Sole Survivor

particular caught his attention: a massive biography of Henry James, the writer.
         Henry James .
        For some reason even that name seemed significant. Everything seemed significant, but nothing was. Least of all, the name of a long-dead writer.
        The cop frisked him quickly and professionally, searching for a weapon or a transmitter. When he found neither, he said, “Show me some ID.”
        Joe turned away from the shelves and fished his driver's license from his wallet.
        The cop compared the photo on the license with Joe's face, read his vital statistics and compared them to the reality, then returned the card. “See the cashier.”
        “What?”
        “The guy when you came in.”
        The wiry man with the goatee was waiting by the front door. He unlocked it as Joe approached. “You still have the phone?”
        Joe offered it to him.
        “No, hold on to it,” the cashier said. “There's a black Mustang parked at the curb. Drive it down to Wilshire and turn west. You'll be contacted.”
        As the cashier opened the door and held it, Joe stared at the car and said, “Whose is it?”
        From behind the bottle-thick lenses, the magnified eyes studied him as though he were a bacterium at the lower end of a microscope. “What's it matter whose?”
        “Doesn't, I guess.”
        Joe went outside and got into the Mustang. The keys were in the ignition.
        At Wilshire Boulevard, he turned west. The car was almost as old as the Suburu that he had gotten from Gem Fittich. The engine sounded better, however, the interior was cleaner, and instead of pine-scented disinfectant masking the stink of stale cigarette smoke, the air held a faint tang of menthol after-shave.
        Shortly after he drove through the underpass at the San Diego Freeway, the cellular phone rang. “Yeah?”
        The man who had sent him to the bookstore now said, “You're going all the way to the ocean in Santa Monica. When you get there, I'll ring you with more directions.”
        “All right.”
        “Don't stop anywhere along the way. You understand?”
        “Yes.”
        “We'll know if you do.”
        They were somewhere in the traffic around him, in front or behind-or both. He didn't bother to look for them.
        The caller said, “Don't try to use your phone to call anyone. We'll know that too.”
        “I understand.”
        “Just one question. The car you're driving-why did you want to know whose it was?”
        Joe said, “Some seriously unpleasant bastards are looking for me. If they find me, I don't want to get any innocent people in trouble just because I was using their car.”
        “Whole world's already in trouble, man. Haven't you noticed?” the caller asked, and then he disconnected.
        With the exception of the cop-or former cop-in the bookstore, these people who were hiding Rose Tucker and providing security for her were amateurs with limited resources compared to the thugs who worked for Teknologik. But they were thoughtful and clever amateurs with undeniable talent for the game.
        Joe was not halfway through Santa Monica, with the ocean still far ahead, when an image of the book spine rose in his mind-the name Henry James .
        Henry James. So what?
        Then the title of one of James' best-known works came to him. The Turn of the Screw . It would be on any short list of the most famous ghost stories ever written.
        Ghost.
        The inexplicable welling of the oil-lamp flames, the flashing of the numbers on the clock, the jangling pots and pans now seemed as if they might have been linked, after all. And as he recalled those images, it was easy in retrospect to discern a supernatural quality to them-although he was aware that his imagination might be enhancing the memories in that regard.
        He remembered, as well, how the foyer chandelier had dimmed and brightened and dimmed repeatedly as he had hurried upstairs in response to the shotgun blast that had killed Charlie Delmann. In the fearsome turmoil that had followed, he'd forgotten that odd detail.
        Now he was reminded of countless séance scenes in old movies and television programs, in which the opening of the door between this world and the realm of spirits was marked by the pulsing of electric lights or the guttering of candles without the presence of a draft.
        Ghost.
        This was absurd speculation.