10

Did it ever even cross your mind to try to save me while you were saving Liz?"

Pinned by the question, knowing that never in a million years would he have figured on being asked that, Michael stared at Maria.

Only silence, interrupted by the hissing pop of expiring soap bubbles in the three-compartment kitchen sink, stretched between them.

"I was standing between you and the ghost," Michael pointed out. "You were protected. Even when I knocked Liz to the floor."

Angrily, Maria put one soapy fist on her hip. "Since I couldn't see the ghost, I guess I'm supposed to take your word for that."

Michael thought about her statement. Like the previous question, whatever answer he gave was a minefield that could be turned against him. "You weren't hurt," he pointed out.

"I could have been."

"I could have been too," Michael said. "I wasn't. You weren't. We got off lucky."

Maria shook her head. "I can't believe you. That's the best response you have?"

"Maria, I thought about saving you."

"You thought about saving me?" Maria asked. "Knowing you deliberately chose not to save me makes this even worse, Michael."

Actually, Michael was of the opinion that things couldn't get any worse. Or that the change was so infinitesimal, he couldn't tell the difference. "I didn't choose not to save you," he argued.

"You chose to save Liz."

"She was nearest the ghost," Michael explained.

"And how do I know that?"

"Because I'm telling you."

Maria glared at him doubtfully. "You were the only one who saw the ghost. I have to take your word for it."

"When the old guy gets out of the hospital," Michael said, "ask him."

"So you chose who you would save."

"I prioritized," Michael replied. "Figured out who was in the greatest danger."

Maria's eyes flashed. "You sorted us out."

Michael knew better than to say anything at that point. The conversation was going south with the speed of an avalanche.

"Michael," Maria said, "you don't even sort your laundry."

"Yes I do." Michael remembered long, boring arguments on that subject. Something about brightness of colors and fabric density and textures. Those lectures had been about as exciting as taking history class from a football coach. So now, sometimes… especially whenever Maria was around… he remembered to sort out the colors and fabrics.

"Fine," Maria said. "People aren't laundry."

Michael was stunned for a moment. "People aren't laundry? That's an argument?"

"That's an observation," Maria told him. "Evidently a distinction that you aren't able to make."

Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to talk to her until she'd gotten over being mad, Michael retreated. "I'm going to take the trash out."

"Fine," Maria said, diving back into the dishes.

"Fine," Michael echoed. He spun around and marched back into the dining area. A half-dozen large garbage bags sat there waiting to be taken out. Still angry, he grabbed two of them up.

Unable to take the strain of the sudden yank, the bottoms ripped out of the garbage bags. Unfinished meals and drinks tumbled to the floor, making a bigger mess than had been there before.

Michael cursed.

"I told you that you should have filled up the garbage cans instead of just using bags," Maria called from the kitchen. "Then you could have taken them outside without worrying about them breaking open like that. Guess you didn't prioritize that, huh?"

A heavy sigh escaped Michael. The cleanup suddenly felt hours longer with all the work he was going to have to do again and the crappy mood Maria was in.

Just as he was going for his broom and dustpan, an SUV with a local news channel insignia stopped in front of the cafe. A man in a suit got out on the passenger side, reached back for a jacket, and shrugged into the garment.

A man in blue jeans and a University of New Mexico tank stepped out of the back of the SUV Gazing at the street and the Crashdown Cafe, he took a Spider-Man baseball cap from his back pants pocket and pulled it on. He reached back into the vehicle and took out a Minicam.

"Shoot some exteriors first, Bob," the news anchor said as he buttoned his jacket. He took a microphone out of a special case on the SUV's dash. "And check the audio levels on this mike before we film this spot."

The bored look on the cameraman's face broadcast his irritation at the other man. "I've been doing my job longer than you've been at this station, Marty. I know my stuff."

"You'll take direction," Marty ordered crisply, "or I'll have the station send out another cameraman in time for the five o'clock show."

Bob reversed his hat and shouldered the Minicam. "You do that, Marty. Every cam operator at the station will screw you over. You'll be doing every spot missing half your head or with a zit the size of Mount Rainier occupying center focus. A lot of people can talk in front of a camera. Not everybody can shoot with one."

The warning didn't go over well with Marty, and Bob obviously didn't care.

"Tommy," Marty said.

"Yo," the driver responded.

"See if you can round up some of the locals for interviews. There's always somebody who wants to be on

television. And get me somebody who saw the ghost that did this."

Okay, Michael told himself, struggling to think calmly and clearly, this is really not good.

"When you walk into one of these decrepit places, what's the first thing you wonder about?"

Kyle Valenti reached for the rag tied at his waist and mopped the perspiration from his face. He lifted the protective mask filter over his mouth and nose and wiped his chin, too. The air inside the condemned building was stale, turgid, and thick with: dust. He felt the grit clinging to his exposed skin. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and a tool belt that still made him walk off-balance because he wasn't used to the weight.

"The first thing I think about," Kyle replied as he settled the mask back over his face, "is how soon I can get out of here."

"Not me." Doyle Quinlann was a local building contractor. He was a short fireplug of a man who shaved his head. He wore a mask, gloves, a sweat-soaked chambray work shirt, and work slacks. He shone a flashlight around the debris-filled room.

Kyle waited, grateful to take a breath. Quinlann was self-employed and had five kids. The man worked like a machine and seemed invulnerable. He was in his forties and could work most guys in their twenties into the ground.

"Nope," Quinlann said, sweeping the flashlight over heaps of broken furniture, boxes of old clothes, books, and a lot of other things that people no longer had a use for. "What I wonder about is if anybody ever died in one of these places."

"Now there's a pleasant thought," Kyle commented. He slapped at his mask, knocking collected dust free.

"It's something to think about." Quinlann turned the flashlight's beam to the walls. "Real estate companies don't have to tell you that somebody croaked in the house you're hoping to buy. The house you and your father live in? Someone could have died there."

As if I don't have enough worries, Kyle thought, now I have to worry that ghosts walk through my house.

"Of course," Quinlann said, "I'm not the superstitious type. But I've got a healthy respect for ghosts." He directed the beam at a window covered over with a sheet of plywood. "Rip that plywood out of the way and let's get some more light in here."

Kyle hoisted the heavy crowbar from the floor. When he'd first started working for Quinlann a week ago, he hadn't thought much of the crowbar's weight. The tool had been a little heavier than a baseball bat. Now the thing felt like a blacksmith's anvil at the end of a twelve- or four-teen-hour day.