Late Saturday evening, after Elizabeth had left, Thibault found Victor sitting in his living room, still dressed in the shorts and cabana-style shirt he\'d been wearing on the day he died. The sight of him stopped Thibault in his tracks. All he could do was stare. It wasn\'t possible, nor was it really happening. Thibault knew that Victor was gone, buried in a small plot near Bakersfield. He knew Zeus would have reacted had anyone real been in the house, but Zeus simply wandered to his water bowl. In the silence, Victor smiled. "There is more," he said, his voice a hoarse promise. When Thibault blinked, Victor was gone, and it was obvious he\'d never been there at all. It was the third time Thibault had seen Victor since he had passed away. The first time had been at the funeral, when Thibault had rounded a corner near the back of the church and seen Victor staring at him from the end of the hallway. "It\'s not your fault," Victor had said before dissolving away. Thibault\'s throat had closed up, forcing him to rush to catch his breath. The second appearance occurred three weeks before he set out on his walk. That time, it had happened in the grocery store, as Thibault was rummaging through his wallet, trying to figure out how much beer he could purchase. He\'d been drinking heavily in those days, and as he counted the bills, he saw an image from the corner of his eye. Victor shook his head but said nothing. He didn\'t have to. Thibault knew that he was being told that it was time to end the drinking. Now, this. Thibault didn\'t believe in ghosts, and he knew that the image of Victor hadn\'t been real. There was no specter haunting him, no visits from beyond, no restless spirit with a message to deliver. Victor was a figment of his imagination, and Thibault knew that his subconscious had conjured up the image. After all, Victor had been the one person Thibault had always listened to. He knew the boating accident had been just that: an accident. The kids who\'d been driving the boat had been traumatized, and their horror at what had happened was genuine. As for the drinking, he\'d known deep down that the booze was doing more harm than good. Somehow, though, it was easier to listen to Victor. The last thing he\'d expected was to see his friend once more. He considered Victor\'s words—there is more—and wondered whether they related to his conversation with Elizabeth. Somehow he didn\'t think so, but he couldn\'t figure it out, and it nagged at him. He suspected that the harder he pressed himself for an answer, the less likely it was that the answer would come. The subconscious was funny like that. He wandered to the small kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk, put some food in the bowl for Zeus, and went to his room. Lying in bed, he brooded on the things he\'d told Elizabeth. He\'d thought long and hard about saying anything at all. He wasn\'t even certain what he\'d hoped to accomplish by doing so, other than to open her eyes to the possibility that Keith Clayton might just be controlling her life in ways she couldn\'t imagine. Which was exactly what the man was doing. Thibault had become sure of it when he\'d first noticed the break-in. Of course, it could have been anyone—someone wanting to make a quick buck grabbing items that could be sold in pawnshops—but the way it had been done suggested otherwise. It was too neat. Nothing had been strewn about. Nothing was even out of place. Nearly everything had, however, been adjusted. The blanket on the bed was the first giveaway. There was a tiny ridge in the blanket, caused by someone who didn\'t know how to tuck in the covers military fashion—something few, if anyone, would have noticed. He noticed. The clothes in his drawers showed similar disturbances: a rumple here, a sleeve folded the wrong way there. Not only had someone entered the home while he\'d been at work, but he\'d searched the house thoroughly. But why? Thibault had nothing of value to steal. A quick peek through the windows beforehand made it plain there was nothing valuable in the place. Not only was the living room devoid of electronics, but the second bedroom stood completely empty, and the room where he slept contained only a bed, end table, and lamp. Aside from dishes and utensils and an ancient electric can opener on the counter, the kitchen was empty, too. The pantry contained dog food, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. But someone had taken the time to search the house anyway from top to bottom, including under his mattress. Someone had diligently gone through his drawers and cleaned up afterward. No outrage at finding nothing of value. No evident frustration that the break-in had been a waste. Instead, the burglar had attempted to cover his tracks. Whoever had broken in had come to the house not to steal, but to look for something. Something specific. It hadn\'t taken long to figure out what it was and who had been responsible. Keith Clayton wanted his camera. Or, more likely, he wanted the disk. Probably because the photographs on the disk could get him in trouble. No great leap of logic, considering what Clayton had been doing the first time they\'d bumped into each other. All right, so Cla............