Zach paused by the door, shook his head, and went inside.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so, either,” Clare muttered, petting Enzo, who closed his eyes and leaned against her.

When Zach came out again, he carried a beer and a glass of lemonade on a small tin tray in one strong hand. “Why don’t we wind down.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Eat in a while, and later . . .” He smiled slowly.

Her heart began to pick up beat. “Absolutely.”

 • • •

She was up before dawn, moving what furniture she could and arranging it and organizing her boxes for the local movers to take from this fifties neighborhood to the more charming twenties one across town.

Zach had opted to sleep at his own apartment after another bout of sex, and that was fine with her since she liked to supervise her own way.

If all went according to her plans, her property in this place would be moved in the morning—the real estate agents had been happy to give her the code to her new home as soon as her first cashier’s check had cleared—Clare would attend the closing, and the huge truck bringing her share of Great-Aunt Sandra’s antique furniture would show up at the new place in the afternoon.

Clare hurried to the door and opened it, then set up the box fan, trying to minimize the heat. This would not be pretty, with her and men sweating during physical labor. She hoped the movers actually showed up on time at seven thirty A.M. for all their sakes. She truly didn’t think it would take very long if they were efficient, and they’d promised efficiency, the reason she’d chosen them, since they certainly weren’t the cheapest company out there.

A small square newspaper lay on her stoop, the tiny neighborhood paper. She went out and scooped it up, and hurried into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker, one of the items she’d take in her car.

As she waited for the brew, she glanced at the paper, froze.

What is it? asked Enzo, just appearing.

She just wanted to point to the headline, but figured even a supernaturally intelligent ghost dog couldn’t read. So she forced her lips to say the words of the banner and first paragraph:

BREAKING NEWS! THE GHOST, WAITING BRAVE, IS GONE!

Two evenings ago, for the first time since our little neighborhood was founded, a member of the local Paranormal Research Society phoned in that the Native American ghost who lingers on Purple Ridge has passed on to his just reward. Apparently, several people note his presence each day, particularly in the evening, and were surprised to find his shade missing Saturday at dusk.

They are right! He is gone, and your work was noted and appreciated, Enzo cheered.

“Great,” Clare said, wiggling as a tingle slithered down her spine. Had someone associated with the local paper told the Creedys about her? She should have asked, but all she’d wanted was for them to go away.

The doorbell rang, followed by knocking on the metal screen door. Clare tossed the paper in the last open box, waiting for the coffeemaker, then hurried to the front and found a big, scowling man with grizzled gray hair. A moving truck stood at the curb. Yay, they were early!

She turned off the fan and moved it out of the way and against the wall, smiling. “You’re early!”

“Boss said there wasn’t any air-conditioning here.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He grunted, scanning the living room, the hallway, the part of the kitchen in view. “Organized. Good job.”

“Thank you.”

The mover rolled his shoulders. “What’re the big items?”

“The couch and a bed.”

“Huh. Should get this done fast, then.”

“I hope so.”

He turned and called to two other men. “Let’s rock and roll.”

Clare got out of their way.

Enzo followed the guy, tried to rub his legs and the others. No one paid him any attention.

For once, all went like clockwork, and Clare’s old home was closed up by midmorning, she was the proud owner of her new home by noon, and her great-aunt Sandra’s items were moved in and her new house eminently livable by the end of the business day. Amazing.

 • • •

She began to be aware of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck . . . they seemed to mark the passing of time. Now and again during the day she’d found herself scanning for Jack Slade’s ghost, dread ratcheting up her nerves. She rather wanted to see him, get on with this task and get it over with so she could concentrate on learning about her new circumstances. To no longer be rushed, not worry that she might do something wrong that would hurt Zach or Enzo, or her. Pressure might drive her totally over the bend . . . the edge of madness that she’d never noticed in herself but knew would always be there for the rest of her life.

The deadline to save Jack Slade was in three days . . . until when? Next year? Next century?

Next year would be so much better.

Jack is a tough and determined man, Enzo said, standing next to her on the sidewalk of her new home. He is MOSTLY a sane ghost. They can devolve over time.

Doggie Enzo didn’t use words like devolve, so it must be the Other. Though her neck was beginning to ache, she kept staring down the street, not wanting to turn her head and look at Enzo.

The apparition of the gunman has been waiting for what you call a ghost seer, a ghost layer. If you fail him this year . . . he might not stay in control. And like the legend he was in his own time, both for good or ill, he could become a legendary problem, rippling and ripping the psychic planes.

Clare thought the older woman who lived across the street and one house up was peeking at her through the curtains. Clare believed she could see the glint of opera glasses. The yards in the neighborhood were large.

She would prefer to think about nosy neighbors, but sighed.

“Ripping the psychic plane,” she murmured, trying not to move her lips. She stretched as if finished with a big job, and pasted on a pleased smile as she turned to her front steps between the bricked columns that marked the opening of her front wall.

Since her back was turned to the woman, she said, “Ripping the psychic plane sounds bad.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

R IPPING WILL CAUSE ALL people discomfort, and attract minor psychics who will try to lay the ghost and get eaten instead.

Her breath sucked in, hard and sharp. “That’s an option? Being eaten by a ghost?”

Yes, but you are strong, stronger than even your great-aunt Sandra, so you should be able to handle a simple devolved ghost in time . . . but eating the spirits of others shatters them and the anomaly becomes bigger and more difficult to banish and—

“I get the idea. It’s best to handle Jack Slade here and now.” She opened the gate and went through, not bothering to lock it because though it was the original gate, several yards down the street was the cut for her driveway and that was open.

Yes, the specter of Jack Slade is eager to move on and helpful, but it remains a dangerous ghost. A good spirit for you to attract as your first major test.

“Great,” Clare said. For sure, the sooner this was done, the better. Where was the gunfighter’s phantom? Would she have to leave a trail for him to find her? Go back to her old house? She was so done with that place.

But she still wasn’t convinced, deep down, that she wanted to see him again, or that she could do this.

A few minutes later Clare relaxed in her new home. One she could envision living in for the rest of her life. The last truck was gone, the heavy furniture set exactly where she wanted, and the boxes for each room stacked neatly against the walls. As she’d suspected, the items she’d received from Aunt Sandra’s home looked perfect in her new house, especially the furnishings she’d chosen for the living room with the huge multipaned and roundly bowed window.