Walter Trent opened and closed his mouth.

“You must become a strong guardian of your great-grandfather’s collection.” I heard my own spectral voice but was incredulous at the idea that I was the one using it, even as I went on. “You must lend some items, and return others whence they came. You must allow scholars to come study pieces here in your rooms, and to remove them for further study.”

The young Trent was shaking his head, over and over. Sweat had once again blossomed on his brow.

“I recognize your lack of confidence in your own judgment,” I told him. “That is your lot in this life. You must do what I have instructed you nevertheless. Your action in the face of insecurity and fear will open new pathways for you. And also, for your great-grandfather, who needs to move on from this place.” Walter Trent sat motionless, as pale as he had been previously. Then, haltingly, he began to stand. Well,I thought, I’ve seen this done. I gathered myself, and roared, “Sit down!”

Like a stone, he dropped into his chair.

I, meanwhile, hurried to flit back to his desk from across the room, where the force of my bellow had blown me. “You will shoulder your responsibilities!” I ordered him, in a voice only slightly shaking. “Do as I say!”

A still moment; then the young man minutely straightened. He ran a finger under his collar. With a deep breath, he pressed the button on his desk again. “Jerry? Dr. Wu down there? Good. And while you’re getting things set with him, get this going, too: we’re lending the Fogg those bronzes they asked for. Yes, Jerry,” he answered the squawks from the box. “I’m coming right down.”

Walter Trent stood, wiped the cloth along his brow, folded it carefully, and left the room.

Unable to move, I stared after him, until I heard my name calmly pronounced: “Ghost of Tuo Mo.”

I darted to the back wall and spoke to the head. No; I hardly spoke, just stammered. “I . . . I . . .”

“Yes,” the head replied serenely. “I think he will make an admirable guardian. As you have, my friend.”

I found my voice and answered, “Thank you.”

“I only speak the truth. What will you do now?”

I thought. “I will return to the caves. Leonard Wu does not need my company on his trip; he will have you. I believe I will be summoned by the Lord of the Underworld not long after you reach the caves and have been reinstalled. I would like an opportunity to bid farewell to the Spirit of the South Mountain.”

“You will encounter him again on your journey,” said the Buddha head. “More than once.”

“I hope I do,” I said. “As I hope I encounter you, also. But I will not remember. So in some sense, this is our leave-taking. Good-bye, my friend.”

“Good-bye, Ghost of Tuo Mo. And,” the head added, “thank you.”

My spectral being infused with warmth from the Buddha head’s parting words, I drifted down the staircase. I looked in on Leonard Wu and Walter Trent, deep in conference with three scholarly young people. The ghost of Explorer Trent was with them, also, looking astounded and pleased. I did not disturb them, but floated through the large wooden doors and out into the streets of New York City, America. I gazed on the towering glass cliffs, the multitudinous spirits, and the innumerable people, wondering if my path would lead me here again. Then I sped away, appearing instantaneously at the foot of South Mountain, to find my friend smiling and bathed in a glorious sunrise.

His wallet was empty, so Rick took the job.

It wasn’t a job anybody else wanted—well, hell, if it had been, somebody else would have taken it already, specifically his sister’s husband, who’d told him about it. Apprentice electricians didn’t often get handed five grand off the books for what would amount to only a couple of days’ worth of work. So much for Shelley telling him he’d never make any decent money. And calling him a wimp. And dumping him for that sleazy car salesman.

Would a wimp take a job in Downside? Ha, no. No way. Like anybody else in Triumph City with half a brain and without a particular death wish, Rick had never gotten closer to the area than the stretch of Highway 300 that ran past it—over it—and he’d never wanted to. It was the kind of place where even the police didn’t go, the kind of place where you could find yourself a hooker or find yourself in mortal danger any hour of the day or night.

But here he was, with his tool bag slung over his shoulder in what he hoped was a nonchalant fashion, standing with two other guys in the dusty, empty main room of a ramshackle house, while outside the streets rang with laughter and screams and loud music.

A sort of grunting noise—it took him a second to realize it was someone speaking on the next floor—and they trooped up the creaky stairs toward it, past shreds of old wallpaper that fluttered like ghostly fingers as they passed.

Now thatwas something he didn’t even want to think about.

Looked like the other guys didn’t feel the same.

“Any spooks up here, I throwing you at ’em,” the guy in front—he called himself Delman, of all things—told the one behind him, who was apparently known as “Barreltop.”

Barreltop laughed. Rick did, too, the sort of too-hearty laughter that always made him feel like an ass.

The others didn’t seem to notice, though, or maybe they already thought he was an ass so they didn’t care. It was quickly becoming obvious that he didn’t belong here. The others seemed to know each other and probably lived in the area, although why they’d live in Downside if they were making this kind of money often, he had no idea.

It couldn’t be because they liked the ambience. The house stood only a few blocks away from the slaughterhouse, and while the breeze was luckily going in the other direction, the smell was still there when it stopped. It tingled his sinuses like a sneeze he couldn’t get out.

A few oil lamps sat on the floor of the room at the left of the stairs, casting wide U-shaped shadows against the dingy walls with their broken plaster and loose wires. Before Haunted Week and the utter destruction caused by the rampaging ghosts, before the Church of Real Truth had taken power and banished them below the earth, this had been a grand home. Now it was a corpse waiting for cremation. Or renovation, which was why they were here: wiring it for power, reinforcing the floors with steel.

Thick sheets of that steel rested against the far wall, between two high empty windows. A few shreds of fabric danced in front of one of them, the remains of curtains still trying to do their job.

Which was what he should be doing. He looked away from them, back at the other two, and found them staring at him, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted.

That pose was mirrored by the hulking man leaning against one of the walls in black jeans and a black bowling shirt. Shit, he was big. Rick took an involuntary step back, then regretted it when the big guy smirked. Mean-looking, too; the expression wasn’t pleasant on his scarred, broken face, shadowed by the black fifties-style greaser haircut. For the first time Rick began to seriously doubt he would make it out of the building alive, or at least with all his limbs intact. He could see that guy ripping out an arm and snacking on it, just for fun.

“You ready now?” the big guy said, and Rick realized they were still all looking at him, that he’d been openly staring.

He nodded. “Yeah. Um, sorry.”

The guy’s chin dipped. “You got the knowledge what needs doin’, aye? Choose you a room, get them floorboards up. Half the floor, dig, then we get the steel in.”

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, snapped open a black steel lighter. The room brightened for a second with the six-inch flame of the lighter, dimmed again when he snapped it shut and refolded his tattooed arms. Barreltop and Delman walked past the stairs, into the room opposite, leaving Rick alone with the big guy. Why were they both leaving? Weren’t they going to take up the floorboards?