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They’re going to bury me.”
    Frank glanced about, saw other pedestrians coming, and realized it would hardly help his image to be seen, as it were, talking to himself. That was especially true since he thought he saw Magda Ravanski watching him from the window, having no doubt been attracted by the squealing of tires. So he gestured for Ray to follow him into the alley between the Kinko’s Copy and the Dunkin’ Donuts.
    Lynskey was in a panic. “Please,” he said, “what’s happening?”
    Bannister sighed. “You appear to be dead, Ray.”
    “Don’t say that. It’s not possible. I’m in the prime of life. I work out every day. And my wife’s a goddamn doctor.”
    Frank didn’t buy into Ray’s hysteria. “Why didn’t you take the corridor?” he asked calmly.
    “What corridor?”
    “The corridor of light . . . the pathway to the other side.”
    “I don’t belong on the other side,” Lynskey insisted.
    “What happened, Ray?” Bannister asked.
    “I was on the rowing machine when I suddenly felt this viselike grip squeezing my heart. I couldn’t breathe.”
    Ray held up a trembling, translucent hand. Bannister could see right through it. Dunkin’ Donuts was having a special on French vanilla-flavored coffee, he noticed.
    “I’ve got the shakes,” Lynskey insisted. “I need some vitamin B.”
    Bannister shook his head. “You don’t need vitamins anymore, Ray,” he explained. “You don’t need to eat, you don’t need to drink, you don’t go to the bathroom. It’s all over.”
    Tears welled up in Lynskey’s eyes.
    “In a year’s time, on the anniversary of your death, you will have another chance to cross to the other side—to become a pure spirit,” Frank said. “Until then, you’re what’s known as an earthbound emanation. You’re a cloud of rotting, bioplasmic particles, leaking ectoplasm from every orifice.”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Ray squeaked, bursting into tears.
    “Do you understand?” Frank asked gently.
    Ray nodded, wiping tears away with his sleeve. “I think so,” he said. “You’re telling me I’m a ghost.”
    “Well, I don’t like that word, but it amounts to the same thing.”
    “You got your car here?” Ray asked.
    “Just down the block.”
    “Is that thing safe to ride in?”
    “Exactly what are you worried about, Ray?” Bannister asked.
    Lynskey thought for a moment, then nodded grimly. “I guess I can’t die twice, can I?” he said.
    “Not that I’ve ever heard of, but I promise to drive carefully anyway,” Bannister said. “Where do you want to go?”
    “To the cemetery. I don’t want to miss my funeral.”

Six
    W hen Bannister got to the Fairwater Cemetery for the first time since the Hughes funeral, he parked outside the gates. It was another George Zmed service, and the man had already threatened to call the cops. So Frank left his Ford outside, where the mourners gathered around the grave couldn’t see it. An angry funeral director was far from the only reason Bannister was reluctant to show his face in the graveyard.
    “Why don’t you park closer, go right up near the casket?” Lynskey asked, starting to edge toward the passenger’s-side door.
    Frank grabbed his arm. “Listen, Ray . . . the cemetery’s not a good place. Stay close to me.”
    “Hey, who’s the dead one here?”
    “You have a point, but you’re new to this. Trust me.”
    “Come on, Frank,” Lynskey said. “I wanna hear what they’re saying about me.”
    Ray grabbed at the door handle frantically, but his fingers passed right through it. “Hey, what the hell?” he exclaimed.
    “Door handles take a bit of getting used to,” Frank said.
    “How do I get out of the car, then?”
    “This way,” Frank said, and shoved Ray through the door. He tumbled onto the ground, then yelled, “Ow!”
    Bannister expected Lynskey to stay on the ground at least long enough to get around the car, but it wasn’t to be. Still an athlete even after death, Ray was up like a