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loose around her throat. Her legs, arms, and face were tanned and smooth. You just didn’t get girls like that in England—not with that all-over even tan and that unsullied complexion—yet here they were thick on the ground. Then he looked in the long mirror behind the bar, seeing not only his own reflection, but those of his fellow drinkers. Who was he kidding? Imperfections were staring him in the face. Men—men in love with beer—pasty-faced and thick-paunched, with greasy thinning hair and little stamina. Here’s to the lot of us, he thought, draining his first jar.
    The drinker on the stool next to him didn’t look in the mood for conversation, and the barmaid needed everything repeated twice, unable to comprehend his accent. “I haven’t got an accent,” he told her, then had to repeat that, too. So when Eddie hadn’t turned up by 6:30, he thought about calling him. After all, he was Eddie’s employer, and Eddie’s job was to ferry him around. But that wasn’t exactly fair, he decided, after a moment’s thought. He was paying Eddie peanuts, and the guy was with him most of the day as it was—though he got the feeling Eddie hung around so he could pick up some free drinks and maybe even a free dinner.
    He decided he wasn’t hungry. He’d had enough. He just wanted to go back to his lousy motel and sleep for twelve or so hours. He asked if the barmaid could call him a cab, remembering to shorten the a in cab so she’d understand the word.
    “Sure,” she said.
    Then the silent drinker next to him decided it was time to bow out, too. He walked out of the bar without saying a word, though he did nod in James’s general direction, and he left a couple of dollars on the bar for the server, which was pretty generous. While she had her back to him, making the call, James slipped one of the dollars along to his own section of bar and left it there. Times were hard.
    A minute later, the driver stuck his head into the bar.
    “Mr. Reeve!” he called, then went back outside again. James Reeve slid off his stool and said so long to the assembly. He’d only had the four beers, and felt fine—maybe a little depressed as he picked up his laptop, but he’d been worse. He would do something with the story, something lasting, something immortal. He just needed a little more money and a lot more time. He couldn’t just let it go, not when it affected the whole damned planet.
    There were a couple of panhandlers directly outside, but he brushed past them. They never really bothered him. They took one look at him—his height, his pallor—and decided there were better options. The driver was holding the rear door open for him. The cab was unmarked, that struck him as he got in. And something else struck him, just a little too late.
    He hadn’t given the barmaid his name.
    So how did the driver know it?

PART TWO
    GHOSTS

FOUR
    AS HE DROVE SOUTH, Gordon Reeve tried to remember his brother, but the phone call kept getting in the way.
    He could hear the operator telling him he had a call from the San Diego Police Department, then the detective’s voice telling him it was about his brother.
    “Very unfortunate circumstances, sir.” The voice had betrayed no emotion. “It appears he took his own life.”
    There was a little more, but not much. The detective had wanted to know if he would be collecting the body and the effects. Gordon Reeve said yes, he would. Then he’d put the phone down and it rang again. He was slow to pick it up. Joan had been standing beside him. He remembered the look on her face, sudden shock and incomprehension mixed. Not that she’d known Jim well; they hadn’t seen much of him these past few years.
    The second phone call was from the British Consulate repeating the news. When Reeve told them he already knew, the caller sounded aggrieved.
    Gordon Reeve had hung up the phone and gone to pack. Joan had followed him around the house, trying to look into his eyes. Was she looking for shock?