"Sit down, son. Name's Charley Morehouse. Now, you don't seem like a lad who is too familiar with the baize tables. There's faro, of course, but that's a game for those who have some practice and skill. There's keno or chuck-a-luck. . . . What? No, I don't remember you. . . . Poker? Don't care for the game. It was popular up in Deadwood, and Hickok was murdered while playing it, shot in the head by a kid named McCall. You're not planning to shoot me, are you? Now, are you?"

"It's so cold. . . . It's so cold."

"Who is there?" In Russian. "Oh, Andy, where have you gone?"

Then all of the voices began talking at once-the buffalo hunters and the gambler and the Russian girl, and then they were joined by a couple of desperates named Texas Hill and Ed Williams, who were killed by the Vigilance Committee, and a carpenter at the Ess.e.x Hotel who was somehow shot by the cook. Only the buffalo hunters could hear each other, and the result was a cacophony of ghosts.

It was useless to ask them direct questions. They were all stuck in their own unfinished business, and would be until that business was somehow resolved. The sad part was, they didn't know they were ghosts.

Then the thought occurred to me: Have I become a ghost?

"Ophie, you're not a ghost," a familiar voice said.

You can hear me think?

"You're not exactly thinking or exactly talking, my dear."

Well, Paschal, am I exactly dead?

"You are in between."

Purgatory, then. Are you my Virgil?

"Never. I was too weak."

I'm sorry, Paschal. You were weak and I was . . . desperate.

"Ophie, you're going to have to pull yourself together."

Can I talk to Jonathan now? Jonathan, where are you?

"Don't think about Jonathan."

How I long to talk to Jonathan. You promised, Paschal.

"Please, Ophie. Concentrate."

I never received any message, Paschal. It was all a lie. There is death.

"Of course, death is real. But what comes after is real, too. It's not life, but it's not nothing."

Death is real.

"Ophie, listen to me."

Wait a minute. How can we have this conversation? Ghosts don't answer direct questions.

"I'm not exactly a ghost, Ophie."

There you go using that word "exactly" again.

"I can't explain it any better."

Well, if you're not a ghost, and you're answering direct questions, that means you're a demon. Well, are you?

"Of course not."

A demon answers direct questions, but those answers might be lies.

"That's true."

Unless-unless what? How am I supposed to ask to know the truth?

"I don't know, Ophie."

Yes, you do. You taught me in New Orleans, so long ago, before that morning when you chased me to Jackson Square in the rain. What was the rule? Why can't I think of it now?

"Because you've lost your soul shadow."

Right. Malleus. He took it. He's far below the Arkansas now. That's how the cowboys say it around here-"far below the Arkansas." Like they were describing the underworld.

"Don't die without your aura, Ophie."

I still have my soul.

"But not your soul's complement. You're just half yourself."

This is confusing, Paschal.

"You have a choice to make."

Perhaps I should just go ahead and cross over.

"No."

I hate you.

"I know."

Then why should I listen to you?

"Because right now, I'm the only friend you've got."

Why should you even care?

"Let's just say, you're my unfinished business."

Now, that sounds ghostly.

"You've got work to do, Ophie."

What work?

"First you have to find your aura."

But how?

"That is for you to work out."

And then?

"Your life will have purpose, if you choose it."

What kind of purpose?

"You have a gift, Ophie. You've always had the gift."

But why can I hear them now?

"You've had the intense shock required to break the grip your senses had on illusory reality. You've reconnected with your childhood gift. And you could use this gift to help people, instead of taking out your frustration over Jonathan on the gullible and the greedy."

I don't think that's what I've been doing, exactly.

"There's proof you're not dead yet. You're lying, and the dead don't lie."

It's kind of peaceful here. What if I choose not to go back?

"Then you become just another ghost of Boot Hill."

I've been here too long. I'm surely dead.

"You have to choose."

But I don't have enough information. If you're a demon, you might be lying to me, or you might not be. This would not be the first time you've led me down the path to d.a.m.nation.

"Choose, Ophie."

If I pa.s.s over now, will I see Jonathan?

No response.

"In a moment, you're going to see a light. It's going to be dim at first, and then it will grow stronger. In that light, you're going to see people-relatives and friends, mostly-whom you have not seen in a long time. You might see other beings, too-not human beings, but ent.i.ties that perhaps you've doubted these many long years."

You're talking in riddles, Paschal. Be clear.

"The light will be warm and loving and you're going to want to go toward it."

And Jonathan will be there?

"No."

Why not?

Off in the distance, where there was no distance, a glow appeared. It was shimmering white and came gradually closer. It was a little like the reflection of the full moon when you see it rippling on the surface of the Mississippi, a little like seeing daylight at the end of a long train tunnel, and a lot like looking up at the sky from the bottom of a well. But all at once.

Is my Tante Marie there?

"No."

There were figures moving in the light.

All right, Paschal. I've decided.

"Don't tell me. I don't have the power. Tell her."

Stepping out of the light was a shimmering figure in white, the most beautiful woman-and yet not a woman-I've ever seen. The angel was smiling and she held out her hands to me. The love I felt coming from her overwhelmed me. I felt clean, as if I'd never had a trouble in the world, as if I had been forgiven for every wrong thing I'd ever done. I wanted to throw myself into those loving arms and leave everything behind.

Then, behind me, I heard a pitiful voice calling softly, "Who is there? Andrei?"

Take her, too. Please.

We cannot.

"Look, I have the pearly b.u.t.ton I tore from your pocket. Let me sew it back on for you. I'm sorry I ruined your favorite shirt."

She's not ready.

That doesn't seem fair.

It's not about fairness.

It doesn't seem just.

It is not for us to decide.

Isn't there any justice on the other side?

There is only perfect truth and perfect peace.

No fairness or justice?

Justice is up to the living.

"Andy! Why have you left me?" the Russian girl cried out once more.

Choose.

I'm not ready. There are things left undone.