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was saying.
    “All right then,” Flynn said. “You could summon her and ask, couldn’t you? You could hold
    a…whatchamacallit? A séance.”
    “You’re as crazy as he is,” McFadden exclaimed.
    At the same time Julian said with great definitiveness, “No.”
    Flynn ignored McFadden. “Why not?” he asked Julian.
    “I told you I can’t control it.”
    It was the first thing he’d said that Flynn suspected was a lie. “You could still try. You said she’s trapped on this side. She came to you once. She might come to you again.” He heard himself but dismissed the thought of what he must sound like. Maybe it was crazy, but it was logical too, wasn’t it? “You could summon her and you could ask her about the last thing she remembers.”
    Julian was shaking his head with that exasperating scared stubbornness.
    McFadden looked from Flynn to the younger man and said, “You know what I think? I think it was a
    lucky guess. I think he knew eventually there was going to be another murder. That’s what everyone’s been saying. His kind like to shock and frighten folks. He said it to get a bigger audience. It just happened to be true.”
    “He knew the dead girl’s name,” Flynn pointed out.
    “Who says? Today everyone knows her name, so they’re saying he knew it last night. There’s no
    proof that he did.”
    Flynn opened his mouth to argue the obvious, but McFadden said, “Either he’s a fake or he’s a killer, but I don’t believe in magic and I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits talking to the living. You want to turn this huckster into a big story for your newspaper like that sacrilegious conman Edgar Cayce, you go right ahead, but you’re not making a laughingstock out of me and my boys.”
    “What’s going on here?” Julian’s grandfather stood in the doorway, glowering at them all. “What is
    this? What has he done now?”
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    The Dark Farewell
    The sheriff turned to him with something like relief. “I understand you have in your possession ticket stubs that will prove you and your grandson were in the town of Cairo last week.”
    “Yes?” Mr. Devereux’s eyes moved uneasily from Julian to Flynn. “What of it? Why are you
    interrogating him?”
    “I need to see those tickets.”
    “Very well.” Devereux’s suspicious gaze rested on Julian’s pale face. He turned away reluctantly.
    The sheriff followed him. He stopped in the doorway and threw back to Flynn, “If you do learn
    something in this séance of yours, you let me know.”
    When their footsteps had died away, Flynn seated himself facing the sofa and Julian. He wanted to sit next to Julian, put his arm around him—Julian looked sorely in need of comfort—but that was, of course, out of the question.
    He said, “What happened last night?”
    Julian’s face worked. “David, I’ve told you everything.”
    “What about Mrs. Hoyt?”
    Julian’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
    “You knew she was dead, didn’t you?”
    He closed his mouth and shuddered. He nodded.
    Flynn stared at him for a long time. “So it’s true,” he said at last. “The dead speak to you.”
    “Through me. I’m only the messenger.” He tried to smile, but it was a sad, unsteady effort. “And not a very good messenger. It’s true what I said. When I turned sixteen it stopped. And I was glad. But Grandpère …”
    “What?”
    Julian shook his head.
    Flynn said shrewdly, “The show must go on—and you’re the meal ticket. This is the family stock and
    trade.” He considered this. “But now the phone line to the spirit world is working again and you’re starting to get calls.”
    Julian said nothing. He looked all at once much older, older than his age. He met Flynn’s gaze and
    said quietly, “Please. I can’t bear it from you.”
    “Can’t bear what?”
    “Don’t…ask.”
    “What?” But Flynn already knew what he was going to hear. Yet the idea had not occurred to him
    until the second