"Not much. His name is Raymond Olson. His father's name is Robert Olson. They live somewhere in Kirkland at an apartment complex called Greenwich Village-at least that's what the sign out front says. He's been starved and neglected… He can't even talk."

"How did you become involved?"

"I found him in the park a few hours ago."

The captain's brow wrinkled. "So how did you learn this much information if he can't speak?"

Wonderful. This kept getting better by the moment. Not only was Wade irrational, but he'd just backed himself into a corner. "Please, just check my story without sending him home. If you have any pity at all."

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then Baker said, "A friend of mine-well, my wife-works for social services. Let me go call her and have her come down."

Wade looked into the man's eyes for a few seconds, and then he relaxed. Turning to me, he nodded and said, "It's okay. He's not lying."

I'd never seen him like this, not quite this worked up. In all other aspects of his own self-image, he was sometimes unsure, often timid. But when it came to trusting his psychic ability, he exuded a confidence that made other people listen. Was he even aware how angry, how aggressive, he sounded?

We waited quietly together on a bench for nearly an hour-Wade still holding Raymond in his lap-until a middle-aged woman who looked overworked, underpaid, and slightly frazzled walked in. I didn't have to be psychic to figure out she was Baker's wife.

She spotted us in a hurry and flashed a tired smile. Wade's tight muscles unclenched. Even with her hair flying all over, this woman had kind eyes and a tough expression. Good combination.

I pulled back to let her speak alone with Wade. He took her phone number, said a few words to Raymond, and then handed him to Mrs. Baker. There was a moment of panic on the boy's part, but it passed. He was probably so lost by then that up from down didn't matter.

As we walked back outside to our car, Wade still didn't look happy. "I feel bad leaving him there."

"There's nothing else you can do. He's got even less chance with us right now than with his own family."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"You can't save the world. It's already lost."

What an unexpected chain of events. How selfish I'd been. The boy, of course, meant nothing. Children have been starving since the inception of time. Raymond was as common as dirt.

But Wade had offered his help, his services, to me so easily it seemed he almost wanted to be caught up in this horror. Not true. Had he wanted to spend half the night fighting with tired cops in a police station? No, but some part of his mental makeup drove him on. He could do something no one else could, and that responsibility pushed him past his own physical limits. That's why he had worked night and day for the Portland police. That's why he continued helping me. Was it pride, or some unfulfilled need?

In silence, we drove back to the hotel, parked the car, and went up to our suite. Blue and gray decor greeted us with its sterile cheerful-ness, and Wade switched on the lamp.

"Do you miss your job?" I blurted out.

The question didn't surprise him. Perhaps he'd been thinking about it himself. "Sometimes. I need to be… useful. Pathetic really."

"No, it isn't. At least you contribute."

With William gone, what would my contribution be now?

"Maybe." He sighed. "I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep."

"What should we do?"

He picked up the TV Guide. "Captain Bloodis just starting on HBO. Do you like Errol Flynn?"

"Sure, he's my hero."

"I thought I was your hero?"

"Fat chance."

He cracked a grin and looked around for the television remote. Two minutes later we were sacked out on the couch, watching pirates swashbuckle in shades of black and white.

I woke up in the bed alone.

We'd watched television until nearly dawn when my eyelids grew heavy. But we'd been out on the couch. I didn't remember coming in here.

Long, heavy blankets covered the draped windows to block out any light from the sun. Of course darkness had settled by now. Where was Wade?

Hopping up, I walked out into the suite's living room and found it empty. Didn't this guy ever sleep? He was definitely an original. I suddenly considered slipping out the door and disappearing before he came back. Somehow, his life seemed to be worth more than my undead existence. Leaving him here would cut him deeply, but staying could mean his death. And even more than that, what if he actually lived through this? Could he go back to being Dr. Wade Sheffield? Mortals often identify their self-worth with their occupation, as if what they do is an integral part of what they are.

But sooner or later, for better or worse-probably worse-a final-act curtain would drop down on this macabre play. Whoever was left in one piece would have to go on to the future. Did Wade remember that?

I heard movement outside the door, and then he walked in with an armload of shopping bags.

"Where were you?" I asked.

He dropped the bags. "Take a wild guess."

"Oooh, you're too funny." I walked over to see what he'd been up to. "Shopping?"

"Yeah, come look. We both needed some new clothes." He pulled out a pair of Levi's and a brown T-shirt with long sleeves. "Size four, right?"

"You bought me clothes?" He never ceased to astound me. "How did you know my size?"

"Lucky guess. Sorry this stuff's so basic. But we're going to be running a lot."

This was getting out of hand, and he'd seen way too many movies. I was about to give him our survival chances when he yawned. "Did you sleep at all today?" I asked.

"A little this morning," he said.

"You won't be good to anyone like that. Come on. Lie down for a while, and I'll stand guard over your prone, helpless body, okay?"

Hiding my concern behind humor had always worked well for me. He didn't even argue. While he got ready for bed, I went into the bathroom and changed clothes. He even bought me new underwear and socks.

"Do they fit?" he called.

I walked out to find him under the blankets, eyes about half closed. "Yeah, you did a good job. Thanks, Wade."

My approval pleased him. "Wake me in a few hours."

"Sure, I'll be in the living room."

He was already breathing softly. I closed the door and went to make a cup of tea. We were going to have a long talk when he woke up. What did he think tomorrow would bring? Endless running and living in fancy hotels with me? He had absorbed my memories in detail. Didn't he realize what we were up against?

The room suddenly felt cold. Where was the thermostat? Glancing around, I saw movement by the curtains. A shadow.

"Didn't think you'd ever notice me," a soft voice whispered. "Lost in thought?"

Three facts registered instantly. Masculine. French. No available weapons.

I drew back against the wall. "Philip?"

Only once. I'd seen him only once before. How shortsighted. Julian felt William die. The possible threat of Philip had hit me the night Maggie died, but a great deal had happened since then. Concentrating so completely on Julian, I had forgotten about Philip. How did he get in here? Had Wade left the door unlocked?

"You have some stories to tell, little one," he whispered in a heavy accent. "What happened to my Maggie?"

He stepped out of the shadows, and I looked at him, wordless. He didn't look like Maggie… but he was so much like her. His beauty must have blinded hundreds, thousands. He was tall-slender and muscular at the same time. Thick, red-brown hair hung halfway down his back, and amber eyes stared out of a narrow, ivory face. He and Maggie shared the same gift. But this time, the pull affected me.