Eventually, however, he came around; and now he was a completely different child. It was hard for me to admit, but even before Calvin's death, Spencer had been moody and taciturn; sometimes so shy he had trouble making friends. Maybe he'd been reflecting Calvin's own depression and aloofness. Or maybe being in the shadow of a spoiled, lousy, self-absorbed father was just as bad as dealing with the loss of one. (Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.) But my boy was so much happier these days; so much more alive, with blossoming interests and solid grades in school. He even enjoyed helping out at the store; and those terrible nightmares? Gone.

I smiled with that thought as I half-closed my son's door and moved to my own bedroom. Stifling a yawn, I kicked off my low-heeled shoes, changed out of my slacks and blazer, and slipped into my nightshirt. Then I settled under the covers, set my black-framed glasses on the nightstand, and clicked off the light.

Inside my head, however, the light remained on.

Looking at my sleeping son had raised my spirits, filled me with joy and certainty. But in the darkness, something else took over: a vision of what had happened less than an hour earlier, an image of danger and near death.

That huge, black audio speaker had fallen onto the theater stage like the grim reaper looking for a soul. The calm of the audience, followed by the shock, the screams, the chaos… it reminded me of my late husband all over again: of his being right there in our quiet bedroom one moment, and down on the sidewalk the next. I could still hear the shrieks on the street, the squealing of brakes, the sirens.

"There was a flash," I mumbled beneath my bedcovers. "And sparks. Why were there so many sparks? And then that awful smashing noise. Why? Why did it fall?"

My bedroom felt warm, but the temperature rapidly changed. An icy breeze began swirling around me. I opened my eyes. My flowered curtains weren't moving. There was no breeze. No wind; not outside, anyway. Beyond the open window, the black branches of the hundred-year oak appeared still as the grave.

"Jack?" I whispered into the chilly darkness. "Is that you?"

Miss me, baby?

"Where were you?"

Where do you think? I was back here, waiting for you. I'm going to take you out on the town…

"I don't know what you mean… "

Yeah, you do, baby. We've done it before.

"But I want to discuss what happened earlier at the theater. What did you mean by Hedda being 'one accident-prone dame'?"

I'm going to show you. It's something I witnessed years ago, and I want you to see it, too. But you have to close your eyes.

Once more, I tried to argue, but a giant yawn stifled my words. I began to feel incredibly groggy. My eyelids drifted lower, and then everything went black…

"EVERYTHING'S SO BRIGHT!"

Hearing the giggly voice of a teenaged girl, I opened my eyes. People surrounded me, raucous noise, honking car horns, and lights-thousands of lights.

"Where am I?" I whispered.

"Lady, you've got to be kidding!" exclaimed that giggly teenaged girl. "You're in Times Square! Sheesh!"

The girl scampered off with a group of her friends. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but the bright mirage failed to fade. I was standing in New York 's Times Square-only this wasn't the Times Square I remembered. The surrounding buildings were much lower than during my time, the billboards more primitive, with flashing lightbulbs instead of digital images, and most of them were advertising products I'd never heard of… Kinsey Blended Whiskey? Rupert Beer?

The marquees and landmarks were all wrong, too, I realized. Automat? Hotel Astor Dining? Capitol Theater? Where was the Virgin Records Store? The Bertelsmann Building? The Toys 'R' Us, McDonald's, and towering Marriott?

Streetcars ran on tracks up and down Broadway. Cars the size of small army tanks spewed leaded gasoline fumes; and the men and women jostling me on the sidewalk were attired so formally-suits and fedoras, Sunday-best dresses, and white gloves. Not a pair of shorts, baggy jeans, or sneakers in sight. Not one miniskirt or belly-baring top.

I looked down at my own clothing and gasped. The evening gown I was wearing resembled nothing in my closet. The dress was a strapless, slinky number, a form-fitting golden yellow with black embroidery along the top edge of a shockingly low bodice. Opera gloves, dyed to match the gown, covered three-quarters of my arms, and black, peep-toe pumps with four-inch heels were on my feet.

"What in the name of Sam Hill am I wearing?!"

As a few passersby turned their heads, I felt a sharp tap on my bare shoulder.

"What's the matter, baby? Don't you like it?"

The deep, gravelly voice was one I knew well. It was the voice of Jack Shepard, now attached to the body he'd had in life. A gray fedora sat on his sandy hair; a double-breasted suit was attractively tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist; and despite his menacing iron jaw and the ominous dagger-shaped scar on his square, flat chin, he wore an openly bemused expression.

"Ava wore that little number in Singapore. I saw it last year at the Mayfair -or half of it anyway, before my mark took a powder."

"Ava Gardner?" I looked down at my gown again and frowned. "Did she have an acre of cleavage showing, too?"

"Yeah," said Jack. Then his granite-colored eyes took me in from my painted toenails to my upswept hair. With a single finger, he pushed back the front brim of his fedora and gave me a little smile. "But I prefer redheads."

I touched the back of my own shoulder-length auburn hair, now gathered into some kind of twist. I felt old-fashioned bobby pins holding it in place. I also realized that I wasn't wearing my black-framed glasses. I blinked, trying to discern whether my contacts were in. I didn't feel those, either, yet I could see just fine.

"What's this all about? I was trying to talk to you about Hedda Geist and what you implied about-"

"I know. Come on," he said, taking my elbow, none too gently, and hustling me along the sidewalk.

"Easy! Not so fast! I can hardly walk in these torture devices!"

Jack barely slowed. "They're part of the cover, doll. So suck it up and march. You're on a case with me, now, and I'm not putting up with bellyaching."

"Case? What case?!"

Jack didn't answer, just kept hustling me up the block then around the corner. He slowed as we approached a dark green awning. There was no writing on the fabric, no sign on the heavy door.

Jack stopped and glanced down at me. "Got your breath, baby?" Before I could answer he pulled open the door and stood aside. "After you."

"After me? Where am I going?" I peered into the darkness beyond the door. "What is this place?"

"You'll get all the answers you want if you just move your skirt inside."

I tentatively stepped forward, teetering on my ridiculously high pumps.

"Good evening, miss," a voice called from the abyss.

My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and I realized I'd stepped into some sort of reception area.

"Do you have a reservation?" A middle-aged man in a tuxedo was addressing me from behind a wooden podium. "Are you meeting someone?"

"I… uh… "

"She's with me," said Jack, stepping up to the maitre d'.

"And do you have a reservation?" The tuxedo-clad man glanced at the large open ledger on his podium.

"We don't have a reservation," Jack replied smoothly, "because, you see, the lady didn't like the Broadway show. So we left early. We've had dinner already, so we'll just be wetting our whistles at the bar until our friends leave the theater across the street. That okay by you?"

Jack palmed the man a bill.

"Of course, sir," said the maitre d'. "Enjoy yourself."

Jack stepped up to me, and I expected him to grab me by the elbow again and hustle me inside. But he didn't. This time, he leaned toward me and offered his arm.