing like that. They carry us gently through secret safe passageways in the Dread Zone of Sinaqua, and they take us finally to a small cultural museum just outside of the city.

They bed us down in a small one-room wickiup at the center of a cultural display, and there we rest. It only takes a short time. Outside the Dread Zone of Sinaqua, we are cured very quickly, even Friedman, who I thought was truly lost.

#

Now I am back with Carlitos in his Chrysler 300. We are driving down I-5 toward Mexico. I have finished telling Carlitos my story, and I am trembling all over.

"Excuse us for a minute, please," Carlitos says to everyone in the car. I look into the back. The living are asleep, and the ghosts are busy talking.

We pull into a rest area somewhere near Santa Maria, California. There is no one there. No people, no trucks, no cars, no police, no one.

Carlitos comes to my side of the car, opens the door for me, and takes me by the hand. He leads me through the rest area and out to the other side where there are picnic tables and great open fields. We stop. He turns toward me, puts his hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him. I can see tears on his cheeks.

"I can't let you suffer like that ever again," he whispers. "Te quiero."

"I love you too," I say.

"I am so sorry for your pain."

"Me also."

"I can't bear to lose you again."

Any answer I give to that would be so tragic that I simply burst into tears.

Carlitos kisses me gently, kisses my tears away. Then his kisses are suddenly hungry, as are mine ... and there are thousands of them.

There is no stopping us. He lowers me into the grass, reaches to the edges of my little t-shirt and jerks it up over my head. Then he yanks down my bra forcing my breasts up into his handsome face. He swims kisses all over them.

There, in the grass, Carlitos ravages me. I gasp, I cry out. It is so wonderful. It is everything that my days in the Dread Zone were not. And it lasts and lasts and lasts.

Finally, Carlitos releases all his love into me, and I explode with him. There are fireworks everywhere it seems, especially in every corner of my body.

We lie together, still shaking with love for a very long time.

I sigh, I smile, I get up and dance around him while he lies in the grass watching me with that happy look in his eyes. Have I said how much I love that look?

I lie back down next to him. I don't care about anything. I want to stay in this place forever. But finally, Carlitos stands, straightens himself, pulls me to my feet, and helps me with my clothes. My body is still on fire, and my arms are immediately around him again. I can't stop kissing him.

"Gracias, gracias, y gracias, mi amor," I sigh, as I cover his face with new wet kisses.

"I'll go to Sinaqua for you," Carlos breathes into my ear as he buries his face in my hair. "I'll take care of El Cojo for you."

I am so drunk with love and gratitude that I don't know what to say. Finally, I whisper, "I would like that."

"So let's drop this baggage with Señor Popcorn, and then we'll go to Sinaqua and punish Luis."

I am in heaven. Sexy ghost blood still races through my body. I know what Carlitos is saying, and I like hearing him talk of the Joy sisters as baggage. I think that's just what they are. But Carlitos's last words will come back to worry me. He says we will punish Luis. And I know if I had not tried to punish him myself, Luis would be very dead now, and my problems would be over.

"Punishing the devil is a dangerous business," I say to Carlitos. But he isn't paying attention. Instead, he makes me forget all about el Diablo. Carlos is sitting upright in the grass. He pulls me upright too, and in an instant, he has my t-shirt off me again. He slides my bra under my breasts pushing them up again. Now he is pulling me on top of him. He wants to make love all over again.

"¡Qué maravilla!"

Part 5

Chapter 39

"Dr. Carlos Mann?"

"That's me," I answer.

The Mexican border agent flips through my American passport. He looks at me carefully. "You were born in Mexico?"

"I was."

"May I ask the origins of your name, Señor?"

I smile at him. "Short for Mancowski."

He leans into the car window to take an even closer look at my face. "Mancowski?"

I point to my face, "Blue Polish eyes."

Beside me, I can hear Alicia start to giggle.

"Blue Polish eyes," she sings. "Bluer than eyes in all of Mexico."

The agent can't see or hear her, but I can.

I start to laugh. The agent doesn't like it.

"What's so funny, Doctor?"

I squeeze Alicia's thigh, and she lets out a little moan, "Oh, Carlitos."

"Shhhh," I whisper to her as I try to focus on the agent.

"It's just that I've been explaining that name all my life."

"I see," the agent says. "Perhaps you should have changed your name to Manzanero." He thinks about it. "Yes, Carlos Manzanero. Then everyone would know you're of Mexican descent."

"I wish I'd thought of that."

"It's not too late to change again, Señor." The agent gives me a self-satisfied smile.

Alicia sticks her tongue out at him. She is especially cheery this morning. And she should be. Everything seems to be going very well for her.

The agent can't see the ghosts who sit in the back of my car either. Paco is making faces at him. The Goth girl retains her usual mournful expression. The agent sees none of this.

"And your passport, Señor?" the agent asks Assad.

My friend reaches out from the back seat and hands over his passport. The agent takes it. Assad has become an American citizen just as I have.

"I won't even try to say your last name," the agent says as he returns the document to Assad.

"A real United Nations you've got going here, Doctor. Now, how about the young women in the back?"

The girls look frightened. They have put on the clothes Alicia stole from the Gap: boxy, unflattering, loose-fitting T-shirts, cargo pants, and ugly red sandals. Mr. Fu secretively gives passports to the girls, and they hand them over to the agent.

Ghost counterfeiting, I think, as I watch all this, a great-untapped resource. If Mr. Fu was interested, he could make a small fortune right here at the Mexican border. But he doesn't care about fortunes, does he ... or borders.

The agent studies the pictures in the passports. He looks at the girls, then back at the passports, and then he merely hands the documents back.

"Have a nice visit in Mexico, Dr. Manzanero," he says as he waves me on. "Hope you enjoy your stay."

"I'm sure I will," I say, though that's far from the truth. The moment we are in Mexico I start obsessing about the drug war Alicia has mentioned, the one that is brewing between Señor Popcorn and his rivals.

We're driving right into it.

#

The Chrysler 300 swallows up the miles between the US border and Mexico City. On the far eastern horizon, the mountains rise as angry shadows, almost calling out a warning about the conflicts that have come to their country.

We drink water and eat chips and fruit and cold sandwiches that we bought in San Diego. We see very few cars on this interminable highway. We stop at little gas stations and stores. Almost no one bothers us in spite of our American car. To all onlookers, I am Mexican. Assad may be too.

The girls only leave the car for brief bathroom breaks. I insist that Alicia accompany them in secret, and advise them in case anyone decides to get fresh. It only happens once. In a small store and gas station just outside of Ciudad Delicias. A big, black Jeep Cherokee pulls up beside the girls as they head to the ladies room in the back of the building. Two scrawny toughs in leather vests and too many tattoos climb from the rumbling vehicle and begin calling to the girls in English.

"Hey, hottie! Come' ere babe!"

As much as Alicia would like to abandon her rivals right then and there, she enjoys scaring people too much to let the opportunity pass. And so, when the larger of the bad guys moves toward Veronica, Alicia suddenly lets out a ghostly wail and lifts the girl high off the ground. She floats Veronica above the bewildered young men and blows into Veronica's hair causing it to wave wickedly about her face. Veronica is so frightened that she turns dead white and begins shrieking incoherently in Chinese. This terrifies the toughs.

Then, with another one of her blood-curdling wails, Alicia swoops Veronica right at them, as though she were some kind of Chinese-superhero-girl diving in for the kill. The expression on Veronica's face is horrified and horrifying.

Both scrawny tough guys turn and rush back to the Cherokee. They clamber aboard and roar away from the place in a panic.

At that moment, Alicia, Amy, and Veronica become sisters as they laugh, cheer, and share in this mighty victory over macho cowardice and stupidity.

Now, as we cruise on into the evening, Alicia makes a long cell phone call to Señor Popcorn. She tells him more about Amy and Veronica. She called him immediately after our meeting in the Purgatory Bookstore. The old man is still delighted that the girls are coming to stay with him.

"Ghost phone calls are just so amazing!" Alicia says after the call. "And Señor Popcorn is so eager for Amy and Veronica to come. He thinks it's a chance to add some exotic spices to his collection."

"You like being called exotic spices?" I ask the girls in the back seat.

"Beats being guinea pigs for cosmetic butchery," Amy answers.

Chapter 40

"Wait," Alicia calls. "We're coming to it."

We've been driving in total blackness for hours. Stars offer pinpoints of light that are no help at all. The moonlight is worthless.

I slow down.

Then Alicia calls out again. "Now! Right over there! See that dirt road?"

The car is crawling, and I can just make out a little intersection where a narrow, rutted dirt road heads off toward the mountains. Even the high granite peaks are nearly invisible now; their only sign of existence, jagged edges that cut across the swirl of stars near the horizon.

"Take it, take it, take it!" Alicia screams. She jumps up and down in her seat.

The Chrysler creeps onto the dirt road, and we slowly begin bouncing our way along. A cloud of dust kicks up behind us and obliterates any connection we might have with that small asphalt thread to humanity.

"I'm famished," Assad moans. There is a long silence, and Amy softly adds, "Me too."

"Sorry about all this," I whisper to my car.

"You will not be asking forgiveness from your car much longer, mi amor," Alicia says, and she grabs me by the face and smacks a big wet kiss on my cheek. "You will be offering your thanks to me when you find out what's at the end of this road."

"How far is it?" I ask.

"Another 30 miles."

"And what will we find there?" Assad wonders.

"El curandero."

I sigh and decide not to say, "So what?" Only Alicia, Paco and I know that El curandero means shaman, medicine man. That's hardly what we need right now.

The thirty miles of dirt road requires an hour and a half of brain-pounding, teeth-chattering ride. Midway through the journey, Veronica asks, "Are we out of food?"

"There's water," her sister answers, "and a few carrot sticks. But they're soggy ... been soaking in melted ice water all day." She opens the little cooler that's sitting at her feet.

"There's also the corner of a water-logged sandwich."

"Euuuu, so gross," Jenny Beck groans.

The torturous ride goes on, and just when we think we can't stand it anymore:

"It's there! It's there! Right there!" Alicia calls. And out of the night and the swirling dust we get a brief vision of a dilapidated adobe building tucked back into the nothingness.

We pull up beside it, and Alicia immediately jumps from the car and rushes toward the building. Before she can even get to the battered old door, one of the most beautiful ghosts I have ever seen in my life comes sweeping out and wraps her arms around my wife. They hug almost like lovers. Then a scrawny ghost wearing a serape and Indian leather pants joins them. They dance around each other laughing and singing. A second Indian exits the building. This guy's not a ghost, but he's every bit as thin and wispy as they are. He greets them individually and then hobbles over to the car.

"Carlitos?" he asks.

"That's me."

Then he looks into the back. "Paco, old friend, how are you?"

I'm amazed because, at this exact moment, I can't see Paco. He isn't revealing himself to humans.

"Don Pepito, Curandero," Paco calls. "This is my girlfriend, Jenny Beck."

"As if ..." Jenny moans.

"And this is Mr. Fu and Assad and the two sisters, Amy and Veronica."

"Greetings to you all," Don Pepito says nodding to each of us. He's not distinguishing between the living and the dead. Curanderos, I remember, are always able to see ghosts.

"You're just in time for supper," he says, "I hope you have appetites after that long, bouncy ride."

"I could eat a goat," Assad answers quickly. "If you have one, that is, otherwise ..."

"Pigs and chickens?"

"Yes, I can definitely eat them too. Let's go." And Assad pushes forward on the back of my seat forcing me to get out of the car. Soon both the dead and living are standing around my car, which the gray dust of the road has almost turned into another ghost. The moon finally peeks above the mountains causing the glassy sand on the car to glisten frighteningly.

"Your car is one of us now, Carlitos," Alicia says, and then she urges her ghost friends to come up and meet me.

"This is my friend, Sylvia."

I hold out my hand, but the beautiful Sylvia brushes by it and gives me a damn thrilling hug. At that moment I'm again amazed by how firm the bodies of these ghostly girls can be.

"And this is Don Mario, the curandero who saved Luis only to be murdered by him," Alicia says. The Indian ghost nods in my direction.

"I too am a victim of El Cojo," Sylvia says as she brushes back her long beautiful mane to reveal her neck, and I see a jagged scar that slices across her throat.

"I remember Alicia telling me."

"No time to dwell on evil deeds and evildoers, amigos," Don Pepito, the living shaman says. He pulls me toward his cabin. "Time to eat."

My mouth starts watering as I tune in to the delicious aromas coming from the cabin: mole sauce and corn tortillas, carnitas and cheeses, roasted chicken, and fresh salsa with cilantro.

"That smell is magnificent!" Assad is right behind him.

I turn to the Chinese sisters and see that they're as thrilled as the rest of us. We struggle toward the little building, and as soon as the door opens, brightness sweeps over us. Mariachi music blares from somewhere inside.

"Fiesta!" Alicia says as she begins to dance around; it makes me happy as hell. My girl really knows how to party.

#

It is now two hours later, and the living members of our group are feasting on mole enchiladas, chili rellenos, rice, beans, tortillas, and salsa. Alicia and Paco are entertaining us with wild dances and songs. The other ghosts seem to enjoy serving us.

Don Pepito and I are gulping down shots of tequila, as is Amy Joy. Her sister has a glass in front of her, but she only takes dainty sips.

Sylvia ladles more frijoles onto Veronica's plate and watches her wolf them down. "You must be very hungry," she says to Veronica who, in spite of her slim waistline, is eagerly sopping up rice and beans with a corn tortilla.

"You remind me of someone I saw two days ago," Sylvia says to Veronica. "A woman looked very much like you, only older and," she stops, searches for the English words, and finally gives up, "más perverso."

"What does that mean?"

"More than wicked," I say, and Amy drops her fork and just stares at Sylvia.

"Where did you see her ... what was she wearing?"

"I always notice what a woman is wearing," Sylvia says flashing those bright eyes of hers. "It was a tight-fitting blue silk dress. How could I forget a dress like that? It was so ... sexy."

"Her hair was black?"

"Si."

"And there was a slit up the side of the dress?"

"Yes, showing the most beautiful legs."

"Her heels were ..."

"Gigantico!"

"And her eyes?"

"Ice!"

Both Joy sisters suddenly freeze with their mouths open. They haven't even finished chewing their beans. Alicia reaches over and pushes up on their chins closing their mouths and bringing the girls back to life.

"Let's not panic yet," I say. "Where did you see this woman?"

Sylvia answers, "One of my old haunts in Guadalajara. It's called El Coyote Azul." The Blue Coyote.

"Was she alone?"

"No, there was a handsome gentleman with her. He was tall, black hair slicked back. I whispered inviting words in his ear several times, but he was as cold as the woman beside him. I wish I could remember what he called her?"

"Mother," I say.

"Yes, that's it."

"Fuck!" We're all shocked to hear Veronica say the word. "Mother and Father are here already."

"Were they meeting with someone?" I ask.

"Oh dear, you don't really want to know this," Sylvia's says.

"Just tell me," I say.

"El Mago," Sylvia says as though she despises both the name and the man who bears it.

"Maclovio Renta," Alicia curses. "The Magician."

"Who is he?"

"Señor Popcorn's rival it the drug trade," Sylvia answers, "the man who wants to take over his operation in Mexico City. He's called El Mago because as soon as the Federales think they have him ... he disappears."

"And also because he does these stupid little magic tricks for kids," Alicia adds.

"Yes. Just before he entered El Coyote Azul, he stopped to watch a little girl playing with her doll on the street. He talked to the girl sweetly, and when she smiled at him, he pretended to pull a big gold coin out of her ear. It was a clumsy trick, but she was thrilled. And then he gave her the coin, kissed her on the forehead, and went into the club to discuss murder."

"Is that what they were talking about? Did you overhear his conversation with the Chinese?"

"It was easy for me; I'm a ghost, remember. It's just that I didn't think that it was important. Mother and ..."

"Father," Amy whispers.

"Yes, Mother and Father were talking about joint operations with El Mago, saying that their businesses complemented each other very well."

"Fuck!" Now I'm the one saying it.

I slam down another shot of tequila and turn to Assad. "So Señor Popcorn's rival and the Joy Lum Clan are joining forces."

"Drugs and sex slaves on both sides of the border," Assad says. "Can Señor Popcorn stand up to them?"

"He is a strong and clever man," Alicia answers. "But then the Chinese ..."

"They have powerful ancestral forces on their side."

These are the first words Mr. Fu has said in a very long time. But they're critical.

"Are there any ancestral forces that we can tap into?" I ask the assembled ghosts.

They look back at me without any answers. But then Don Pepito speaks up, "Perhaps. I need to think about that a little." Then he sighs and slowly begins to smile.

"But, enough of this talk of Mother and Father and magicians and murderers. It is not good for you to spend the evening on such negative thoughts. They will greet you in the morning. For tonight, let's clear our heads and enjoy our time together. It will make us stronger. And besides, in any case ..." he slugs down another shot of tequila, "... God's will will be God's will."

"Amen," I answer and slam another tequila shot of my own.

I don't want to be too sacrilegious.

Chapter 41

The next morning, we drench the big Chrysler with well water and wham! It's not a ghost car anymore. The windshield is finally clear. The body is clean, ready for the next coat of dust, which it'll get as we head back out on the dirt road.

We say farewell to Don Pepito. The old medicine man offers us no new advice except that there are spiritual forces out there somewhere and they will help us ... maybe.

I flip through my own catalog of methods to defeat evil Chinese spirits. I remember beating Mr. Lum in the logic contest, but I doubt that he'll fall for that one again.

"Maybe a boxing match," I suggest to Alicia as we get into the car and begin the bumpy ride back to the main highway. She smiles at me.

"You're funny," she says not really meaning it, and then she picks up my cell phone just before it rings. Guess she's clairvoyant too.

"¡Hola!"

There is a long silence as my ghost wife listens and nods. "Si, San Martin, si."

There's much serious conversation; she frowns, her eyes darken, and then she forces a smile and a happy tone into her voice.

"¡Oh, es maravilloso, Miguel! Dime mas."

"What's wonderful?" Sylvia calls from the back of the car. She's decided to come along with us. "What do you want him to tell you?"

Alicia motions for her friend to be quiet and continues her conversation.

"Oh, you are so lucky," she says. "Of course I'll be in the wedding." She spins back to Sylvia, "Can ghosts be in weddings? No? Well, we'll do wonderful things for you on your wedding night then ... No?"

I grab the phone away from Alicia.

"Miguel, what the hell's going on?"

"Señor Carlitos?" I hear him ask.

"Carlos, yeah, Alicia's husband. What's happening?"

"I already explained it all to Alicia. She'll tell you everything."

And then he hangs up on me.

"WHAT?" I say to Alicia, as my obsession with the coming dangers starts to tingle through me. She shrugs.

"Miguel is getting married," she says, "to a wonderful Mexican girl named Marie Elena."

I slam on the brakes, and the car takes a wicked bounce before it comes to a complete stop. For several minutes the dust swirls around us, and we're totally blind. If another car comes at us in the other direction, we won't see a thing. Neither will they, probably. Head-on collision! But that doesn't matter. I'm ready to strangle my dead wife.

"Don't talk to me about Miguel," I growl. "Don't you realize ..."

Alicia digs her nails into my arm; her eyes burn into mine as she whispers, "Of course I realize."

I look into the back of the car; these people's lives depend on us. They trust us, but at the moment they don't seem to understand that we're driving into a nightmare.

"Calma," Alicia whispers and then she moves much closer to me.

"Señor Popcorn has moved his entire operation to his compound in San Martin. He knows that El Mago is coming after him, and he wants to be well protected."

"San Martin's a rich suburb?"

"Yes, and who's richer than Señor Popcorn?"

"Has the fighting started yet?" (We're both still whispering.)

"I don't think so. This is just preparation."

"Did Miguel mention anything about the Joy Lum Clan joining forces with El Mago?"

"We didn't get into that." She continues to whisper as she tips her head toward the back seat. "I think Miguel's wedding is more appropriate for them to hear about than the dangers ahead, don't you, mi amor?"

"But we could be spending the rest of the drive making plans."

"Let's let Señor Popcorn do that. He's very good at it."

I glance in the rearview mirror. Everyone is looking at us wondering what the hell we're talking about. Alicia doesn't want to alarm them, especially the Joy sisters. I get it.

Mr. Fu stares at me with troubled eyes. He alone understands the difficulty, but even he might be willing to defer to Señor Popcorn's planning skills.

"Okay, go on," I whisper. "Might as well give our passengers something positive to think about for the rest of the ride."

Alicia smiles at me and turns to the back seat. "Miguel's wedding is such wonderful news."

"Yes, it is," Sylvia calls. "How did it happen?"

"Well, apparently when Miguel returned to Mexico City, he was very lonely. He was doing all the bars near Señor Popcorn's estate, hitting on every tramp he could find, especially the blonde bimbos with the big breasts ..."

"Yucchhh!" That's Jenny Beck who, in spite of being a Goth girl, is amazingly tuned-in to all this.

"So, then this beautiful Mexican flower-seller comes into the bar late one night, right up to Miguel and asks if he wants to buy some roses for his latest girlfriend."

"Sweet."

"Right! And then Miguel realizes that the flower girl is a thousand times more beautiful than the bimbos. And even though there's no way she'll sleep with him that night because she's wearing this big ornate crucifix and all ..."

My wife is distracting everyone very well ... except me.

The dust finally settles onto the road. The way is clear. I wish there were something to count or sort, or something, but there isn't unless I just make a list of the dangers we'll be facing. And so I begin a new and very terrible obsession.

A brief warning flits through my mind. I want to grab it and hold onto it:

Obsessives always imagine the worst possible outcome, and they go over it in their minds, again and again, making it worse and worse every time. It's a defense mechanism because, when obsessive people learn that things aren't as horrible as they expect them to be, there is this incredible feeling of relief that only comes after hours or days of worrying.

That's what Dr. Greer has told me about my condition. But I choose to ignore him. I can't tear myself away from the fact that we are facing terrible dangers. What are they?

Well, for starters, what about all the ghosts I've encountered in the last few days. A lot of them are good, right, but just as many are evil, and there are a few I'm not too sure of. So the first step in my new obsession is to start cataloging the ghosts.

1. Alicia, my wife ... definitely on my side

2. Sylvia, Alicia's model friend who was murdered by Luis ... she's got to be a good guy

3. Mr. Fu, the ancient Chinese ghost ... another good guy

4. Mr. Lum, founder of the Joy Lum Clan ... definitely a baddie

5. Paco, a ghost friend of Alicia's from who-knows-where ... a friend; he's saved us a couple of times and referred us to the Purgatory Ghosts

6. Jenny Beck, one of the Purgatory Ghosts but really just some teen freak who's supposedly good at scaring people ... whatever

7. Charlie O'Sullivan, who lured me into a trap on Mount Shasta ... a traitor who's being shunned by the others

8. Carlyle August, Cary Grant look-alike and founder of the Purgatory Bookstore, who turned into a bear and saved us on Mount Shasta ... definitely a good guy

9. Chantal Nightingale, former nurse; Alicia said Chantal saved her in Sinaqua ... must be on our side

10. Mr. Friedman, elderly ghost safecracker who also helped save Alicia ... probably on our side

11. Royce Brilliant, a handsome gay biker who tried to defend O'Sullivan ... who knows where he stands, but he's not in Mexico with us anyway

12. Don Mario, the curandero who saved Luis only to be shot by him ... seems he has more reason than most to help us, but he stayed behind with Don Pepito, the other curandero, the living one, who did say something about ghost help as we left ... so what, no real help there probably, or as Jenny would say, "whatever"

13. The Joy Lum family ghosts; haven't seen many of them but I hear they're damn nasty ... bad guys

Hell of a lot of ghosts, I think to myself, and there may be more. Maybe Mr. Fu has ghost friends he can call on. Maybe Don Pepito does have connections with the spirit world. Maybe he can call up some whole other tribe to help us just as the Greek warrior ghosts did.

I'm wired now, running on pure OCD, so I go through the lists four more times looking for errors.

I hear a sigh and look over at Alicia. She's studying me with a worried look. "Obsessions compulsing?" she asks. I shrug and turn away from her. There's plenty more to obsess about.

1. I have finally been reunited with my Alicia, and I can't bear to be parted from her again. But she may become a victim here. Even though she's already dead, I know there are ways she can be hurt, perhaps even snuffed out of existence.

2. What if Mr. Lum (that perverted trader in human flesh) decides to capture her in one of those ghost traps of his ... what if he realizes the power of places like Sinaqua, Arizona—home of vortexes that can weaken, torture, and annihilate even someone as strong as my wife?

3. I'm dragging these beautiful, innocent Chinese girls deeper and deeper into Mexico in an effort to save them from Mother and Father who we now know are already here.

4. Señor Popcorn, the man we thought would be our savior, is already on the run, hiding from a vicious enemy in a suburban town that cannot possibly prevent the kind of war his enemies want to wage against him.

5. What if, in the end, Amy and Veronica are recaptured and sent back to that sadistic Dr. Hoi in Sacramento where he tortures and mutilates them?

6. What if they are then kept alive as freaks for him to humiliate even further?

7. What if Assad and Señor Popcorn and even lover-boy Miguel are captured and put to death?

8. What if, in the end, the bad guys really win, the drug lord El Mago takes over all of Mexico, and the slave trade spreads throughout the country? Thousands of innocent women and children will be caught up in it and sold into slavery.

I stop. I'm sweating. My hands have been gripping the steering wheel so tightly that now there are ridges in them.

"Calma," my sweet wife says to me again with an understanding look. I give her a nod, but I can't be calm. Did I get all this right? I have to be sure. My sick mind tells me that I have to go back through both lists all over again ... and then again ... and then again ... and then again until I can't stand it any longer.

Assad is reading from A Travel Guide to Mexico:

San Martin is a centuries-old residential area outside of Mexico City. The Aztec emperors used to go there to avoid the heat of the capital, and today many wealthy residents of the big city have second homes there. The place is renown for its historic architecture, beautiful trees, and moderate climate. It is a center for international visitors who come there to study the Spanish language in a local setting.

#

As the skies darken into night, I realize that Señor Popcorn's compound is just outside of San Martin. He owns a 60-acre walled complex with many buildings, pools and even a small chapel.

We pull up to the front gate, and I press the button on the entry box.

"¿Quién es?" asks a tough male voice.

Before I can answer, my wife sings out.

"Hola, Miguel. Es Alicia."

Miguel says nothing, but there's a massive slamming of gears, and the gate begins swinging inward.

We move down a driveway that seems as long as the ride from Guadalajara. It's three lanes wide. On the right is a high row of perfectly formed cypress trees; on the left are manicured grounds, fountains, pools and bikini-clad models still at play.

"Maybe Señor Popcorn thinks girls are decorations," Assad suggests.

"Maybe you are crazy too," Alicia answers angrily. She crosses her arms.

"Stupido!" That's Sylvia from the back seat.

I don't say anything. I've just run through my obsessive scenario for the hundredth time. I'm exhausted but feeling a little better. I'm finally ready to give up on it, at least.

"Te amo, mi amor," Alicia says as she squeezes my arm. "Relax, okay, please."

By now we've reached the main hacienda. The building is white stucco with a red tile roof and big red shutters. The entry extends over a circular driveway that swings around an enormous fountain. The whole place feels like a grand hotel.

Miguel and Señor Popcorn are at the door in an instant. Alicia and Sylvia swoop out from the car and begin embracing them. Señor Popcorn, gentleman that he is, fights them off and comes right to my door.

"Dr. Mann," he says. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for a very long time."

As I step from the car, he recognizes the concern on my face. I see the same look move into his eyes. We share that feeling of desperation for a long moment. Then he shrugs, pats me on the back, and we both laugh.

"Whatever."

Assad steps from the other side of the car. He helps the two Chinese beauties out and then leads them to the old man.

The girls bow before Señor Popcorn.

"Especias exóticas," Miguel says when he sees them. His nostrils are flaring. Señor Popcorn observes this and stomps unceremoniously on Miguel's foot. "You're engaged now," he says. "Be a man."

"I can at least look," Miguel answers.

"If you were married to Alicia, and she caught you studying these young women," I sigh, "you'd find your apartment in ruins."

"That would be the least of it!" she adds.

All this fuss thrills the Joy sisters, who are giggling and blushing.

"But those clothes," Señor Popcorn says. "Was someone trying to make you look ugly?"

There's a general silence as Alicia turns away from everyone.

"Oh well," the old man continues, "I'll have newer, more flattering fashions provided for you. And, in the meantime, you can wear bikinis."

More giggles all around.

Now it's evening. Señor Popcorn, Miguel, Assad, and I get down to serious business. We're having brandy and cigars after an enormous meal of carne asada and all that goes with it.

"Have you heard that El Mago has joined forces with these girls' parents?" I ask.

"Human traffickers?" Miguel asks.

"For generations."

"It's a business I choose to stay out of," Señor Popcorn says.

"The problem is they have a lot of resources they can bring against you."

"Spiritual forces too," Assad adds.

The four of us sit in silence considering the danger we are in. And then a bomb explodes right in the center of the compound.

The war is on.

Chapter 42

Suddenly it feels like we're defending the Alamo.

There are 180 of us, not counting the ghosts. (Señor Popcorn has had all his girls trained to be crack shots. So they're part of the hundred and eighty defenders.)

There are walkways atop all the walls that surround the compound. Guards stand on these and look out at the neighboring roads watching for massing troops. But Señor Popcorn's property is isolated enough so that even an out-and-out siege wouldn't bring military or even police intervention.

In the 21st century, there are a hell of a lot of mechanized ways to take down your enemy ... as the bombed-out crater in the center of the compound reminds us. It seems that El Mago, with all his wealth and arms, should be a deadly adversary. But Señor Popcorn is confident. I'm not.

At midnight El Mago's men launch a series of grenade strikes. They slam into the buildings in the corners of the estate, knocking out sheds and small barns that hold next to nothing. El Mago may not know as much about the actual make-up of the compound as we think he does.

Señor Popcorn's guards have medium-range weapons of their own, and they're able to knock out three of the grenade launchers almost instantly. And that's how the first night ends, with only limited destruction and no death. But it's only the beginning.

The morning brings bazooka fire. It blasts down the door of the compound allowing El Mago's soldiers to rush in firing their AK 47s. Fifty of Señor Popcorn's best-trained men meet them. These elite guards fall behind barricades that have been set up at strategic intervals between the front gate and the hacienda. The gunfire is overwhelming. Whenever there's the slightest break in the shooting, El Mago's men rush forward sometimes using their rifles as clubs as they reach the next row of barricades and begin pounding our men into hamburger.

Our guys, who have made it to the most forward positions, fall back. They deliver a steady stream of firepower, but the endless surge of El Mago's troops overwhelms them.

Another round of gunfire, more hand-to-hand combat and slaughter. Suddenly, Miguel and another one of Señor Popcorn's men charge forward carrying a machine gun. They fall to the ground several yards in front of the hacienda, entirely in the open. For a split second, they dare the enemy to shoot them. But then they're up and firing.

Round after round of machine gun fire blasts the bad guys. The bullets spray endlessly, mowing down men and barricades alike. In less then ten minutes Miguel has turned the tide. The enemy swarms out the main gate and into the growing heat of the morning.

We cheer, re-group, pray, and prepare for another attack.

Señor Popcorn's girls are now on the roof of the big house. They have single-shot rifles that should be able to take down a lot of the bad guys during their next assault. Even the Joy sisters are going there. As they head up, I check them out. In their army surplus camo gear and big boots, they look like warriors.

Assad and I are on the porch forming the next wave that will charge out into the compound. We don't have to wait long before the battle begins.

Behind the rush of El Mago's warriors, two more teams of bad guys set up grenade launchers right inside our entryway. They obliterate the central part of the compound blowing away barricades and some of our soldiers at the same time.

Miguel fires his machine gun in return, blasting endless rounds at the invaders. The girls on the rooftop are destroying the advancing enemy with high precision. Then two of El Mago's men race from one of the forward barricades. They come around from the blind side of Miguel's position and begin firing into it. Miguel turns the machine gun on them, but he's too late. A slam from the butt of an AK 47 and he's sprawled across the compound floor while the bad guys seize our machine gun and turn it against us.

The enemy now fires at the girls on the roof. There are desperate screams and bodies falling everywhere. I see a girl Alicia just introduced me to. She falls forward over the edge of the roof and just hangs there, staring at me with dead eyes. I even remember her name, Chula Contreras, one of the most beautiful models of them all.

Next, the gun targets the front of the hacienda, the huge fountain, and the windows, doorways, and porch. This is where Assad and I wait to begin our charge. But now men and women are falling on all sides. Machine gun fire blasts all around us. We drop behind a wall of planters filled with bright red roses.

I jump up and gun down one of the enemy who charges the house. Then I kill another. This one looks like he's maybe seventeen as he falls forward at my feet and stares blankly up at me. I lock in on those young eyes. I'm frozen, caught in a study of the details of the young man's face ... who is he ... where is he from ... who is his family?

Assad slams against me hard, knocking me from my feet, a gunshot wound grazing his shoulder as he does. He falls beside me, and I snap back to my senses. My friend has been shot. I scramble to my knees and drag him back into the house.

The bad guys now bring the grenade launchers up from the entryway and position them beside the machine gun. They start pelting explosives at the far corners of the house. They fire incessantly. Half of our men are in front of the hacienda, dead. Another ten women on the roof have either fallen dead onto the floor of the compound or backward into the open courtyard just inside the front door. Two girls slump tragically from the edge of the roof. It's a slaughter.

I look at Assad. Thank God, the wound is minor. Alicia brings a basin and some cloths and takes care of it. She's pissed. She really wants to be a warrior, not Clara Barton. But there's nothing she can do against this mechanized enemy.

And then ... the guns fall silent.

Through the smoke of the battle, three tall men make their way toward the hacienda. The one at the very center is dressed in black and wears a gray Stetson hat. He stands beside the machine gun with his hands on his hips as he surveys the carnage.

Miguel is nearby; suddenly he jumps up and aims a pistol at the man in the gray hat. One of the others kicks the pistol from Miguel's hand and then slams a boot heel into his face.

"Take him!" the man in the gray hat calls. And the two men beside this central figure, who has to be El Mago, drag Miguel back through the compound and out the main gate.

"I have you, Cervantes," El Mago calls. "You're nothing now! I can snap my fingers and turn your entire world into garbage." And then he laughs, "Want to see me do it?"

No one says a word.

"It's only that I want your home very much ..." El Mago continues, "and your chicas too. So, I'll make a deal with you, popcorn man. Leave the girls and your hacienda for me. Take your men, clear out by tomorrow morning, and I'll let you go."

In the back of the great house, Señor Popcorn is listening. No one can see him but me. He smiles. Leaving the house for El Mago is, in fact, one of the possibilities that the old man has been hoping for.

"You have the night to think about it," El Mago rages. "I'll rule this place and all your beautiful women. I'll be their new king, not a popcorn king, a magical king: El Rey Mago!"

I look at the grim faces of Señor Popcorn's men and women. There are tears in many eyes. There is anger, despair, and hatred. But as I watch the face of Señor Popcorn, I do not see that look.

"If I find you here in the morning," El Mago continues to shout as he looks from one tragic face to another, "I will kill you all, every fucking one of you! You too, Cervantes!"

He turns then, and behind a protective shield of his own troops, he marches from the defeated compound.

Chapter 43

It's midnight. We gather around Señor Popcorn ... now, only eighty men and ten women ... all that's left of his army. The Joy sisters, Assad and I are still alive. So is a pretty señorita who Alicia now cradles in her arms. She is crying; so are a lot of the others. But this pretty young girl is beside herself. And then I realize she's Marie Elena, the flower girl who hopes to marry Miguel.

Señor Popcorn clears his throat and starts: "First of all, there's no way in hell El Mago is going to let us get out of here alive," he says. "As we try to leave, his sharpshooters will pick us off."

He pauses to let the danger sink in, like we need that, and then he continues.

"Of course, I've got a contingency plan."

He smiles. We're all hoping that Señor Popcorn's new plan will be more successful than the last one.

"The stables have a bunker below the floor," the popcorn man says. "It's stocked with food, TV, clothing and everything we need to stay there for six or seven months if we have to. But we won't need six months or even six days."

"How do you know?" Assad asks.

"Because the whole compound is mined," the old man answers. "There's enough explosives under the hacienda and the rest of the compound to blow it, El Mago, and all his men straight to hell."

He smiles. So do I, and the rest of the men, and all his girls who now realize that they may not be left behind after all.

But one person isn't smiling. Marie Elena whimpers: "What about Miguel?" And at that very moment, there's a pounding at the door.

Few of us notice it. But then the pounding comes again. It sounds like it's going to break the door down. Señor Popcorn nods toward the doorway, and three of his soldiers go to it. Two of them flank the door while another opens it carefully. Marie Elena jumps to her feet. There, in the doorway is her Miguel. He's severely beaten, and blood is pouring from his hands even though they're wrapped in bandages.

"Miguel!" she rushes to him. One soldier pulls the battered man inside while the others step through the doorway looking for whatever son of a bitch left him there. There's no sight of anyone.

They bring Miguel to the center of the room, right in front of Señor Popcorn. Alicia is there with a bowl of fresh water and clean dressing for his wounds. She unwraps the bandages to reveal that Miguel's hands have been massacred. The index finger on each has been chopped right off. Marie Elena faints. Several of the onlookers turn away in horror.

"They will pay," Señor Popcorn vows through clenched teeth.

Miguel sits there stoically letting Alicia tend to his brutalized hands. After a long moment, the old man continues to explain his plan.

"The bunker under the stable has walls ten feet thick," he says. "They're entirely able to withstand the explosions that will destroy the rest of the compound.

"Tomorrow night when El Mago and his men have taken the hacienda, we'll detonate the charge from the bunker and blow up the place. We'll kill them all."

There's a cheer from the crowd.

"We're with you, boss."

"We like it."

The support grows. Many are smiling, even Miguel.

"Of course, we lose the house, the pools, and the fountains. But what else can we do?"

The place goes silent and then a very calm voice speaks up.

"Perhaps there is another way."

The ghost of Mr. Fu flits forward through the hall. The crowd is calm. They've seen Alicia's ghost and even Sylvia's. This Chinese ghost isn't really that different, is he?

"I am surprised that the evil Mr. Lum and his spirit friends have not yet joined forces with El Mago," Mr. Fu says.

"They didn't need to." Assad's comments are starting to have a caustic tone.

"Yes, but we can still take advantage of the situation," Mr. Fu says. "I'm ashamed that the only contact you have had with our Chinese people, other than these innocent Joy sisters, are human traffickers and sadists. Ours is a centuries-old tradition of hard work and wisdom. I know that there are many spirits who would love to ..." he looks around unsure of the right words "... how can I put this ... ah yes, set the record straight?"

"That isn't necessary," Señor Popcorn says.

"But yes, it is," Mr. Fu says. "Don't give in. Just remain here. Then when El Mago's soldiers arrive tomorrow morning, allow my honorable ancestors to take over.

"They have their ways; they have their secrets. I'm sure you'll see that they will be quite effective."

"And if they fail?" I ask.

"Plan B," Assad answers. "We blow El Mago and his men into piles of shit, which they already are!"

See what I mean about Assad's caustic comments?

"Very good. I like that." Señor Popcorn looks at each of us. "Only, to play it safe, most of us will already be in the bunker. Of course, we'll need a few volunteers to stay above ground and face the bad guys until Mr. Fu's ancestors show up."

Assad, the Joy girls, Alicia, the rest of the ghosts, the rest of the soldiers and I (in fact, everyone) volunteer.

#

Brightly colored birds zoom crazily above the twisted wreckage of yesterday's battle. Some are foolish enough to hop down onto the tattered barricades and offer their songs as a challenge to the horrors of today. I watch them from my position in front of the doorway to the hacienda. In the flowerpots before me, huge bumblebees wander like drunkards from flower to flower. Beyond them, several of Señor Popcorn's soldiers sit chatting and cleaning their rifles. Assad is in the opposite corner of the porch, standing in full view of anyone and everyone. He's trying to twirl his pistol.

The whole scene is meant to tell the bad guys that we aren't going anywhere. Maybe even the birds and the bees are part of the team. Maybe all of us, and Mother Nature too, are telling El Mago to go fuck himself.

We're the first things a small contingent of bad guys sees as they move through the main gate. They stop, look confused, and then head back to their camp to file a report. We're still here. We have no intention of leaving.

Minutes later, El Mago's engineers drag grenade launchers and the machine gun back through the entryway. They begin putting together weapons they think will annihilate all of us.

Birds continue to sing; bees continue to buzz. Except for the guns, it feels like a Walt Disney cartoon.

Then, suddenly, lightning flashes!

The skies turn more than dark. It's like midnight has returned in an instant. Thunder rumbles and raindrops as big as buckets of water begin splattering across the compound and the soldiers.

El Mago's men keep assembling the weapons, except the weapons aren't cooperating. It's as though, in the middle of this darkness and pouring rain, the weapons are fighting with the soldiers. The grenade launchers and machine-gun disassemble themselves as quickly as the soldiers put them together. One bad guy slams in a cartridge, and the gun throws it right back out again.

A grenade-launcher begins walking away from the men who are setting it up. An entire belt of machine gun ammo flies into the air and starts firing in all directions. The bad guys run for cover.

Now, lightning hits the machine gun and turns it to cinders. Thunder explodes in the exact spot where the bad guys are hiding, and they take off out of the compound and back to their camp.

We start laughing as we watch. As dark as it is, as wet as we are, as distracted and terrified by the thunder and lightning, we feel great. Until, that is, we see the entire force of El Mago's army come through the entryway and begin moving toward us.

We assume our defensive positions. Then some badass commander in El Mago's infantry raises his gun and leads a charge across the compound. He and his men get halfway to us and run smack into a swirling wall of Chinese ghosts.

The blockade rises up a mile into the air and stops the enemy cold. Within it, ancient spirits seethe up, down, and around, flashing long claw-like hands and wild hungry teeth. The shapes shift from jolly old in-laws to horrific creatures straight out of Asian nightmares. They are dressed in tattered rags that can't hide their skeletal bodies. Then they shift back to their jolly selves again: old men with long stringy beards, wispy women with pale complexions, happy grandmothers stirring chopped vegetables in woks, fat old uncles who can't stop laughing. Then, in a flash, they are undead spirits again.

Monstrous serpents, dragons, and lions squirm between the shape-shifting ghosts. They flash their claws and bare their fangs. The entire vision so terrifies the bad guys that they retreat in total confusion.

In an instant, the battle is over. We have won. We cheer and move to the house to celebrate. The ghosts return to their most welcoming forms and come along too. Mr. Fu takes it upon himself to introduce each member of his ancestral family to Señor Popcorn, Alicia, the Joy sisters, and me.

The introductions and the celebrating last all afternoon and well into the night. Our scouts, on the walls around the compound, report that not a sound is coming from El Mago and his forces. Hopefully, no new plan is being hatched against us.

I mention this to some of the ghosts at the party.

"You wish ..." Jenny, the Goth girl, responds.

Chapter 44

It's not a knock at the front door; it's more like clawing. Sharp nails of some kind scrape down the entire length of the door from the very top to the bottom. It's three AM. The party is still in full swing. Half the girls and all the soldiers are totally wasted. Me too.

Almost no one hears the knock. And then it happens again.

Mr. Fu looks at me. His face turns from contentment to dread. He takes me by the arm and leads me to the door. He opens it, and we both peer out onto the dimly lit porch.

I sober up instantly.

There's a figure there, eight feet tall maybe, dressed in a black shroud with a hood. Not like I haven't seen this kind of thing before, I think, but the sheer size of the monster chills me. There's a smell about him too: charred wood and sulfur... fire and brimstone.

"Begone!" Fu calls as he raises his hands high above his head.

"Get the fuck out of here!" I add. It's the best thing I can come up with on the spur of the moment.

The thing starts to laugh, a deep horrible rumble that shakes the whole damn porch. He pulls back his robe, and we see a devil: cloven hooves, goat's legs, dark curly hair tangled all over his body. Enormous horns curl upward above an almost handsomely bearded face. His eyes are black. It's like a picture from one of our first-grade catechism books.

"Fuck off!" Again my response is instinctive.

This makes the devil laugh even harder, so hard that he bursts into flame. The fire melts him into the shape of a child. Then he blazes up again into a young man ... a young woman ... an old man ... a hag ... always on fire, burning now, flesh melting away until we are faced with the huge, cold, skeletal figure of Death itself. The fire goes out, and all that's left is this dark monster dressed in a black shroud.

The thing reaches into his robes and pulls out a card, a black card with black lettering on it. "A challenge," he roars with a voice from the tomb, and then he explodes into flame.

The porch catches fire. The blaze jumps through the doorway and engulfs the interior of the building. Within minutes the entire front part of the hacienda is burning.

Señor Popcorn and the others rush outside. Our ghosts vanish, all but Mr. Fu, Alicia, Paco, and Jenny Beck. Señor Popcorn races to the stables; the others follow him. Once inside, he pushes a remote control, and the floor opens up. We descend a broad stairway into the underground bunker. We're going into hiding after all.

The first room in the bunker is like an auditorium: rows of seats facing a stage with a podium. Señor Popcorn and I are on the stage. So is Fu. As the troops take their seats, Mr. Fu hands the popcorn man the black card. He twists it in the light so that the glossy letters are legible against the matte surface. There is only one word on the card: DEATH

Señor Popcorn moves to the podium and presses a button. The curtain behind him opens to reveal a gigantic HD site cam image of the compound. In the distance, the hacienda blazes out of control. Fire is now spreading along the compound walls, igniting small buildings near its edges. These explode one after another.

The old man's face twists in sorrow. Mr. Fu stares sadly at the devastation. And then DEATH rears up in the middle of the compound, right where the explosion dug the damn crater on the very first day of this nightmare. DEATH is now a hundred feet tall. He points a skeletal hand at the far corner of the compound, and figures emerge out of the clay: dirt figures that take human form, then ghostly form, then horrific undead form with hollow eyes, stringy hair, and rotting flesh. Somehow they are burning as they drag their long arms and legs over the ground. Flames surround them. They wail hopelessly.

"Hellghosts," Mr. Fu gasps. "Who knew that Mr. Lum had these kinds of connections?"

"Connections with the devil?" Señor Popcorn asks.

"Ties straight into hell!" Fu answers.

Though most of Señor Popcorn's troops made it into the bunker safely, a few guards chose to stay on the walls, and now these heroes fall as the ramparts burn out from under them. They hit the ground, only to be swarmed under by the hellghosts. In seconds, flames consume them; their flesh sears away to bare bones.

"Now, they'll come after us," Veronica calls, and her cry pushes the crowd toward hysteria.

"We're safe in here," Señor Popcorn shouts over the terror of the crowd, but the real-world scene of hellghosts straggling toward the stables is undeniably clear on the site cam screen behind him. DEATH leads the spirit band like some wacko pied piper. He reaches the corner of the building, raises one hand beyond the long, black sleeve of his shroud, points a bony index finger, and the whole stable bursts into flames.

The sound system from the TV lets us hear the crackle and pop of the building as it burns around us. We hear the cries of horses as they try to batter down their stalls and escape. They do, bolting from the stables and rushing right into the gathering throng of hellghosts. The monsters jump up onto the backs of the horses, immediately setting them aflame, melting away their flesh, turning them into ghost horses that they ride out across the compound and then back again.

"Christ Almighty!" calls Señor Popcorn, as he looks beyond the swirling mass of hellghosts. To the rear of the compound, he now sees El Mago and his men moving through the gateway and into position behind the great undead.

Señor Popcorn pushes buttons on the podium and the image on the screen cuts from pictures of the hellghost throng taken by a site cam on the very top of the burning stables, to a long shot from the far end of the compound. This one captures the hacienda as the final charred support beams collapse into a pile of rubble.

An army of hellghosts marches at us across the compound as undead riders charge through the place whooping, wailing, and screaming obscenely. An unmanned recon vehicle grabs a close-up of El Mago as he smiles triumphantly. The shot swings to the left and picks up Mr. Lum skittering through the compound beside him. The evil Chinese ghost looks quite pleased with the results of his business dealings.

I turn to those in the auditorium. In the back, Mr. Fu's ancestors are swarming nearly out of control. Occasionally, a dragon lets out a frustrated roar. They want to rejoin the battle.

"Alone they're no match for the hellghosts," Fu sighs. "They're willing to go to their doom, but to what avail?"

"Better than being burned alive in here," Assad answers as we all begin to feel the supernatural heat from DEATH and his minions. It's slowly melting the eight-foot-thick concrete walls of the compound.

In the audience, I can see the ghost of Jenny Beck looking out on the deadly attack.

"So gross," she moans.

Chapter 45

"Don Pepito sends his regards," Don Mario says.

The ghost of the skinny curandero materializes on the stage of the auditorium right beside me. "Have you kept the faith?"

I wonder what the hell he's talking about, faith in what? Faith in a promise some old shaman made as we left his shack in the desert?

The answer is, "No." I didn't keep the faith. I forgot all about it.

"No way he could send spirits to save us now," Assad says before I can even speak up.

"Of course he can," Alicia responds. She glides up onto the stage right beside us. She looks so hopeful.

"Don Pepito, being mortal, couldn't make the trip quickly enough," the ghost of Don Mario says, "but he did send spiritual forces to help you."

"To deal with hellghosts?" Mr. Fu asks.

Don Mario shakes his head sadly. "They are the very worst kind of spirits."

Everyone in the compound looks desperate. On the TV monitor behind us, we can see the forces of DEATH closing in on us from all sides.

"What did he send?" I ask. (Someone has to.)

"Don't look at me," Don Mario answers as he turns around and points up at the huge site cam screen. "Look up there."

And we do.

As the throng of hellghosts and El Mago's men swarm toward our hideout, thunderheads roar at them across the darkened sky. Lightning crackles. Thunder rocks the earth as the clouds swirl down around DEATH and his minions.

Then riders begin appearing in the skies. They're charging all out, on top of the clouds. Their chests are bare; they carry spears, guns, bows and arrows, and other trappings of Native American warriors.

"Apaches!" Alicia screams.

The band of Indians circles the hellish throng, charging in an ever-tightening spiral. They whoop and holler and drive the explosive clouds like they're cattle, wrapping them tighter and tighter around DEATH and his hungry band.

At first, it seems like there is only a small band of Apaches, but the Indians keep coming and coming and coming ... endlessly. They feed into the spiral with such force that the very earth begins to tremble.

This vortex of ghosts and riders begin drilling into the earth. Señor Popcorn's compound splits wide-open, turns into a chasm thousands of feet deep: the grand canyon of San Martin. It swallows up all of them, the Apaches, El Mago's soldiers, the hellghosts, even DEATH. We hear cries of terror and ghostly despair, and then the chasm slams shut like the cast-iron gates of hell.

Our bunker shudders in response. It feels like a 12.6 earthquake has hit. The stage collapses. The ceiling buckles. The crowd scrambles wildly out of their seats toward the open spaces in the back of the hall.

But like some indestructible piece of old-world technology, the site cam keeps pumping out images of the compound outside.

Now Señor Popcorn's vast estate is little more than charred rubble, the remains of the sinkhole only an irregular surface where the two uneven walls of the great chasm have slammed back together.

Far off in the distance, a single figure escapes through the twisted entryway.

Señor Popcorn pulls a remote from his pocket, levels it at the TV, and forces the remote cameras to zoom in tight. We see the hunched over shape of Maclovio Renta, The Wizard, El Mago.

Somehow, he's getting away.

Chapter 46

The spirit of an old Apache warrior walks his painted ghost-horse into the middle of the compound. They step carefully over the uneven terrain where the walls of the chasm have come together. And then they turn and survey the smoking rubble all around.

The first of Señor Popcorn's soldiers are just now climbing up out of the underground bunker. The stairway has been destroyed, and it's a struggle to reach the surface.

The ghosts have preceded them. Alicia, Sylvia, Mr. Fu, Jenny Beck, Paco, and Don Mario wait as the living make their way up the broken staircase and then over the jagged edges of the bunker's doorway. Assad helps Veronica and then Amy Joy out into the desolate landscape. Miguel and Marie Elena are inseparable as they climb slowly together.

As soon as I step into the sunlight, Alicia puts her arms around me and won't let go.

The girls come last. They've waited to escort Señor Popcorn from the wreckage. They cluster around him like giggly tweens scuttling alongside a rockstar. They hold his hand, guide his footsteps; the old man enjoys the trip.

The ghost Apache watches all this. Don Mario spots him and glides over.

"Geronimo," he says with a bow.

"We have done our work," the Indian answers.

The two ghosts look out at the sorry terrain; the smoking remains of the once magnificent compound, dead trees, cracked swimming pools, burned buildings.

"What will happen to your warriors?" the curandero asks.

"We are ghosts; we travel through time and the earth itself. My brothers will emerge somewhere soon enough. We will be together again."

"And the hellghosts?"

Geronimo sneers. "In hell, where they belong."

"The soldiers of El Mago?"

"Dead, probably in hell too."

Don Mario sighs. "And what about DEATH?"

"You can't kill DEATH," Geronimo laughs. "He is already out stalking the earth again, tracking each of the warriors in this desolate place. Eventually, as always, he will take them all in the end."

Señor Popcorn now approaches the old Indian. "Are you responsible for saving us?"

Geronimo nods. "It's a debt repaid to an old ally. Don Pepito saved my life when I was very young, when your own countrymen attacked my family, my mother, my wife, and my children. He found them, eased their pain, and did everything he could to comfort them before they died. I hate all Mexicans because of what they did to my family, but because of the kindness of this one man, I show mercy when I can. I will continue to repay him for as long as I have memory."

Alicia and I now join the conversation.

"What of the Chinese ghosts?" I ask.

"They are trapped in the earth, but I cannot say for how long. You would be wise to set a trap for their chieftain, Mr. Lum. He's evil, and when he emerges from the earth, he will begin his cruel ways once again. But right now, you should worry more about the living members of that tribe. You call them Mother and Father. They're young and handsome, but their souls are as monstrous as their ancestor. Track them down ... and destroy them."

"What happened to El Mago?" Señor Popcorn asks.

"He escaped."

Geronimo squints as though he's looking far into the future.

"Someday he will be back to challenge you. Not for many years. His resources are gone. His soldiers have died. It will take time to rise up against you."

Geronimo turns toward Alicia and me. His eyes narrow further, as though he's looking even deeper into his dreams. "I see a terrible struggle between this young man, his ghost wife, and their great enemy, Luis. He is no longer El Cojo. He's whole and strong."

I feel Alicia shudder as she stands holding me. "Will we survive?" she asks.

"You are already dead, child," Geronimo answers.

"But Carlitos?"

"Love him while you can."

Alicia's ghost grips me even tighter.

"I will," she sighs. "I will."

Geronimo now looks to each of us. He seems weakened by his efforts to see into the future. He nods to Señor Popcorn, to Mr. Fu, to Don Mario, to Alicia and to me, and then he mounts his painted ghost horse and rides slowly away.

Just before he reaches the gateway ...

He disappears.

Chapter 47

Miraculously, our cars have been spared. Attendants had parked them outside the compound in a big garage: my Chrysler 300, Señor Popcorn's Bentley, his Porsche 911, his Ferrari, plus several huge, black Jeep Cherokees and Cadillac Escalades that belong to his men. There's also a small fleet of Lincoln Town Cars that his soldiers now use to shuttle us all to the garage.

"Where'll you go now?" I ask Señor Popcorn. He and I are riding together in one of the limos, along with Assad and the Joy sisters. Alicia has squeezed into the seat beside me.

The old man flips down a compartment on the far side of the limo and takes out a hot bucket of popcorn. He immediately starts tossing kernels into his mouth.

"One of my other properties," he answers.

I try not to seem too impressed as I ask how many properties he owns.

"Just four."

"Four." I am impressed.

"... In Mexico."

"And outside?"

"A small hacienda near Las Vegas, a penthouse in New York, a villa in Tuscany, and one in Spain."

"Nothing in Dubai?" I'm feeling sarcastic.

Alicia slugs my shoulder. "Don't be a wiseass," she whispers. The popcorn man hears her and laughs.

"But it is a legitimate question," he says. "I do have hotel suites waiting for me in Dubai, London, Paris, and Tokyo. Only for business, of course."

"Of course. So, how could El Mago beat you if you have all these resources?"

"International properties don't do much good when there's a gun battle going on in your backyard."

The old man looks through the tinted window as we move through the devastated compound.

"San Martin was one of my favorites," he sighs. "The reconstruction will begin immediately. We'll have it back to its former glory within a year, amigos. I promise." And then he smiles. "You'll all have to come back for the grand reopening."

"A fiesta?" Alicia is always up for a party.

"La fiesta más grande del mundo!"

Señor Popcorn cheers, and so do we all.

"I'd like to see all your properties," Amy Joy sighs. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement. "Where will we go next?"

"I'm thinking of my beach house in Cancun," the popcorn man answers. "It's an impressive place, and I can bring my supporters and business associates there for a little celebration, to reestablish goodwill and prove we've weathered the storm."

"You'll love Cancun," Alicia says to me.

Señor Popcorn says, "Except I think it's better if your husband not come with us right now. Dr. Mann has other work to do on our behalf."

"What kind of work?" I ask.

Señor Popcorn takes a small folded piece of paper from his pocket; he hands it to me; I open it. There's a Mexican phone number scrawled on it. Nothing else.

"Here's your contact," he says. "With the FBI."

"You deal with the FBI?"

"When I have to. I have some very good friends there. Like Señor Marinara."

Everyone in the car is dead silent. I can almost feel Alicia fuming. She doesn't want to send me off on another deadly adventure.

"And what kind of problems will this Señor Marinara bring to Carlitos?" she asks.

The popcorn man chucks a fistful of kernels into his mouth and answers in spite of them.

"Whatever it takes to capture Mother and Father."

#

"You want me to wear a wire?"

"Yep," Marinara answers. We're sitting in a little bar in the swank Las Alcobas Hotel in Mexico City.

I called the number on the slip of paper Señor Popcorn gave me. Marinara answered and told me to meet him ASAP. I drove my Chrysler 300 there directly from the garage in San Martin.

Alicia stands beside me. No one can see or hear her but me. It's one of the many ghostly options that she has. (Who knew?)

FBI agent Marty Marinara is tall, well built, in his late 50s. He has an energetic style that's already making me tired.

"Why me?" I ask.

"Mother and Father asked for you."

"What do they want?"

"Don't know, but if you ask the right questions, we may finally get enough evidence to put 'em away."

Marinara's drinking tomato juice with ice. He takes a sip and smacks his lips. Then he swirls the liquid around in the glass admiring it.

"About Señor Popcorn ..." I start to ask, but Alicia immediately digs her ghost nails into my shoulder, and it really hurts.

"Ouch!"

Marinara looks up at me curiously. "Something wrong?"

I think for a moment, and then hold up my glass. It's filled with Canada Dry sparkling soda. "Stomach ache. Must be the water."

"Ya think?" Marinara smirks, "Canada Dry?"

I shrug, and he turns serious.

"You want to ask about our relationship with Señor Popcorn?" he says.

I shrug. He smiles.

"Fernando de Cervantes is a friend who helps us when he can."

Alicia's look is stern. If I say another word about Señor Popcorn, she's going to do devastating, ghostly things to me. I stifle my need to know more about the relationship between the FBI and our Mexican drug lord. Instead, I ask: "Can you tell me any more about the meeting with Mother and Father?"

"One of your colleagues at Leland University has disappeared," Marinara answers. "We think Mother and Father have kidnapped her."

"Her?"

"A Dr. Charlotte Burke. I understand you and she are friends."

Alicia's eyes blaze. Now she's thinking Charlotte Burke's another rival.

"Why the hell would they kidnap Charlotte?"

Marinara drains his drink. "Want something other than club soda ... milk maybe?"

"Nah, I'm tough."

"I'll say," he responds with that same smirk. He holds up two fingers to the waitress, and she heads off to get us more tomato juice and club soda.

"You were asking why they kidnapped your girlfriend."

I feel like telling Alicia to reveal herself to Marinara so he can see that I have a jealous ghost wife breathing down my neck. Instead, I just shake my head.

"You brought two of your students down here to save them from arranged marriages," Marinara says.

"They're staying with Señor Popcorn."

"Yes, we know. We think Mother and Father are willing to make a trade to get them back."

"Charlotte for the Joy sisters?"

"Exactly!"

The drinks come. I'm suddenly thirsty as hell. I grab the glass of club soda and down half of it in one gulp.

"Careful there," Marinara smirks. "Celine Dion's revenge."

"Everyone's a comedian," I whisper to Alicia. Of course, Marinara can't see her. He thinks I'm talking to him.

"Yeah, the FBI's a barrel of laughs."

"So, the trick here," he continues, "is for you to wear a wire for us, ask questions that get Mother and Father to reveal as much as possible about their operation, how they trade young women, what they plan to do to Dr. Burke if you don't cooperate ... that kind of thing."

"Do I get a little rehearsal time?"

"Sure. We have a suite reserved for you upstairs. We'll fit you with a wire there, go over the list of questions, and give you an escape plan in case things get out of hand. You know how rough these two can be."

Now I'm starting to feel a little concerned. There's a rack full of glasses above the bar, and it looks like it's totally disorganized. I'm thinking I should go up to the bartender and suggest a better way for him to arrange his glassware. I'm almost about to do it when I feel Alicia's nails digging into my shoulder again.

"Ask him why Mother and Father would trust you," she says in a voice no one else can hear (don't ask me how). "Won't they expect that you have connections with the FBI?"

I stop rearranging the glasses in my head, turn to Marinara, and ask him.

"Come on," he says. "You've just taken their daughters to visit the biggest drug lord in Mexico. How could you possibly have any connections with the FBI?"

"Yeah, how could I?"

Marinara nods at me in satisfaction. He sips his tomato juice.

"When and where will I meet Mother and Father?" I ask.

"In their room upstairs," Marinara answers, "in an hour."

"I'll be alone with them?"

"Affirmative."

"Not entirely," Alicia adds. "I'll be there too ...

"... and I'm already furious."

Chapter 48

So, I'm walking down the hall to Mother and Father's room. I've already finalized the meeting in a room-to-room call from my suite. A tough looking FBI agent named Tori Fox met me there. She told me who to call and what to say. She fixed the wire under my shirt, made sure it worked, reviewed the questions I'm supposed to ask and the answers I'm looking for. We did a quick run-through.

I've studied the list. Surprisingly, the questions almost form a couple of logical syllogisms.

• If Mother and Father admit that they know where Dr. Burke is,

• If they're willing to admit that they are holding her,

• If they state that they took Dr. Burke against her will,

• Then they're kidnappers.

• If they want to exchange their daughters for Dr. Burke,

• If they admit that they want their daughters back so that they can sell them to Dr. Hoi,

• If they admit that Amy and Veronica are among hundreds of girls they brought into this country to be sold for marriage and other purposes,

• Then they're big-time human traffickers.

I tap lightly on the door of the room, and Mother opens it. This time she's wearing a jade green silk gown with the usual high collar and slit up the side. Yellow chrysanthemums are embroidered everywhere. Alicia gasps when she sees it. She's invisible to everyone but me. And she's overwhelmed by the beauty and excellent artistry in the dress.

"Dr. Mann," Mother says with a smile. "So good to see you again. Won't you please come in?"

I nod and enter a magnificent suite with plush white furniture set on a thick white carpet. I figure someone must vacuum the place at least four times a day.

"My husband will join us shortly," she says. "In the meantime how about a drink?"

"Club soda?"

"Canada Dry?"

"Perfect."

I take a seat on a couch that's as soft and fluffy as a raincloud ... but not the ones we recently dealt with in San Martin.

I see my reflection in the glass coffee table in front of me. I'm wearing a white blazer, white shirt, and tan slacks.

"You look delicious, mi amor," Alicia whispers in my ear. She's taken a position in back of the couch. She realizes that she shouldn't do anything to complicate my information gathering. But if it looks like things are getting dangerous, she's ready for action.

Father enters, hair slicked back, cream-colored sports coat, navy slacks. He's handsome as hell.

"Glad you're here," he says, as he extends his hand.

Mother appears with a tray loaded down with glasses full of ice and unopened bottles of Canada Dry club soda. She places the tray on the table, bends at the waist and begins to open the bottles and pour the club soda.

"We've asked you here," Father begins, "to talk about the tragedy that's befallen your esteemed colleague, Dr. Burke."

"Tragedy?"

"Haven't you heard?" Mother says as she takes a seat across the table from me and crosses those mile-long legs. "She's disappeared. Someone's holding her for ransom."

"We know you care for her deeply," Father says.

"He does not!" That's Alicia who is already looking for something to throw.

"We shared a classroom on the Quad at Leland. That's all," I say. "Has anyone called the University?"

"We've contacted you," Father says.

"I guess I can steer you in the right direction."

"Come now, Dr. Mann." Mother gets up, moves to the glass coffee table, and sits on it ... right in front of me. What eyes! What lips! What perfect teeth. Too bad she's really the big bad wolf.

"We know that you found some of her unmentionable undergarments in your drawer one afternoon."

Alicia fumes. At least she knows the truth; Amy Joy left them in my drawer when she was trying to buy herself an A+.

"Sorry," I say. "Those unmentionables, as you call them, belonged to your daughter."

"You have a crush on her, don't you, Dr. Mann?" Mother asks

"Crush," Father laughs. "Let's not be so delicate. You stole her from us so that you could have her for yourself. That's why she's in Mexico now, in the custody of a notorious drug lord. As soon as we finish our conversation, you intend to drive down to wherever you're keeping her and—shall we say—have your way with her."

"My way? What the hell does that mean?"

"Take advantage of our poor daughter's innocence," Mother says.

An entire row of books flies off the bookshelf in the back of the room. "Whoops," Alicia says apologetically. "I lost my control for just a minute."

"What was that?" Mother and Father both ask.

"A slight earthquake, or maybe the wind," I answer. "These buildings are built on rolling platforms to minimize earthquake damage, but it makes them sway in strong winds."

Mother is too intent to care.

"We want our little girl back, Dr. Mann."

"We were hoping that we might be able to make some kind of arrangement with you," Father adds. "Give her back to us, and we will secure the release of Dr. Burke."

Have they said enough to incriminate themselves? I quickly review the list of points we need to address and see that I haven't completed the job. This might call for a more explicit conversation, maybe a little bluffing on my part. But I know that there's one person who may not be able to handle it very well ... my dead wife.

And that could make everything much more difficult.

Chapter 49

I decide to go for broke ... and maybe an Academy Award.

"All right," I tell Mother, "I admit it. I fell in love with Amy the first time I saw her."

Mother grins.

I bury my face in my hands, push my fingers through my hair, and then glance up at her.

"I was so lonely when my wife died that I didn't even look at another woman for years. Then this OCD thing got hold of me."

Mother's smile becomes almost victorious.

"I buried my longing for Alicia in crazy routines and obsessions: sorting things, making lists, organizing and reorganizing, tightening bottle caps so tight that sometimes I couldn't get them open again.

"I'd lay awake in bed all night, play through endless scenarios about how I could have saved her. I'd run a million other scenes where someone I love abandons me. I'm convinced that the next woman I care about will be taken from me just as Alicia was.

"The best solution I can come up with," I tell Mother and Father, "is never to care about anyone again."

My wife's ghost sits down on the couch beside me. She touches my cheek lovingly. There are tears in her eyes.

So far so good.

"And then I met your daughter, Amy," I tell Mother. "Don't get me wrong, I'll never get over my love for Alicia, but Amy's so ..."

"Cute?"

"She is."

"Vivacious?"

"Exactly, with those wide, sparkly eyes."

"And she's intelligent too," Father says.

"But so sweet and shy you have to get to know her to appreciate just how brilliant she is."

"You did fall in love with her, didn't you?" Mother asks.

"I did."

At those two words, Alicia starts getting angry again. She gets up, walks back to the bookshelf and stands with arms crossed amid the books that she's already knocked to the floor.

"That's why you stole Amy from us, isn't it?" Father asks.

"I had to. When your daughter left those panties in my desk drawer, it was such a goddamn turn on ..."

Alicia reaches for a book to throw at me, but Mother jumps to her feet and starts pacing back and forth across the room as though she's making some kind of pitch at a convention. She freezes Alicia just as my wife is about to throw the book at me ... literally.

"We take these delicate young flowers from the heart of China," Mother lectures. "We find their souls, their God-given ability to please men. All our girls are skilled in the arts of seduction." This little speech is turning Mother on. Her nostrils flare. Father is getting excited too.

"So few men realize that intelligence is a very physical thing. Why, I have personally taught hundreds of our daughters to touch men's hearts (and fulfill their desires) with just a simple phrase, a clever word, an inviting look, a sigh, a touch."

Alicia's distracted; thank God.

So am I.

"It's the way I encouraged Amy to entice you, Dr. Mann," Mother says. "Leaving those unmentionables in your drawer was my idea."

Father decides to close the sale. "Wouldn't you like to have our Amy, Dr. Mann? Wouldn't you like to make her your own?"

"What do you mean?"

"She can fulfill all your desires," Mother teases. "She's been trained for it."

I think we've just given the FBI everything they need to take down the Joy Lum Clan. But just in case they need more, I decide to take an even bigger risk in spite of the fact that Alicia's back at the bookshelf selecting another weapon.

"Of course, I want her," I say. "Let's face it, Mother, you and I shared a certain chemistry when we first met. I felt the same way about your daughter, Tiger."

"Helen, yes." Mother nods and smiles. "An exceptional pupil. Some lucky man is going to get himself an exceptional companion. Amy's not that way, though."

"I know, but I want her anyway."

Alicia wants to kill me. But hell, can't she figure this out? She's smarter than I am; why can't she see that I'm just trying to get more incriminating information from Mother and Father? I guess it's just all too personal for her.

"Unfortunately," Mother says as she settles down beside me on the couch, "Dr. Hoi is still interested in our little Amy. In fact, he's made a substantial contribution toward securing a long-term relationship with her."

"I'll contribute more!"

"How can you?" Father asks. "Creighton Hoi is a multi-millionaire plastic surgeon. You are only a college professor."

"Who has a deep friendship with an insanely rich Mexican drug lord," I add.

Mother and Father smile. I reach onto the table, take my glass of club soda and raise it to them in a toast.

"To Fernando de Cervantes," I say.

Father raises his glass in return.

"He and I are buddies."

"We've heard that."

"He owes me big time."

"For ..."

"Helping him defeat El Mago. He's already given me millions as payment for my help." (I'm flat out lying here.)

I look into Alicia's eyes and see that she's frantically trying to figure out what's going on. She senses danger, but more than anything else she can't get over a feeling of overwhelming jealousy.

"We explored a partnership with El Mago," Mother says. She crosses her gorgeous legs toward me as she sits beside me on the couch. Her silk dress falls away from them, and there they are, almost touching me.

"Unfortunately, the partnership didn't work out."

"What kind of partnership would El Mago want with you?" I ask.

Mother looks at Father and realizes that it's something they shouldn't discuss with me, especially in Mexico where a slave trade alliance would bring them under the jurisdiction of Mexican law.

I decide to change the subject.

"I'd like to offer a million dollar contribution toward for your daughter's happiness," I say.

Another whole row of books tumbles from the bookshelf. Alicia stands there, arms crossed, eyes glaring. She's trying to prevent any deal that will put Amy in close proximity to me.

"What's going on?" Father and Mother both ask as they look at all the books on the floor.

"Another earthquake?"

I decide to ignore them.

"I'll make a million dollar contribution toward the happiness of Amy Joy," I repeat.

The figure makes Mother forget about anything other than a possible deal.

Alicia lifts an enormous dictionary and slams it to the floor.

"Better make up your minds," I say. "Feels like this whole damn hotel could be coming down."

Alicia sticks her tongue out at me.

Father steps forward. "It seems like you are truly willing to help secure the happiness of our daughter, Amy," he says.

"Yes, her perfect happiness," Mother adds, "except that one million six hundred thousand dollars seems like a more worthy contribution."

I flinch.

"You have a deep friendship with an insanely rich Mexican drug lord?" Father reminds me.

"But Creighton Hoi has already given us a two hundred thousand dollar advance," Mother says. "We'll have to offer him a suitable alternate."

"Maybe Dr. Hoi's contribution could be applied to the happiness of your other daughter ... Bunny," I suggest.

"I like you, Dr. Mann," Mother responds. "You pay attention."

"I do. I'm good at details, like this whole business about my Leland colleague, Dr. Burke. If I'm willing to contribute a million six for Amy's happiness, it has to cover the release of Dr. Burke as well."

"Crafty," Mother says. "Unfortunately you're still holding another one of our most prized possessions, our daughter Veronica. She's also promised to Dr. Hoi."

"Oh right," I respond. "After Mr. Moon became disappointed in her, Dr. Hoi decided that he wanted two wives ... or is it victims he wants?"

"We never question the intentions of our clients," Father repeats.

But Mother has decided to try some scare tactics. "I'm sure you can imagine Amy and Veronica's treatments at the hands of a skilled cosmetic surgeon like Dr. Hoi," she says as she stands, crosses her arms, and starts pacing again. "He may begin with the best of intentions, but then he has been known to get carried away, to experiment, with results whose creativity and originality may not always meet with conventional approval."

"Some have been known to find the results of his experiments shocking and disquieting," Father chimes in.

"And besides," Mother continues, "there is the whole question of the use of anesthetics in cosmetic surgery. I mean, is it really necessary when true artists like Dr. Hoi find inspiration in the sound of screaming?"

Mother smiles cruelly. She actually seems to be enjoying this.

"We know that Dr. Hoi is famous for his work on women's breasts," Mother continues, "but he's also interested in other parts of the female anatomy, not to mention the human face. I know he would like to try some experiments there as well."

I'm ready to lose my lunch. I'm also damn sorry that I mentioned Florence, Bunny Joy, as a substitute for Amy.

"You're saying he likes to torture and disfigure women?" I ask.

"Those words are so indelicate," Mother answers.

"But still, there has to be some way I can also purchase Veronica's safety," I say.

Mother grits her teeth and shakes her head. "We need to maintain good relations with Dr. Hoi."

"Why? Sounds like he's a butcher."

"We would never use a term like that. In our eyes, he is simply a good, long-term client."

"You've dealt with him before?"

"We've had a long and satisfying relationship with Dr. Hoi."

I'm horrified to realize that a series of young women have already been subjected to torture and possibly death by this monster ... with the ongoing complicity of Mother and Father.

"Then it's settled," Father says. "You deliver one million six hundred thousand US dollars in cash and our daughters to our headquarters in San Francisco. Veronica will be returned to our little family; Amy can stay with you, and yes, we will also give you Dr. Charlotte Burke at that time."

There's a long, difficult pause while I process all this and try to repress my disgust at the fact that they've asked me to hand Veronica over so that Dr. Hoi can torture her.

Father walks over the bookcase stepping carefully through all the books on the floor. He picks up a small object and conceals it in his hand as he brings it back to the coffee table.

"We'll also give you back Alicia's ghost," he says.

HUH?

I glance back at the bookshelf and see that Alicia's no longer there.

Mother slides her hand up her beautiful thigh. I notice a garter at the very top, and there's a pistol tucked into it. She takes the gun and points it at me.

Father places the small object on the coffee table. It's a carved wooden box. I recognize it from my adventures with Mr. Fu. It's a ghost trap.

Father sits down beside Mother. He reaches forward and slides open the top of the box. There is a thin sheet of bamboo beneath the top, and through it, I can hear Alicia's voice.

"Ayúdame. Estoy atrapado!" she calls. Help me. I'm trapped.

I glare back at Mother and Father.

"How dumb do you think we are, Dr. Mann?" Mother asks.

"We know your wife is haunting you," Father says. "Now, if you ever want to see her again, you'll get the money and bring Veronica and Amy with you to San Francisco in two days. There, we will release Dr. Burke and return your ghost-wife to you. But if you fail to show up with the cash and Veronica ..."

Mother smiles and finishes his sentence: "... your sweet Alicia will be shipped off to China and put into a storage area where she'll be imprisoned in this little box for a thousand years."

I hardly hear what Mother is saying. She has returned the cover to the box, and I'm counting. There are 378 tiny lotus blossoms carved into the top. Maybe I'd better count them again just to be sure.

Chapter 50

"So, let me get this straight," Agent Marinara says.

We're back in the FBI suite at the Las Alcobas Hotel. I've returned to the room in a state of shock. The Joy Lum Clan wants to hold Alicia captive in a tiny cube and hide it away so no one will ever find it. Just as bad, they've asked me to trade Veronica for Alicia.

"You say you have to come with us when we nab Mother and Father in San Francisco?" Marinara asks.

"Yep."

"Because they want you to turn over Veronica, and they've captured your wife's ghost?"

"That's right."

Marinara rolls his eyes. "And how'd they manage to capture a ghost?"

"Ghost trap."

"Like in Ghostbusters?"

"Not even close. This is an ancient Chinese trick."

He's not buying it, and I'm going nuts. How can a good guy like Marinara ruin everything? (As if it hasn't happened before an infinite number of times.)

Just then there's a knock on the door.

Agent Tori Fox is standing next to me with her hands behind her back (rest position, they call it in the military.) She goes to the door, opens it, and her jaw drops.

She glances at Marinara and then back into the doorway. Standing there is the most beautiful woman she or Marinara have ever seen in their lives. I'd say the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, but then I've been married to Alicia.

"Carlitos, ¿Cómo te va?" this vision squeals as she wiggles into the room.

She's wearing a black lace dress that's so short and tight, cut so low on top that it hardly hides anything.

"Señor Marinara," she says with a grin, and she sits down at the table with us.

She leans forward enjoying the look of shock and awe on Marinara's face. She smiles and reveals the most perfect teeth the world has ever known. "¿Cómo puedo ayudar a Carlitos?"

Tori Fox staggers closer to the table. Either she's a lesbian or she has an amazing interest in female anatomy for scientific reasons. She can't be interested in the dress. There's not enough of it.

Fox glances at Marinara, and he back at her. Then they both return their eyes to the sexy señorita.

"¿Cómo son estos pendejos?" She says as she flips her hair, crosses her legs and begins pumping the top one up and down. The action sets off a series of jiggles that are mind-boggling.

"Excuse me, miss," Marinara says, "but we're conducting business here." He's acting as seriously as a man can while he's blushing and grinning.

"¿Quieres que me vaya?" She asks.

"What'd she say?" the FBI man wants to know.

"How the hell can you work in Mexico without knowing Spanish?" I ask.

"Did she say that?"

"No, I said that. She asked if you want her to leave."

"Hell no!" That's Tori Fox.

Marinara looks at the sexy señorita and shakes his head. "Why is she here?" he asks.

"Estoy aquí como prueba." the girl says.

Marinara turns toward me for a translation.

"She says she's here as evidence."

"Beautiful evidence," Fox drools.

"What kind of evidence is she talking about?"

"¿Puedo mostrarle mi cara de muerto?" she says to me.

"No," I answer.

"What did she just ask you?"

"You don't want to know."

Marinara is getting impatient. But then the young woman crosses her legs in the other direction, leans forward and runs her hand over her ankles, and he's captivated by even more spectacular vistas!

"My name is Sylvia Morales," she says in perfect English. "I'm a friend of Alicia, Carlos's dead wife."

Marinara's expression suddenly turns serious.

"And," she adds, "I'm here to prove to you that Carlitos is telling the truth."

"About ..."

"The fact that ghosts exist."

Sylvia stands, walks up to Marinara and kisses him lightly on the forehead. Next, she turns, throws a kiss to Tori Fox, moves to the middle of the room, and starts doing a sexy little dance. It's nothing special; she's just humming to herself and moving seductively.

Then she slowly evaporates into thin air.

Fox lets out a heavy sigh. "Think I need to sit down, boss."

Marinara is shaking all over. "What was that?"

"You heard her, 'prueba' ... evidence."

"And what was that thing you didn't want to translate."

"She asked if she should show you her death face."

"Really?"

"She's a ghost, but if you saw what she looks like when she wants to scare people, you'd never sleep again."

"Must be some kind of a trick," Marinara decides.

"Look," I say. "All I'm trying to do is have you let me come along on the bust so that I can rescue Alicia's ghost."

Marinara shakes his head again. "Negative."

"But boss ..." that's Agent Fox.

There's another knock at the door.

"Want me to answer that?" Fox asks.

Marinara closes his eyes and nods his head helplessly.

Fox opens the door, and Jenny Beck is standing there. She's wearing short shorts and a black T-shirt with a white tank top over it. Across the front of the tank the word "Boobs" is spelled out in pink letters. The O's circle each of her almost non-existent breasts. She's carrying a small purse and an iPhone.

"Can I help you, Miss?" Fox asks.

"As if ..." Jenny answers and marches into the room. Did I mention that she's wearing combat boots?

Agent Fox tries to stop her, and Jenny walks right through her, literally, passes through her outstretched arms and Fox's entire body.

"So, what am I supposed to do?" Jenny asks me as she slouches there in front of Marinara.

"They don't believe in ghosts," I say.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Duh ..."

Jenny sets her purse and iPhone on the table where Marinara and I are sitting. Then she moves to the center of the room. Fox approaches and walks cautiously around her. She pokes Jenny to see if she's real.

"Back off, bitch," Jenny squeals. "I don't like being tickled." But she doesn't laugh, just slouches there, looking bored, and then she slides one hand up her side and covers the last two letters on her tank top (the "B" and the "S"). The shirt now spells the word, "BOO."

"Boo?" Fox reads the word and looks back at Jenny. Jenny gives her a very bored expression.

"Boo?" Marinara echoes. He's not buying any of this.

"You wish," Jenny says to him and begins her transformation.

As many times as I've seen ghosts do the death melt, this has to be the best one of them all. I mean, Jenny is emaciated, to begin with, so when her clothes tatter off of her, there's only gray-white skin and bones there, for starters. But even before her clothing shreds completely, her flesh is decaying, turning green, then a sickening pink. Sores open everywhere. They ooze as they rot. Her cheeks turn hollow, so do her eye sockets, and then her skull pushes through the flesh. Her face melts away. She's a ghoulish skeleton, and now she's smiling (maybe for the first time ever). She raises a bony finger tipped with a long, cracked nail. Her hand becomes a monster claw with a spike sticking out of the middle of it. But still, she points it at Fox. "Boooooooooo ..." she moans. Fox bolts from the room, and Jenny turns to Marinara.

"Belieeeeeeve ..." she croaks at him. Marinara climbs onto his chair, then onto the table. He has his hands crossed over his face to shield himself from the horror.

Then this ghoul-Jenny turns to me.

"Okay?"

I smile and nod.

She pops back to her original form.

"You get it, right?" she asks Marinara. "Or do I have to do more of this shit?"

"I get it, I get it," Marinara answers.

"Gonna let him go with you to San Fran to rescue Alicia?"

"I ..."

"SERIOUSLY, DUDE!" she raises her arm to point at him, and just that part of her goes back to the death claw.

"Yes, of course, anything he wants."

She turns to me. "Can I tell the rest of the crew that we can go home now?"

I look at Marinara, but he's still staring at Jenny in shock. "There are more of you?"

"Oh yeah, all lined up in the hall. We can keep this going for a couple of days if we need to."

"FOX GET BACK IN HERE," Marinara calls at the top of his voice. And as soon as his partner makes her way into the room (she's pressing against the walls so that she can stay as far away from Jenny as possible), Marinara turns back to me.

"I get your point, Mann."

"You believe in ghosts now?" I ask.

"Abso-fuckin-lutely."

"When do we leave for San Francisco then?"

"In an hour."

Chapter 51

"Mother dumps two hundred ghost traps onto the table and smiles at me. "Alicia's Ghost is in there somewhere," she says.

Amy, Veronica, and I sit across from Mother, Father, Tiger Joy, and Dr. Hoi. We're in the rosewood conference room at the Joy Lum Family Center in San Francisco. A dozen FBI men and Special Forces troops surround the building. Mother and Father have no idea.

I have a valise containing one million, six hundred thousand dollars standing unopened at my side.

"I thought this was going to be a clean exchange," I say. "Where's Dr. Burke?"

"All in good time," Father answers. "Dr. Hoi has asked for a chance to bid against you for the ownership of Amy Joy."

"We have a deal," I say. "We've come here all the way from Mexico City."

"Deals were made to be undone." Mother laughs. "The deal we want is to give you your Alicia and Dr. Burke, and we let Dr. Hoi acquire Amy and Veronica."

Both of the Joy sisters are sighing. Little dove-like cries suggest how terrified they are. They're all dressed up in classic formal Chinese attire. They foolishly hope to gain Veronica's freedom by appealing to Mother and Father's better nature. I tried to explain that snakes don't have a better nature, but the girls are insistent. None of us expected Dr. Hoi to be here.

"I have an alternate offer," I say. "I'll bet I can pick the box with Alicia in it from that batch you just rolled onto the table."

"Impossible," Mother responds, but Father smiles at her and takes a step toward me.

"And if you can?" he asks.

"You turn over Alicia and Dr. Burke, and BOTH Joy sisters get to keep their freedom."

Dr. Hoi winces. This is not what he wants at all.

"And if you fail?" Father asks.

"We go back to our original deal, you get Veronica and the money, and I get everything else."

"A very poor bargain," Father answers. "Here's a better wager: You find Alicia's ghost box within one minute, and we exchange Dr. Burke, Amy, and Veronica for the money."

"A million six for my wife, my colleague, and the Joy sisters?"

"Don't do it, Dr. Mann," Amy says. "There's no way you can find the right box. It's a 200 to 1 shot."

But Veronica, for the first time since we've been here, stops sighing. This deal will gain her freedom.

"Have you moved Alicia to a different box?" I ask.

"Of course not," Mother responds. "We never expected the ghost trap would become part of a wager."

"I'll give you two million dollars for both girls," Dr. Hoi shouts, "and Mother and Father can keep Dr. Burke and Alicia's ghost for a separate negotiation."

"No separate negotiations," I say. "This is it."

There's dead silence in the room. Everyone is waiting for someone else to say something. It lasts a very long time. Finally, Father speaks up.

"My wife and I need to discuss this."

I nod, and so the evil pair steps outside while Dr. Hoi and Tiger keep an eye on us.

Finally, Father steps back into the room.

"We accept your wager, Dr. Mann," he says. "You have one minute to find the ghost trap that holds your wife. If you do, you give us the money, and we will free both girls."

"And Dr. Burke."

"Of course."

"DEAL!"

I study the ghost traps on the table for a few seconds and immediately reach into the middle of the table and take one of the ten boxes that have lotus flowers carved onto them. It's the only one with 378 of them. This knowledge is one of the few, very limited rewards of being OCD.

"Very good, Dr. Mann," Father says. "You have your wife. Unfortunately, you have no way to get her out of the trap. Now please hand over the money and our daughters."

I stand and see that Mother has re-entered the room, and she's brought two friends with her. One is Dr. Burke, who looks like she's been through hell; the other is a submachine gun. Dr. Burke rushes to me, and I push her behind me protectively. Dr. Hoi smiles, steps forward, and grabs the Joy sisters, one by each arm. He pulls them to him.

Father snatches the valise full of money.

"You and Dr. Burke can go," Mother says as she motions to the door with her gun. "The money will be the price you pay for interfering in our affairs. We will conclude the transaction with Dr. Hoi according to the new terms he has just offered."

"No!" Veronica cries as Dr. Burke and I run to the door and get out as quickly as we can.

"God, thank you," Elizabeth sighs when we are outside and in the clear. "They kept threatening to torture me. That daughter of theirs ..."

"Tiger?"

"What an absolute bitch, and how old is she, barely eighteen?"

"Trained from birth," I answer.

FBI sharpshooters rush the room now. There is a blast of machine gun fire from Mother and then a series of short quick shots: pop—pop—pop! The door opens and Marinara strides out wiping his forehead.

"Fuckers," is all he says.

I leave Dr. Burke and reenter the meeting room. One FBI agent, Dr. Hoi, and Mother and Father are dead: she, slumped over the table, he, sitting back against the wall with his legs splayed apart. There doesn't seem to be any blood on either of them nor on Dr. Hoi for that matter. Okay, he has a bullet right through the center of his forehead. Apparently, he tried to use the girls as shields as he pulled a pistol and started firing. It took a shot right to the head to bring him down.

Tiger Joy is nowhere in sight.

Amy and Veronica huddle in the far corner. Veronica has her fingers curled into her mouth and she can't stop crying. Amy is shell-shocked. Her eyes are wide; she seems frozen in place. Assad has come with us on this mission, and now he walks into the room and puts his arms around Veronica. She's still making those soft dove-like sobs.

I wrap my arms around Amy and guide her from the room.

"Debriefing tomorrow." Marinara calls to me as I guide the girl back toward the cop cars that are waiting for us.

"Your friend Señor Popcorn has provided a suite at the Mark Hopkins Hotel if you want to stay there."

"Should be great for Amy and Veronica," I say. "Assad has his own place. And I have mine. But first, there's a special stop I have to make."

"I can take you," Marinara says. "Where to?"

"Los Altos, the Purgatory Bookstore."

#

"I'm a good locksmith, mind you," Friedman's ghost says as he lays a set of tools out onto the table. "But I've only done a few of these ghost traps."

I'm on the third floor of the Purgatory Bookstore where the ghosts hold their weekly meetings. It's midnight. Carlyle August, Royce Brilliant, Chantal Nightingale, and the others are all clustered around.

Friedman runs his fingers over the sides of the box. "There should be a hidden trigger here somewhere."

He puts on a jeweler's loop and studies each side carefully. "Where are you, baby? Show yourself."

The ghosts are leaning right over him. Mr. Fu is closest of all. "Open the lid," he suggests. "Try inside."

Friedman pulls open the lid to reveal the thin film of bamboo underneath the cover. "I wonder," he says as he picks up a small probe and tries to stick it into the bamboo. The probe breaks. "Looks like bamboo, feels like iron," he says.

Friedman feels around the inside edges just above the bamboo. There's nothing.

"Alicia, darling, are you in there?"

"Si, I am in here." We can all hear the frustration in her voice.

"Why haven't you said anything?" I ask.

"I'm spending all my energies praying."

"Good girl," Chantal Nightingale says.

Friedman stands the cube on its corner and hits it gently with a small hammer.

No dice. He tries the same thing on all the other corners. Nothing.

He looks up at me sadly. "Don't know what to do."

Just then the red spike of a high heel shoe slams down on the box and splits it wide open.

"Sometimes you just hafta stop jimmy-jackin around and make stuff happen," Chantal Nightingale says as she props herself on the corner of the table and slides her shoe back on. "You'd be at this all night if we let ya, Friedman."

"The pressure point," the old man says. You hit it just right. "We could'a pounded on this thing for months and never found it. But you ..."

"Got lucky," Carlyle August says. "So where is she?"

Friedman pries up the bamboo sheet and there she is, a tiny version of my wife, curled into a little ball.

Alicia looks up. "I'm free?"

"You are, gorgeous," Carlyle says.

Alicia raises her arms and sails up and out of the box gaining size and momentum as she spins around the room.

She flies to the far end of the third floor and then circles back.

"Carlitos," she calls. "I'm free."

I hold out my arms to try and catch her as she approaches, but she sails right through me. She circles the floor again, and finally lands, turns, and dances slowly back to me. She puts her arms around me and lays her head on my shoulder.

"Llévame a casa," she whispers. Take me home.

We run down the back steps of the Purgatory Bookstore and jump right into the back seat of Marinara's big FBI Crown Victoria. Alicia is clearly visible to all right now.

"Wow," Marinara says to me. "So this is your wife, huh?"

"Alicia, this is FBI Agent Marty Marinara."

"Thanks you so much, Señor, for allowing my husband to save my life," she says.

"My pleasure, ma'am," Marinara answers, "I didn't realize that you were a famous model. You look just like your pictures."

"And what pictures were those?" Alicia asks. "My splendid cover on the Mexican issue of Vanity Fair or maybe my great Pepsi Cola campaign?"

"Actually it was the six-page spread in Mexican Playboy," Marinara answers.

"Oh, those pictures," my wife says with some distaste.

"You didn't like them?"

"I did," she answers. "Except that he made me keep my clothes on all the time, that's all. I would have liked to be free and naked and dancing all around, but he wouldn't let me."

"Why not, Carlos?" Marinara asks as he turns to me. "She's so damn beautiful, why not share her with the world?"

I shrug. "It wasn't me. I didn't know anything about it."

"Of course not," Alicia answers. "It wasn't my husband who was then my fiancé who wouldn't let me pose nude in Playboy."

"Hugh Hefner?" Marinara asks.

"No, silly," Alicia answers, "It was Señor Popcorn."

Chapter 52

"Hurry up, we can't be late," Alicia calls as I try to wipe the smile off my face. I'm trying to recover from the tenth straight day of Good-morning sex—ghost style.

Alicia's already in the bathroom, putting on the most inviting dress I've ever seen, a sexy little number designed especially for her by Yves St. Laurent.

My tux is already laid out on the couch. It's an original too: Gucci, formal, with a striped vest to accompany a charcoal coat and black slacks. There's a dark red orchid boutonnière already pinned on the lapel.

I pinch Alicia, and she squeals as I slide past her and climb into the shower. I turn on the hot water feeling it drench my hair and steam up all around me. This is going to be quite a day.

Fernando de Cervantes, Señor Popcorn, is hosting a double wedding at his enormous beachfront estate in Cancun.

Miguel will tie the knot with his sweetheart, Marie Elena, and Assad will finally marry the gorgeous Veronica Joy. I'm the best man. Amy Joy will be the maid of honor.

I step from the shower and accidentally get blasted by a faceful of hairspray. I cough as Alicia tries to fan it away from me. "So sorry, mi amor," she says.

Alicia is in full-body mode, something she and her ghost friends have decided to do for the ceremony. That way they can mingle with the other guests and be seen by all of them without having to resort to trickery. It'll work as long as they don't walk past any mirrors or get snapped in any photos.

"No time for breakfast, Carlitos," Alicia calls; she's already out the door. I struggle into the tux, hop into my new Gucci shoes, and run after her into the morning sunlight.

Across the way, I can see guests already assembling in front of the big church that adjoins the popcorn man's estate. I can hear the full orchestra he's hired to accompany the wedding ceremony. Mozart's Coronation Mass, I think it will be. Right now they're noodling away at Pachelbel's Cannon.

I run, catch up with Alicia, give her a kiss and a squeeze, and head on to the side entrance of the church where the grooms are freaking out.

"I don't think I can go through with this," Assad sighs. "She's too good for me."

He looks handsome. Miguel is dashing. We're all wearing the same style tux, all originals. Señor Popcorn is paying for everything.

"Your brides are very lucky," I say. "You guys rock."

They smile, Assad nervously, Miguel with a little too much swagger that tells me he's not really comfortable with the whole marriage thing either. If he only knew how great it can be. I plan to tell him.

I lead the guys into the church and up before the altar. Father Manuel is already in full Catholic priest battle gear. He chats with the Muslim cleric who will perform the ceremony for Assad.

I turn to the congregation. I see Miguel's family: Mother, Father, aunts and uncles, a teenage brother, and a six-year-old niece. My parents are here. So is Uncle Pablo (Tio Chulo, Uncle Pretty Face). Lots of Mexican dignitaries are present, as are Marty Marinara, Tori Fox, and a large contingent from Chinatown (but not the Joy Lum Clan). Señor Popcorn has even brought Assad's mother, father, and teenage sister all the way from Iran.

In the back pews, I can see the gang from the Purgatory Bookstore: Carlyle August and Company. Sylvia, Paco, and Alicia are sitting with them.

Many of the models who live on Señor Popcorn's estate in Mexico City have come to serve as bridesmaids. It's just way too many people for me to keep track of without spending the rest of the morning going nuts. I decide I don't want to, and that's a good thing. It's already too late.

An organ strikes up the first chords of the wedding march, and at the very far end of the main aisle, I can see the procession of bridesmaids and groomsmen filing in.

Minutes later, there's Marie Elena on the arm of her father. Right behind them comes Veronica Joy with Fernando de Cervantes himself. The popcorn man is giving the bride away.

I'm nearly overwhelmed by the beauty of the gowns and the women wearing them. I watch as the brides move to their respective grooms and I say a prayer of thanks that this is all happening.

Señor Popcorn and Marie Elena's father take their seats. Everything stops for a moment, and then the full orchestra strikes up the first strains of Mozart's Coronation Mass.

I usually think weddings are tedious, especially when they're part of an operatic High Mass. But this one's great, powerful. It almost seems to end too soon, and the next thing I know Alicia and I are heading out across the estate, posing for pictures—me, not Alicia. She won't show up in the photos if her picture is taken ... though there may be some kind of a spooky blur in her place.

Señor Popcorn has commissioned an enormous ice sculpture for the center of the grounds. It's a scene from Don Quixote. In it, the old guy is on his knees before his dream girl, Dulcinea ... pledging his love.

Four musical groups serenade the guests and provide dance music and entertainment. A mariachi band is blasting away by the largest swimming pool, where serving-gals in hot pants and tuxedo tops move through the crowd. They pass out seafood cocktails, canapés, champagne, and margaritas. Alicia and I take a few romantic turns to the mariachis, and she does a classic zapateado. The crowd cheers. Then we move on to the private lake where a rock band is hammering out the latest hits as they ride a floating bandstand.

"Rrrrrrrock and Rrrrrrooolllll," Alicia squeals. She's been dead for almost four years, but she still knows all the right moves, and they're sexy as hell. Miguel and Marie Elena join us, but soon we hear a gong calling us to the wedding banquet in the formal garden. There will be more time for "Rrrrrrrock and Rrrrrrooolllll" after the festivities.

A Chinese bell choir is already performing in the garden, and Lion dancers and Dragons are part of the show. The fourth musical group is the thirty-piece orchestra that gave us Mozart's Coronation Mass during the wedding. At the end of the day, they will perform concert works by Beethoven, Gershwin, and Joaquin Rodrigo.

But now it's banquet time. Alicia and I move to the head table. I sit beside Assad, and he and his bride are so in love that they seem brighter than the sun—as the song goes. Miguel and Marie Elena sit next to Veronica Joy, and Sylvia sits beside them.

At the rehearsal dinner the night before, everyone in the bridal party received gifts: Rolex watches for the men and Hermès bags for the women. Party favors for everyone at the wedding are new iPads with full documentation of the event.

Señor Popcorn bounces from table to table and is so caught up in his greetings that he almost delays the prayer at the start of dinner. But then Padre Manuel catches his eye and starts the benediction. The Muslin cleric and Mr. Fu offer up a little wisdom as well.

Waiters pass through the crowd making sure that everyone has a glass of champagne, and now I stand to give the first of many toasts.

"Marriage is the most wonderful thing in the world," I begin. No one's too surprised at an opening line like that. But a few of the bridesmaids kiss their boyfriends or give them a little squeeze to reinforce my words.

"Speaking as someone who had the best marriage possible," I continue, "and lost it ..."

I stop. I'm ruined. I see the clusters of tables, the faces looking up at me, the waiters moving through the crowd in crazy patterns, but I know that soon everyone will stop and nothing will happen unless I finish the toast. For a long terrible moment, all I can think of are those last words, "and lost it."

"Carlitos," Alicia says to me. There she is. She's tugging at my sleeve.

"I am here, mi amor," she whispers. "We have not been lost."

She gives me that smile. She nods encouragement. God, I can't bear to lose her again. Still, I take a deep breath and continue.

"May you find the love that Alicia and I have had in our marriage," I tell the couples, "and may you be strong enough to hold onto each other forever."

"Here, here!" Señor Popcorn shouts. Everyone cheers. Glasses clink. Assad stands and hugs me. Veronica steps up and kisses me on the cheek, Amy too, then Marie Elena. "Thank you," she whispers.

Hey, it was just a little toast, right, interrupted by a few moments of minor hysteria, nothing more.

There are more toasts and cheers, more champagne, lots of tequila, margaritas, and then the food starts rolling out, every kind from every nationality. There's even lasagna in honor of Agent Marinara. Prime rib is served from big rolling carts with the beef carved right at tableside.

There's barbecued pork and beef ribs with Texas chili; burgers and corndogs and hot dogs for the kids; walnut shrimp, shark fin soup, crispy whole fried chicken, roast suckling pig, pigeon, and lobster in honor of the Joy sisters. There's chelo kebab (saffron rice served with roasted lamb) and other Persian specialties in honor of Assad.

But more than anything else, there's Mexican food. Tortilla soup followed by ceviche de pescando, and seafood salad featuring enormous shrimp, lobster, great chunks of cod dripping with lime juice and cilantro, floating on beds of fresh lettuce, and served with chips and mountains of fresh guacamole. There's filete de pescando rellenos—stuffed fish fillets, red snapper with mango sauce, carne asada, carnitas, mole enchiladas served with Mexican rice and frijoles de la olla, lobster enchiladas, chicken enchiladas, cheese enchiladas, chili rellenos. I try a little of everything and almost explode.

The ghosts look on silently. They can't eat, but they can remember what it's like. They watch us stuffing ourselves, and that seems to be enough for them.

As the meal winds down, coffee is served, and then trays and trays of small Dragon and Phoenix Wedding Cakes are rolled out into the center of the garden. These cakes honor Assad's Chinese bride in a modern twist on a centuries-old tradition. Next comes a huge dark chocolate cake that almost looks like a volcano, a reminder that our ancestors were the first to discover the joys of chocolate.

Each couple cuts their cake, and then the guests are offered their choice of one cake or the other ... or both. Of course, I have them both ... with ice cream.

Coffee, cake, ice cream, brandy, more tequila! Pop sensation Ricardo Martinez runs up onto the stage and begins singing Daddy's Little Girl.

I don't think there's a Spanish word for schmaltzy, but if there were, this would be the time to use it. And yet I love watching as Señor Popcorn is led onto the floor to dance with Veronica Joy Madani. He plays the role of her father far better than the person she knew as "Father." They dance slowly. Veronica is constantly on the verge of tears, realizing that the horrors she's experienced all her life will now disappear. Her good times are just starting. And then to prove it, Assad comes and takes his bride from the popcorn man.

Miguel waits a moment as he watches Marie Elena dancing with her father. Then he steps up and dances away with his new wife. In his mind, he is the one who's been saved.

I'm holding Alicia now. Feeling her pressed against me. She feels so real, but I know that she's not real at all.

"I wish this could last forever," I tell her.

"Nothing lasts forever, mi amor," she sighs, "but there is a little longer for us anyway."

Only a little longer, I realize.

It is nearly midnight before the symphony begins. The brides and grooms have taken their leave. The rest of us sit on folding chairs in the warm, starry Mexican night and listen to the orchestra.

Rhapsody in Blue is great as always, and Beethoven's Seventh Symphony blows us away. We're all on our feet cheering.

Finally, the cheering stops and Señor Popcorn climbs up onto the stage. He seems very sure of himself, but he doesn't speak. A stagehand places a chair before the orchestra and sets up a microphone beside it. The popcorn man sits. Someone brings him a guitar. He holds it like he knows what he's doing. He does.

The orchestra begins slowly. An oboe offers a sad melody, and suddenly Señor Popcorn is playing the guitar, taking the lead in the Adagio, the second movement, of the Concerto De Aranjuez by the great Spanish composer, Joaquin Rodrigo.

"The fragrance of magnolias, the singing of birds, and the gushing of fountains in the gardens of Aranjuez," Rodrigo said of the piece. But I'm not hearing that. I'm only feeling the beauty of the love I share with Alicia and the sadness in knowing that, as she says, we only have a little longer to be together.

As the last notes fade so beautifully from Señor Popcorn's guitar, the audience jumps to its feet in a great cheer. But Alicia and I remain seated, tears in our eyes. She glances at me, sees me crying, and she laughs. It's the silly laugh of a little girl in tears. I laugh too, though I can't help repeating her words, "only a little longer."

That single idea ... that we are running out of time, that Alicia and I no longer share the kind of wonderful future that today's brides and grooms share, really angers me.

I think about the reason behind it all: Luis, El Cojo, the bastard who murdered my wife, and I realize that he's still alive, still out there enjoying himself. He's even whole now, and well.

I've set a lot of things right in the last few weeks, but not my score with Luis. And now I can't wait to do it.

I turn to Alicia and smile greedily.

"What is it, mi amor?" she asks.

"First thing tomorrow we start."

"Start what?"

"Going after Luis. I want to track him down and kill the son of a bitch."

My wife's eyes flame.

"Let's do it!" she cheers at the top of her voice.

Ole!
Part 6

Chapter 53

I, Alicia Maria Mejias Mann, am so angry I could toss Carlitos over the wall of Señor Popcorn's mansion and let the snakes grab and strangle him.

He has left me, gone on to Sinaqua alone, and this I learn from Carlyle August.

The magnificent, hi-tech ghost is visiting the morning after the wedding. He and other ghosts from the Purgatory Bookstore have come to say goodbye before they go back to Los Altos. I assume Carlitos has gone out. I don't know where, but I'm dancing and making myself beautiful for him when Carlyle and the others arrive.

We talk, we laugh about the wedding and all the bands and the strange food they eat in Persia and China, and what an excellent guitar player Señor Popcorn is, and how Rodrigo is such a great composer, better than Beethoven says Royce Brilliant, but of course Señor Friedman argues with him on that point.

Then Carlyle finds a note from Carlitos. It's tucked under a glass on the kitchen table, and he reads it to me aloud.

"Dearest Alicia," it begins, and I like that.

You won't be safe in Sinaqua, so I've gone there without you. It should only be a few days. I hate that bastard Luis so much I'm going to murder him with my bare hands. I mean it. But don't worry.

Your loving husband,

Carlos

"Seriously?" Jenny Beck asks. But everyone else can see that I'm fuming. I don't even want to talk to them. Finally, Carlyle says, "We can all go to Sinaqua with you. We'll help you get rid of Luis once and for all."

"You won't be safe there," I say. "I have to go without you. It should only take a few days."

Carlyle looks at me, looks down at my husband's note, and then back at me again. "That's just what he said."

"But it's true. I have to go alone."

"At least one of us must go with you," he insists.

I imagine showing up in Sinaqua with Carlyle and picture the look on my husband's face. It will make him a little bit jealous, I think ... maybe a lot. I like the idea, but this is just not the time for it.

"If you come with me, it may upset my husband," I say to Carlyle.

He understands and smiles. He knows how handsome he is.

"Then just take someone else," he says.

I look at all the ghosts and try to decide which of them should come. Friedman almost died there the last time we went. Jenny would melt. Royce? Maybe, maybe not. And then I look at Chantal Nightingale. She's the one. After all, who in the world is scarier than a nurse with her big hypodermic needle and medicines?

I announce my decision and Chantal smiles. "Good choice, girl," she says. "But we'd better get moving. That boy of yours drives faster than we can fly."

She's right too, but he still has to cross the border, and that means we can beat him to Arizona.

#

The next morning Chantal and I are sitting at a café in Sinaqua. We hope the deadly vortexes will not affect us for a little while anyway. Carlitos soon drives up in his big, black Chrysler 300. He enters the café and takes a seat at a small booth.

"Let's tease him," I say to Chantal, and she nods.

A pretty waitress comes up to Carlitos. "Are you alone, handsome?" she asks. She's chewing gum and batting her big, blue, girly-girl eyes. A bright red nametag on her blouse says, "Hi! My name is JOYCE!"

"Yep, I'm alone," Carlos says. She smiles and gives him a single menu. Then she turns and walks away, chewing gum and swinging her hips like some kind of tramp. Invisible-me snatches another menu from Joyce and pushes her forward into a waiter carrying a tray full of toast and eggs and waffles and jam.

Joyce is not so pretty now with jam on her cheeks and eggs in her hair and hot sauce all over her blouse. The waiter helps her to her feet, but she pushes him away, turns, smiles weakly at Carlitos, and then hurries away mumbling something about the damn slippery floors.

I'm still invisible, but now I'm sitting across from Carlitos, holding the menu, and reading it. He's staring daggers at me (even though I'm invisible).

"Alicia, show yourself," he whispers at the top of his voice.

I turn the page on the menu and start to sing:

"Ay, ay, ay, ay,

Canta y no llores."

This makes Carlitos even angrier, which I am happy to see.

"It's not safe for you here," he whispers.

"I know. And it won't be safe for you either if I catch you in the arms of a flirty, puta waitress."

"She's just a hardworking girl."

"Sí, and I know what her job really is."

Carlitos stops for a moment and makes himself calm. Then Joyce is back with some coffee and a new uniform that is much shorter and shows off more of her skinny legs. She blows a bubble with her gum, then pours the coffee, and smiles at Carlitos.

"What can I get for ya, doll?"

Carlitos orders coffee and orange juice and bacon and eggs with toast and hash brown potatoes.

"Comin' right up!"

Joyce disappears, and soon we see her carrying big plates of donuts to two cops who are sitting at the corner table. The cops chat with her as they gobble their donuts, and she continues to pop her bubblegum and flirt. I relax. Carlitos drinks his coffee. And just then Luis enters the café.

He looks more handsome and healthier than ever. I hate him for that.

Carlitos's back is to him, so I whisper "Luis," and my husband lowers his head and I am very glad that I am invisible.

Joyce comes up to Luis with a pot of coffee and starts popping her gum and flirting with him too. He rubs his hands all over her backside.

"The usual, Luis?" she coos.

"Sí, hermosa."

He calls her beautiful. He's loco.

"Wanna mess with em a little?" Chantal asks invisibly. Carlitos hears her.

"You brought friends?"

"Only Chantal, from the Purgatory Bookstore."

Exasperado! That's how Carlitos looks.

Now Joyce is back with my husband's breakfast. Even I have to admit that she is hardworking. The coffee smells wonderful; so does the bacon. Chantal and I want desperately to taste it, but of course, we cannot.

"Don't either of you do anything," Carlitos says as he gulps down some coffee. "We're just here to check out Luis, trail him for a couple of days, see where he goes, and find the best place to nail him."

"The nailing should happen outside the church," I say. "There is a gorge there. I almost pushed Luis into it the last time I was here."

"You woulda," Chantal adds, "'cept for that lousy vortex vibe. It almost killed ya."

"Yes, the area near the gorge is especially bad for ghosts," I say. "But we will be safe inside the church. So, Carlitos, you lure Luis to the church and kill him while we watch from inside."

"A good Christian murder," Carlitos says as he enjoys his eggs. I think he is being sarcastic.

"Just doing God's work," I add. I can be sarcastic too.

I turn toward Chantal with a smile, but she doesn't return it. She is starting to look very weak.

"You okay?"

"Starting to feel a little dizzy," she says.

I turn to Carlitos who has already finished his breakfast. It's a good thing. "We have to leave now," I say, "these vortexes are already starting to hurt us."

Carlitos swallows the rest of his coffee and heads to the cash register near the door. But as he passes Luis, the bad guy looks up at him.

"Well, I'll be fucked!" Luis says. "Carlos. Carlos Mancowski from my old hometown."

Then his expression turns evil. "How's your wife, pendejo?"

My husband's fists tighten.

Luis pulls out a switchblade, pops it open, and drives it into the tabletop.

Instantly, both cops from the corner booth are on their feet and moving toward him. Just as quickly Chantal transforms into an enormous African ghost, half human, half hyena. She rears up ten feet tall and raises huge claws above her head. The cops start shooting at her. She roars and goes into a deathrot. The cops and everyone else clear the place. But Luis is still with us. As soon as Chantel has disappeared from sight, he snaps the knife out of the tabletop and turns toward my husband.

Carlitos crouches like the prizefighter that he is. He starts jabbing at Luis. El Cojo is no longer a cripple. He moves quickly, tossing the knife from one hand to the other until Carlitos punches him in the stomach and then slams him with a right cross. (I'm glad that Uncle Pretty Face told me something about boxing so that I know what is going on now ... sort of.)

Luis drops the knife and staggers backward against the table. Carlitos moves on him, drives punches into his body, and then starts working on his face.

Just then we hear Chantal let out a terrible moan. We turn to see that she has fallen across a table near the front door. I gasp. Now I cannot catch my breath. My muscles tighten. I suddenly feel like I am dying.

Carlitos looks at us, turns, kicks the knife away from El Cojo, gives him a final punch that doubles him over, and then he runs to me and lifts me up in his arms and carries me to the car. He drops me in the front seat and turns to see that Chantal has somehow dragged herself outside behind him. He piles her into the back, climbs into the driver's side, starts the car, and races toward the church so that we can regain our strength.

As we leave, we can hear police sirens wailing as cop cars come pouring in toward the diner. Meanwhile, I can feel my body growing weaker and weaker as the vortexes try to destroy us.

Chapter 54

Carlitos carries me into the safety of the church. As we enter the holy doors, I can feel my strength returning and the sickness draining from me. My husband, my lover, helps me lie down on the first pew in the back. Then he gets Chantal Nightingale and places her in the pew across from the one I am in.

"Sanctuary," Carlitos says as he kneels down beside me. I smile up at him.

"Si, mi amor." Tears of gratitude fill my eyes. He is my savior. Is he not?

"If you're worried just make yourself invisible," Carlitos adds.

"Cool," I hear Chantal say. She pops up behind Carlitos as full of energy as though the evil vortexes had never touched her. "We're hauntin' a church, girl!"

"Very nice," I answer with a smile.

"Well, enjoy yourselves," Carlitos says. "I need a little rest myself. So just hang here and get strong."

"Oh yeah, babe," Chantal answers. "No worries there."

Less than an hour later, Carlitos checks into a small motel near the church. Almost immediately, five men come to the door of his room and break in without even knocking. The first two men charge the bed where Carlitos is lying. They grab him by the arms and legs and drag him over to the wall.

The biggest man is named Kiki, believe it or not.

"This is a little present from a mutual friend," he says as he and another bad guy hold Carlitos against the wall. Then the rest of them take turns pounding my husband's stomach and face.

Carlitos is tough, as you know. He pulls free, turns, and spits into the face of Señor Kiki. It infuriates the big man. He grabs Carlitos again. He and the others pin my husband back against the wall and hold him there while they continue their attack. They break my husband's beautiful Aztec nose, then turn his soft lips into oceans of blood; they knock out three teeth. His whole body, which is so muscular, becomes one enormous bruise. They beat him senseless. The only thing that keeps Carlitos alive is his toughness and the fact that the motel owner calls the cops.

When the police get there, the bad guys are still beating on him. His face is bloody. His ribs are broken, his eyes black and blue.

The thugs refuse to stop pounding my beloved, even when the police draw their guns. The cops have to shoot Kiki in the shoulder before he finally lets go of Carlitos and allows him to fall to the floor.

One cop comes up to my beaten husband and looks down on him. It's one of the cops from the restaurant. "You picked the wrong gang to mess with, Poncho," he says.

Carlitos is barely breathing, and yet he sneers. The cops call an ambulance, and they cart him off to the Sinaqua hospital. The bad guys are all loaded into a van and taken to the county jail where they join their friend, Luis, behind bars.

El Cojo has been arrested for starting the fight in the café that morning. But what does it matter? He is rich with his stealings from Señor Popcorn. By the end of the day, he and Kiki and all the others are out on bail and looking for me. And, of course, they have a pretty good idea where I am.

#

Inside the church, Chantal Nightingale and I are restored. Our ghostly bodies are whole. A small crowd attended an evening mass said by an old priest who delivered the sermon in Spanish and English. He has now gone for the night. The worshippers have left too. The doors of the church have been locked from the inside against vandals who like to write obscene words on holy things. But the stained glass windows on the side of the church are half open, and through them, I hear the voice of Luis.

"Your husband's dead, bitch."

I immediately rush to the door and want to go out after my murderer and destroy him.

Chantal Nightingale stops me. "He's spoutin' bullshit! They just want to get you out there so they can murder you again."

Chantal forces me back into the center of the church, and we wait. We pray too.

Then Luis calls again. "We have your husband's dead body right out here, chica."

"If he were really dead, his ghost would come here to see ya," Chantal tells me. She's holding onto my arm as we sit in a pew in the back of the church.

"Carlitos could be dead and already gone somewhere else," I say.

"We know he's not in hell," Chantal answers, "and as far as heading straight through the pearly gates ... no one's that good, hon."

"He's not a saint."

Chantal smiles. "Close, but, you're right, he's not."

"Whore! Hey, whore!" Luis calls from outside, "Carlos is out here waiting for you."

"He's already starting to rot and smell," an unknown voice adds. I later learn that it's the brute Kiki.

"Come on out and claim the piece of shit," someone else adds.

"Get out here, mama," calls another. "We wanna check you out."

Chantal and I look at each other in terror. There's a whole gang out there.

Things go silent again. I realize that we ghosts in the church and the bad guys outside are waiting each other out. Then there's a stirring outside, and suddenly something comes flying in, right through the opening in the window. It smashes into the marble floor. I run to it, look at it, and scream.

It's a severed hand, a dead hand, and it's wearing a ring from the University of Guadalajara. It's my husband's hand!

"Oh my God, Oh Jesus! No!"

Chantal is beside me at once. She holds me. "Think, honey, think. It doesn't have to be his hand. Okay, it's there, and it's dead, and it's wearing a ring from his school ... oh Jesus!"

"Carlitos wore that ring!"

"Or one like it."

She's right. I try to force myself to stop shaking, to think logically like mi amor. It's okay; it could be anyone's hand, it could be anyone's ring.

"Want us to throw his head in too?" Luis calls.

"Noooooooooo!"

There is another rattling under the window, and I can't stand it anymore. I assume the most horrible shape I can, a shape made out of my fear and grief and anger and death, and I burst through the wall and rush after Luis and his men who turn and run. They are carrying a body with them.

Is it my husband's body? It has to be.

I chase them through the darkness seeing much better than they can, but they climb into a huge pickup truck and speed off.

I am chasing, chasing, chasing, flying down the road after them and feeling myself growing weaker and slower, and suddenly I realize that I am now so far from the church that the vortexes are strangling me, and I am starting to die again.

I see Luis standing up in the back of the pickup. He smiles at me and that smile is evil all by itself. Then he reaches down and picks up something from the floor of the truck. He throws it at me. It's a human head, my husband's head! It bounces past me and lands face down in a ditch. I drag my dying body to it. It looks like the back of Carlitos's head. I am shaking with fear, but I dare to touch it. The hair feels like hair I have touched so often in love. I tangle my fingers into it for just a moment and then slowly, I turn the head over, doing everything possible not to scream.

I don't. It's the handsome face of a beautiful, dead young man wearing a look of murdered pain.

But it is not Carlitos.

My heart should be singing, but I feel no joy. I realize that once again Luis has tricked me; he has lured me far away from the safety of the church, far away from any help that Chantal Nightingale can offer me ...

And the vortexes are well on their way to destroying me completely.

Chapter 55

There is a rumbling in the air, a low, mean, mechanical rumbling. I am blind now. I can no longer feel my ghost body. I can no longer lift my arm to reach for help. I can no longer move my heart to hope. And yet that rumbling comes and stops beside me. And, as harsh and cruel as the noise has become, it's comforting, because it is the sound of the engine of my husband's new/old Chrysler 300.

I hear the door open. Feet shuffle out from the car, though the engine does not stop. I hear a groan that I love. It is the familiar sound and smell of Carlitos. But there is also the smell of medicine and gauze and medical tape. I will later look at my husband and see bandages across his face and over his broken nose. I will see medical dressing in his hair, and I will later learn that bandages are wrapped around his chest and his broken ribs as well.

I will later learn that it is painful, difficult and even dangerous for Carlitos to reach down and gather me up once again and put me gently in the back seat of his rumbling machine, and then drive me, just as I am about to die again, back to the safety of the church, the care of Chantal Nightingale, and one last moment of peace, before that murderer Luis and his men come calling.

Chapter 56

"Oh, Alicia! Won't you come out and play?"

It's Luis pretending to be a little boy but also sounding tired and angry and frustrated.

I want to scream out at my murderer, "Die, pendejo!" but Carlitos shushes me.

I'm lying in the back pew of the church, staring up at my husband. There are still bandages all over him, but now he reaches up and pulls off the one covering his nose. His face is beautiful. His nose is not broken anymore.

"You're cured, mi amor," I sigh. And it's true. The broken nose is gone, the black and blueness around his eyes has disappeared. His lips are no longer cut. Even his beautiful teeth are back.

I remember how El Cojo became whole once because of the vortexes of Sinaqua ... they are helpful for humans even if they are deadly for ghosts.

Carlitos rips off his shirt and then sets to work on the gauze and bandages taped to his chest.

"Oh, my," Chantal sighs as she realizes what a hunk I am married to.

The bruises are gone. The cuts are healed. Sinaqua has worked a miracle on him.

"Carlitos," Luis calls in singsong, little boy fashion. "Your playmates are here. Bring out your girlfriend so we can all have fun together."

Disgusting sucking sounds are coming from Kiki and the other men of Luis's band. But I don't care. I am staring into the back of the church, at my husband, and his muscles are bulging, his eyes are shining. He looks like a superhero.

"Fucky, fucky, Alicia," calls Luis to the accompaniment of more nasty sucking sounds. "Lotsa little boys want to see you and touch you, sweetie."

"This is Kiki, Carlos," another voice calls out. "I'm the dude who held you up against the wall while my compadres pounded you. Come on out, bro, so we can do it all over again."

He laughs.

I look back at Carlitos. He is laughing too. Now that the bandages are gone, he's putting his shirt back on and marching quickly toward the back doors of the church.

He throws the doors open and steps out into the moonlight.

Luis and his men rush around from the far side of the building where they were standing under the window. They move in front of him in an arc, maybe fifteen feet away from him. And now I am standing outside beside my husband staring at them. I feel like a warrior, and I try to channel whatever warriors are in Sinaqua so that I will share their fierce images.

"Wait!" I hear Chantal calling to me from just inside the church.

"Don't you be out there, Alicia. You'll start dying again. Believe me."

I glance uncertainly at mi amor, but he is smiling so confidently.

Then he turns and faces Luis.

"You don't dare face me man to man, do you, Luis?" he calls. "You need a gang to back you up. You always were a coward, even when we were kids."

"As I remember, you were the coward, my little Carlos," Luis answers. "You were the one who played with girls. I can take you down, man; I can kill you with my bare hands."

"Without your hermanos?" Carlitos asks.

"Just you and me, pendejo. I'll break you. I always could."

"Tell your boys to back away then," Carlitos calls, and I can see his muscles flexing proudly. "It'll be just you and me."

"If you'll keep the ghosts out of it."

"Into the church, Alicia," Carlitos commands.

"Tell your men to back away," I shout fiercely to El Cojo. He motions to them, and they do it without a word.

Then I smile and duck back into the church with Chantal Nightingale.

The church doors close, but from the little window just above the latch, I can still see Carlitos as he moves forward on Luis. Kiki and the others have backed farther away, and now they are cheering my murderer.

Carlitos strips off his shirt and his pants. He's down to tight briefs and tennis shoes. "Strip," he calls to Luis. "No hidden weapons."

Luis pulls off his shirt and then his pants. He takes a knife from around his leg and throws it toward Kiki. His lieutenant picks it up.

I gasp. The sight of two such beautiful, nearly naked men, circling each other in the moonlight is breathtaking ... at least before the blood begins to flow.

Luis lunges at Carlitos, grabs him around the waist and throws him to the ground. Carlitos is holding on, jabbing El Cojo in the ribs.

Luis pushes his hand into my husband's face and presses his fingers toward his eyes. Carlitos releases his grasp and pushes Luis backward, then drives him across the ground with a kick in the chest.

"No ninjas here," Chantal says as she watches the fight from the little window on the other door. "Just brute force."

"And boxing skills," I add.

Carlitos is now rushing at Luis, punching at his face, driving blows into his stomach. Luis bends over in pain and drops down to one knee. Then he lets out a scream and charges my husband, grabbing him around the waist again, swinging him around, and throwing him through the air and to the ground.

He jumps onto Carlitos and begins to pound him with blows to the head. My husband blocks the punches until he can reach back and slam Luis right in his evil mouth.

Luis's head whips back, and Carlitos takes the opportunity to land a right cross. It twists Luis with such force that it rips his body away from my husband.

The two men get to their feet and begin circling each other. Luis is in a wrestler's crouch with grasping hands. Carlitos is in a boxer's form with fists raised and feet dancing.

While all this is going on, Kiki and the others are creeping closer and closer to the men as they fight, and now they are so close that Kiki holds out the knife and Luis takes it and swipes a great bloody cut in the shoulder of mi amor.

Carlitos grimaces in pain, but makes no sound, even as the other men start moving in.

They begin grabbing at him, trying to trip him or knock him to the ground. The circle tightens, and now Carlitos is fighting more than just Luis; he is fighting the hermanos as well.

Suddenly, a creature bolts from the door of the church. It is a monstrous, snarling jackal of a beast with huge claws, chattering teeth, and drooling mouth. Its eyes flame like raging stars as it cuts between the two fighters and Kiki's men.

Los hermanos move toward the thing, and it turns and marches directly at them hissing and growing as it comes. They back away to the far end of the lot in front of the church, and now the beast holds them there. It paces between the men and the fighters tossing its head high in the air, raising up on its hind legs, snarling, slobbering, and taunting the men to dare and try to interfere.

I am saddened because I know that this is not some monster from the jungles of Africa; this is Chantal Nightingale drawing on ancient ancestral forces to save my husband. She's killing herself in the process. And yet she stays out there amid the swirling deadly vortexes using all her energy to maintain her monstrosity.

Luis charges Carlitos and pushes him back to the very edge of the great chasm. As they roll around there in the dust, first an arm, then two legs, then the head of one, then the other hang over the edge.

They roll apart, get to their feet and face each other as they did in the café: Carlitos in his boxer's stance, Luis with a knife that he tosses from hand to hand. My husband's shoulder is pouring blood, and yet he moves in and continues to pound Luis's body and face, driving him to the very edge of the precipice. A sudden blow to Luis's chest and our enemy begins to fall backward over the edge.

"Help me!" Luis screams as he loses his footing and is about to plunge to his death. And Carlitos, like a fool, catches him by the arm and pulls him back onto solid ground. As he regains his footing, Luis swings his free hand around (the one holding the knife) and stabs it into my husband's forearm. Then he pulls down on it dragging it through the screaming muscles the whole length of my husband's arm ... all the way down to the palm of his hand.

Carlitos falls to his knees gripping his bloody arm as Luis pulls the knife from him and jabs it into my husband's chest. El Cojo steps back, right on the edge of the cliff as Carlitos falls forward onto the knife pushing it even deeper into him.

My husband does not move.

Luis stands and cheers. His men give a shout as well, but this only infuriates the monster that paces in front of them. And now she rears up and screams like a wild hyena, a cry so piercing that Kiki and the others turn and run across the lot. They climb aboard their pickup truck and drive wildly away.

Yet, Carlitos still lies motionless, face down on the ground.

Luis stands over him raising his fists in the air and cheering.

Then he feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns.

I am standing right in front of him.

He rushes for me, grasping fingers reaching out to strangle me. But instead of grabbing my ghost body, with a crazy scream, he finds he has thrown himself over the edge of the cliff.

I am floating in the air above it.

I listen to his wretched cry, look down and watch him waving his arms and legs around as he falls thousands of feet to the chasm floor. I see him crush and mangle himself against the rocks below.

Yet, when I look up, there is no joy. I still see Carlitos lying on the ground by the cliff. He does not move a muscle. Blood now seeps out from under his body. A hundred yards behind him, Chantal Nightingale has melted into her ghostly shape. No longer able to stay the monster that scared off Kiki and his men, she disintegrates further into nothing more than a dying ghost.

And then I feel myself melting, and falling ... falling. I reach for the edge of the cliff, but I cannot grasp it. I cannot fly anymore. My ghostly powers have all been stolen by the vortexes. I am fading out of existence, fading, falling, and plunging after Luis down into the chasm.

What is this death within death? I wonder.

It is the very last thing I know.

THE END

EPILOGUE

Carlos Mann lies face down in the dirt on the very edge of a precipice that cuts behind the old mission church in Sinaqua, Arizona. He lifts his head slowly, spits out a mouthful of dirt and blood, and then he pushes himself up with his arms. He sees a dagger buried in his chest.

It's bent sideways from the weight of his body pressed against the ground. He feels blood caked on his skin. Pools of blood cover the spot where he lay. He kneels upright, grasps the dagger with both hands, and wrenches it from his body. It comes out with another thick gout of blood.

Carlos struggles to his feet. He staggers to the edge of the precipice and almost falls in. His arms flail for a moment as he tries to regain his balance. He finally does, and now he looks into the chasm and can make out the broken body of a man at the very bottom.

"Luis," he murmurs.

He turns around and sees a fallen figure across the dirt lot in front of the church. It must be a dead body. Slowly, he makes his way toward it. But as he approaches, the corpse seems to become whole, to become beautiful. But it's not his dead wife. It's not Alicia.

"Chantal," he says as he reaches the body and kneels beside it. The thing stirs, turns a pretty face to him, and smiles.

"You won the fight, handsome," she says.

"I did? I don't remember. Where's Alicia?"

"You lost there, hon," she says. "I saw her lure Luis over the edge of the cliff, and then she just seemed to lose her powers and fall right in after him."

Carlos lets out a long, tragic cry. He raises his hands to his hair and begins to pull on it in anguish.

Chantal reaches up and touches his shoulder for a moment.

"Maybe I'll be seeing her soon," she says. "You too, when you finally make the trip."

Carlos studies her in confusion. "What about ghost death? What about the nothingness caused by the vortex?"

"Imagine my surprise," Chantal says with a little smile. "Looks like there's something out there after all. Maybe not for everyone, maybe ya gotta pay up all yer dues first ... at least most of em. But I know it's there, I can see it, and more importantly, I can fer-sure feel it. Maybe a battle like this one cuts out all the bullshit, and those of us who are ready just head straight on home."

"No nothingness?"

"Not for everyone. I mean I was startin' ta feel okay with it. Jes 'pop' n' yer gone. No chance to reflect on what you ain't, know what I mean. I kinda got used to the idea. But remember, Doc, two negatives do make a positive."

"No nothingness then means ..."

"Somethin'."

"And you think Alicia's there?"

Chantal smiles. She's weak, but her eyes are clear. "Just not sure if she's ready is all. Unfortunately, if she did die in the Dread Zone and wasn't ready, it could be the big nothin' for her. Know what I mean?"

"Alicia in oblivion."

"But we donno that she died here, hon. We donno where she is. Sorry." She sighs and tries to lift her head but can't.

"Anyway, good-bye, Dr. Mann. Nice doin' business with ya."

Chantal closes her eyes and disintegrates into a pile of dust.

"Nice doing business," Carlos repeats, and he kneels there on the hard surface of the parking lot and sobs.

#

So, where is Alicia?

Not at the bottom of the precipice.

Not out of existence.

The same Apache warriors, the ones who saved her the last time she was caught in the Dread Zone, reach out to her as she falls.

The same little boy, who spoke to her before, now calls out again, "¿Necesita ayuda?" (Do you need help?)

Alicia falls more slowly. She's floating. The little boy seems to float alongside her. His face is still so kind, so much that of her childhood friend, husband, lover, Carlitos, that all her fears fade away.

The Apaches take Alicia and carry her through their ancient passages, around the vortexes, through the Dread Zone of Sinaqua and then out to their home, their wickiup in the cultural center outside the city.

Alicia asks the Apaches to stop for Chantal, to save her too, but they say no, that her time as a ghost is over. She's moving on, and there is no way they can hold her here on earth any longer, at least not once she's spoken to Carlos.

"Carlitos?" Alicia asks. "Is he a ghost? A saint, maybe?"

The little boy laughs. It's almost the same laugh Carlitos had in his childhood.

"He's more of a saint than you are Señora," the boy giggles. "But he's still alive."

Alicia's heart thrills at the message.

#

Carlos gathers Chantal's ashes and puts them in an urn for safe transport to Los Altos. He also hires a mountain rescue team to help search the base of the chasm and the caves all around. Of course, there is no trace of Alicia there, and Carlos fears that she has, as Chantal says, "gone on into the big nothin'."

He decides at last that Alicia's moved on too; hopefully like Chantal, she was ready. Still, he actually stands at the base of the chasm calling as loudly as he can ... loud enough to reach the next world, he hopes.

"AAAAAALLLLIIIIICCCCCCIIIIIAAAAA!"

No response.

#

Carlos climbs the stairs to his apartment in Los Altos. He has the urn with Chantal's remains, which he will take to the Purgatory Bookstore tomorrow evening. Tonight he's just too damn tired after the long drive back from Arizona.

He goes into the kitchen and places the urn on the table. There is a mountain of mail there. He asked his landlord to bring it in for him while he was gone, and now there are bills, ads, offers of new credit cards, and requests for donations, strangely including one from the Apache Indian School in Sinaqua.

There's a joyful postcard from Assad and Veronica on their honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta. There's a request for license plate renewal for the Chrysler. And there is also a "thank you" note from Dr. Burke. In it, she again tells Carlos that he saved her life and that she's indebted to him forever.

A big manila envelope from the university contains a "welcome back" letter from the Dean of the School of Philosophy and a schedule for the fall quarter. There's also a list of students who have enrolled in his class. Carlos runs down the list compulsively and is surprised to see the name Amy Joy listed there. He smiles and looks at the rest of his mail: magazines, journals, and more bills.

A very small, but very bright red envelope has fallen away from the rest of the mail. Carlos takes it and opens it. It's from Amy.

Dr. Mann:

Thank you so much for saving us, for freeing us, and giving us a new life. I know that Veronica and Assad will be happy forever. And Señor Popcorn has been so incredible. We are having the time of our lives here.

Still, I know that I must return to Chinatown. Mr. Fu tells me that things are safe there once again. So, I'm coming back. I've arranged to continue my studies at Leland and have been lucky enough to find a place in your Logic class. I know I will do better this year without all the distractions.

I'm looking forward to seeing you again real soon. Thank you so much,

Amy

Carlos chuckles a little as he goes to the refrigerator, dumps a few ice cubes into a glass, and adds a healthy portion of tequila.

He returns to the living room and sits on the couch. He sips his drink and reflects on all that has happened ... and on Amy's letter.

Suddenly ...

All the books come cascading from the bookshelf; the mail flies up in the air and spins around as though caught in a whirlwind. Multi-colored confetti flies out of the bedroom and fills the air. Along with it come all his pictures of Alicia. They swirl madly, surging up and down through the living room, flashing past him, making a joyful slideshow of his life with her. Everything is caught in a showcase of perpetual motion.

Carlos can barely see through the snowstorm of paper and pictures. And yet he does pick up an image, a figure moving toward him from out of the bedroom. It appears to be a shapely woman dressed in a pure-white, sheer linen gown. She looks like an angel, but her smile is devilish.

Alicia moves right in front of her husband. She's enormous on great, golden high heels. She cocks her hip, crosses her arms across her chest, and frowns at him.

"You will NOT be teaching any more classes to that Joy girl, mi amor," she commands.

Then she falls into the couch beside her husband, and they both burst out laughing.

BONUS CHAPTER

AVAILABLE NOW

The Alicia Trilogy Book Two

Alicia's Sin

The temperamental spirit of Alicia Mann begins anger management training in Vienna with the ghost of Dr. Sigmund Freud. But the famed father of psychoanalysis soon learns that Alicia hides a far more deadly weakness ... one that threatens the health and well being of her living husband, Carlos. To make matters worse, Tiger Joy has rebuilt her parents' slave trade empire, and now she plans to gain revenge on the one person most responsible for the death of her mother and father—Carlos Mann. Meanwhile, the OCD logic professor has still more problems. The benevolent drug lord, Señor Popcorn, has fallen in love with the daughter of the director of anti-narcotics operations for the Mexican government. And the popcorn man wants Carlos to help plead his cause.

Read on for a preview of the further adventures of Carlos and Alicia.
Chapter 1

The room is midnight dark. Cold. Smelling of incense and agony.

Amy Joy sits cross-legged in the corner, working on her iPad.

Far across the floor, her sister Helen, also known as Tiger, slides into a high-backed mahogany chair engraved with dozens of wicked dragons. The mythical creatures snake over the back of the chair, down its legs, across the seat, and then extend out to form two heavy arms.

Tiger toys with the gaping mouths and dragon teeth at the ends of each arm. She turns sideways and slides her hands up over the sensuous outlines of the dragons. She can almost feel their ancient powers flowing into her.

Tiger smiles, but it's a cruel smile. The girl is twenty-two at most, dressed in black martial arts gear. Her feet, usually pumped up on five-inch high heels, are bare, her toenails painted celadon green.

Amy watches her sister from the shadowy corner. Then, a harsh rumble startles her.

It sounds like the roar of a huge Harley motorcycle, but it's not.

Sid Vicious, a full size Bengal tiger, pads into the room, across the well-oiled mahogany floor, and up to the girl on the throne.

Tiger Joy smiles.

"Are we hungry today, Sid?" she coos.

The animal purrs and seems to nod.

"Well, sorry about that," Tiger says as she gets to her feet, "you'll just have to wait."

Tiger's long black hair extends over her shoulder almost to her waist. She wrangles it behind her with both hands, and then swings one leg up and over the back of the big cat. She lowers her full weight onto Sid Vicious and slowly, languidly, begins riding him around the room. The beast seems to be moving in slow motion. His mistress has her eyes closed. Her arms have fallen to her sides. Her smile is erotic, as though she is drawing enormous animal power from the monster.

Amy watches all this, knowing that it's some kind of evil sacrament that she has no right to witness. Her eyes search desperately for a means of escape. But there is none. The realization scares Amy so much that she drops the iPad.

Sid Vicious jerks his head toward her. Tiger's eyes pop open. Her lips pull into a hard smile; she dismounts.

"Enjoying the show, Amy?" Tiger asks as she glides up to her sister. The 500-pound cat follows.

Amy shakes her head nervously. "I wasn't watching."

"Your sister's riding a tiger, and you're not watching?"

"No. Honest."

"I'm disappointed."

Tiger cocks her hip. "I thought you'd already finished the notes from this morning's meetings."

"Just now," Amy answers.

Suddenly, Sid Vicious launches a full-fledged roar that shakes the whole building.

"Aw, pet," Tiger pouts. "You are hungry, aren't you?"

She grabs Amy by the wrist, drags her directly in front of the huge cat, and pushes her arm right up to the tiger's mouth.

"Have a little taste, Sid." Tiger says, with a frightening gleam in her eyes.

Amy's too terrified to try and wrestle her arm away, afraid that any sudden movement will encourage the hungry cat.

"I'm sure Amy tastes delicious," Tiger whispers to her pet, and she slams Amy's arm against Sid's mouth.

Sid flinches, then pauses, and studies the young woman being offered to him. Amy holds her breath. Finally, Sid shakes his head and steps away.

Amy almost faints with relief.

"Gotta go," she manages to whisper. "Logic 101 at Leland."

"Still trying to pass?"

"I have to."

"No, you don't. You're out of the program. No one's going to marry you, Amy. In fact, I plan to sell you off to the first guy willing to pay your debts."

Tiger finally lets go of Amy's arm.

"I really have to get to class."

"Who's teaching? That prick Carlos Mann?"

"He's not a ... you know."

"Yeah, right."

Tiger slouches. Suddenly, she's bored with the whole conversation. "Just get the fuck outta here."

Tiger walks back to Sid Vicious and strokes the monster's side. As the big cat begins to purr, she turns back to Amy.

"But give Carlos a message for me, will you?"

Amy carefully retrieves her iPad and moves toward the door.

"What message?"

"Tell him I hold him responsible for Mother and Father's deaths. And I plan to make him pay ... with his life."

"I can't tell him that."

"My pet's still hungry, Amy."

"I'll tell him," Amy whispers as she hurries from the room.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Tiger purrs to her pet. Then she climbs back onto the huge cat, closes her eyes, and begins restoring her animal energy with another slow, sensuous ride.

#

Carlos Mann here.

It's later that same day, just before class. Amy enters my office in tears. She tells me everything that just happened.

"You're in terrible danger, Dr. Mann," she says. "Tiger won't stop until she's killed you. I don't even think your ghost-friends can help."

"Not even the ghost of Attila the Hun?"

"You know him?"

"No, but I always thought he was the one guy who could handle your sister."

That at least gets a smile from Amy. It also stops me from running into the storage area and rearranging the all the psychology department supplies just to escape this conversation.

"Go wash those tears out of your eyes before we start class," I say. "Okay?"

Amy gives me another frightened smile, gets to her feet and heads out the door.

After she leaves I just shake my head and wonder just how long it will be before Tiger starts putting her murderous plans into motion.

I'll bet she already has.

About the Authors

**Nick Iuppa** began his career as an apprentice writer with famed Bugs Bunny/Road Runner animator Chuck Jones and children's author Dr. Seuss. He later became a staff writer for the Wonderful World of Disney. As VP Creative Director for Paramount Pictures, Nick did experimental work in interactive television and story-based simulations. He is the author of seven novels, Management by Guilt (Fawcett Books 1984—a Fortune Book Club selection) and eight technical books on interactive media. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Ginny. For more about Nick, visit www.nickiuppa.com.

**John Pesqueira** **'s** studies at the University of Arizona, Columbia, and Stanford prepared him for an impressive career in media design and development. His passion for the visual arts and popular culture continue to inform his creative efforts and still inspire his writing and photography. John grew up in the Sonoran desert and his love of the history, legends, and people of the American Southwest and Mexico remain a major focus of his work. John lives with his wife in Northern California.

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