If you—or the Other—can give me any help, please do so.

Enzo didn’t answer that comment.

Ted motioned her to the door with the gun, looking all too serious. She magnified a cringe. The hole of the barrel of the gun seemed gigantic, as if it could swallow her. As if it would shoot a cannonball to shatter her into a thousand bloody bits. She opened the front door and went into the front yard and sent her gaze up and down the street for anyone, any hope, to no avail.

The driver’s-side door of her car remained open. She glanced back at Ted; he was walking toward her. A key was in the ignition—so the automatic seat control would move. Could she possibly drive away? Maybe . . . then the gun touched her back, like nothing she’d ever felt, but unmistakable against her spine. Perhaps she could bend, kick him, or something . . . but she wasn’t a very physical woman.

“You try to sit in the seat and I’ll shoot you,” Ted said.

“You need me.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But there are other mediums. I just hadn’t thought of that angle.”

“Or you could actually do research,” Clare said bitterly.

He backed out of hitting and kicking range.

She bent down. She kept a tidy car, not a loose pen or even a paper clip to throw. Only the spade, and if she tried to heave it at Ted and hurt him, she just knew she’d fail. Forget acting impulsively and stick with the plan. A little toggle here, a touch there, and the seat rose. As it tilted forward, she yanked out the paper-towel-wrapped bottle with a grunt, got a good grip on the neck.

“You have it?” Ted asked.

She hesitated an instant, then answered, “Yes.”

“Bring it out.”

She did, straightening and slamming the car door. That sound wasn’t as loud and didn’t travel as far as she liked, wouldn’t upset the neighbors . . . should she have turned on the radio, blasted music? She’d have been blasted herself.

Ted stood a few feet away, gun aimed at her middle; she forced her gaze away from the hole in the barrel.

I know what you’re going to do, Clare. It will work! Enzo cheered.

This time she hoped he had preternatural knowledge, or precognition, and it wasn’t simply empty encouragement.

“Hold the bottle up so I can see it,” Ted commanded.

He should have turned on the porch light. No hint of any contents was visible.

She hefted it in her hands, frowned and put it to her ear, then shook it a little. “Huh.”

“What is it?” Ted insisted with the ring of desperation in his voice.

Clare studied it. “There might be something in here,” she whispered. She flung it at him and he squealed like a young girl, hopping back as the thing shattered at his feet.

She grinned, with teeth. “There’s an ear.”

He screeched, high and clear, and she took off running. She could make it a few blocks to a local bar and safety.

Then she heard the shot, saw chips of concrete fly from the sidewalk no more than a pace ahead of her.

“I’ll shoot again!” Ted threatened.

“Take the ear,” Clare yelled, feeling reckless, running harder. “It’s worth something, I bet.” But her body began to stress how physically hard the day had been. Her wind was poor.

He shot again, and she tripped, turned her ankle, and went down.

“Clare!” Zach shouted.

Zach. Her ankle sent spears of red-hot pain, her head throbbed, the world wavered around her. She mewled.

Rapid footsteps, a whoosh, thunk, and yell of pain—from Ted—and then Zach was there.

Clare threw up, just missing his shoes.

 • • •

Zach had taken Ted’s gun and hit him, but the guy had a hard head because while Zach helped Clare, Ted escaped.

She cleaned herself up in the bathroom as he called the police, which was unnecessary since everyone on the block had, and now popped out of their doors and milled around the dark street punctuated by porch lights and headlights from the police cruisers. When an ambulance came, Zach strong-armed her into going to the hospital. At that time, Enzo winked out. He said that the ambulance smelled of too many dying and dead and he couldn’t keep himself together, which clued Clare in that he wouldn’t be visiting her in the hospital, either. She hoped her insurance would take care of this, it was so expensive.

She also fretted about the bottle glass, the ear, and most of all, the spade with dirt in the back of her car. What would the police say? Would they confiscate the ear? Then what would she do, especially since Jack Slade’s ghost was devolving? Would they arrest her for going to a historic place and . . . defacing it? Stealing from it?

Her blood pressure was high and she said it was from the stress of being shot. They hydrated her with a tube in her hand, wrapped her ankle, checked out her head, and gave her a little something, she didn’t know what, that settled her stomach immediately. It turned out that she had a sprained ankle and a mild concussion and she should rest.

Then Zach and the cops were allowed in. He looked comfortable and happy in cop company. She sent a speaking look to Zach and when he didn’t say anything, she tugged at one of her earlobes. He shook his head.

Relief surged through her in waves as she realized no one was going to charge her with anything. No trip to Virginia Dale, old bottle glass, or dirty spade was mentioned.

Someone in the neighborhood had been in their side yard watering when Ted fired the first shot. So there was an eyewitness to his attempted murder. Clare had to sip from her water at that. The witness had also seen Zach and Ted’s scuffle—Zach’s word, though he frowned heavily and Clare sensed that he was wishing he’d hit Ted harder, put him down and out. She reached and took his hand, held it, and said simply, “I’m glad you stayed with me.”

The police had found the knife, ropes, and a pair of handcuffs that Zach smirked at, so she thought they must have come from a sex shop.

She told them everything she knew about Ted, letting her confusion show with regard to the man and his madness, repeating again and again that treasure hunting was foolish. The fact that she still sat straight and looked like an accountant—she visualized herself wearing a sober suit and treating the policemen like her most straightlaced client—and had been an accountant, only quitting her job a week before because she’d come into an inheritance, helped a great deal.

So did Zach. He didn’t mention anything regarding “seeing ghosts” or his own “hunches.” The police recalled him from a few days before, and he had an easy manner with them, adapting to their rhythm.

They let her ramble until she got to the kidnapping, then asked for more details.

And then they told her he’d gotten clean away. She stared at the cop in charge for a long minute as shock rolled through her. “Got away?”

“He’s not using his own vehicle,” Zach said. “And he gave notice to his professor that he was quitting his job immediately this A.M.” Zach squeezed her fingers. “We’ll find him, and until then, I’ll stay close.”

She drank a mouthful of water, she was so dry. A few seconds later she straightened her spine and shoulders. “All right.” She tried a smile; it didn’t feel too shaky. “After all, we’ve beaten him so far, haven’t we? He missed me both times he shot at me.”

Zach said gently, “You tripped, Clare.”

Again her mouth dried. A shudder rippled through her. “Oh.” After clearing her throat, she said, “Can I leave now?”

Apparently a doctor was in the other curtained-off space. He strode in and took out the tube in her hand. “We’ll release you. Watch that ankle and take care of yourself.” He shot Zach a look. “You help her take care of herself.”

“I will,” Zach said.

She looked at the policeman who’d introduced himself, but his name escaped her. “Thank you,” she said.

“Just doing my job,” he said, smiling, and wrinkles showed around his mouth and eyes. “I hope not to see you again, Ms. Cermak.”