"Greed makes a man blind and foolish, and makes him an easy prey for death."

~ Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, aka Rumi, 13th century poet and mystic 

Bexley stares at the blood dripping off her arm. "Am I going to die?" is all she can say, over and over again.

"The bullet went right through your bicep, I think," Sunglasses says to Bexley. The gunshot pulled him back into focus. "Someone get a towel. Let's apply pressure. Help her lie down. Bexley, you're going to be alright, but you need to keep still."

The Crocodile is stuck in place, as if he can't quite comprehend what he just did.

First time, huh? Maybe you're more of an amateur than I thought. Probably stuck to fists and intimidation, because those always worked when you're a ragin' reptile.

What a joke. Enjoy the adrenaline dump, asshole.

Rushing footsteps approach the kitchen as Chad makes a reappearance. Knife wobbling in his hand, he hurries to the walk-in freezer door, catching his hips on the sides of counters and knocking pans over in the process. It's a miracle he doesn't cut himself.

Chad looks from Bexley to The Crocodile and back to Bexley.

"What the hell did you do, man?" Chad says, half screaming and half crying.

The Crocodile is silent.

"What did you do?" Chad says again. "What the...holy shit...is...is...she going to die?"

You're a reliable player, Chad. Now do it. Show me where that blade goes.

"It's OK, baby. This is it. This is the trauma. It's a good thing," Bexley says, her voice hoarser than before.

"Hell no, it's not a good thing. You're fucking bleeding everywhere. Holy shit...I...there's...all that blood," Chad says.

Calm down, cupcake. I've seen worse.

The Crocodile remains at a loss for words, frozen in place, revolver still in hand. Zandra relieves him of the gun with a quick twist of his wrist.

"Don't do anything stupid," The Crocodile, now without a weapon, says to Chad.

Whether the jab with the knife is stupid on Chad's behalf is debatable, but it cuts The Crocodile open at the left shoulder. It's a shallow cut, a hesitation cut, but seeing the blood gives Chad a surge of confidence to drive the blade deeper a second and third time. The tiled floor gets slippery with red.

Chad holds the blade up to his face. "I can't believe I just did that."

The Crocodile holds his shoulder and leans back against the walk-in freezer door, moaning.

Good boy, Chad.

With his nose tucked beneath his shirt, Hank fetches another armful of towels for Sunglasses. They toss a couple to The Crocodile.

"They're going to need more than dish rags," Zandra says. "These idiots need a hospital."

Chad, hunched over Bexley's wound, agrees. "Yeah, they'll have to suck the bullet out, I guess."

"You're thinking of a snake bite," Sunglasses says. "And you wouldn't want to suck snake venom into your mouth anyway."

Zandra spots a shattered microwave door about 30 feet behind Bexley. The bullet's trajectory must have terminated somewhere inside the appliance.

"I can drive her," Chad says, standing. "We took the truck to get here. The keys are under the front seat."

Carter points at The Crocodile. "Take your 'gator friend with you."

Chad shakes his head. "No fuckin' way."

The Crocodile, still silent, stares at the floor.

"Zandra's right. All three of you should go," Sunglasses says. "We can't have bleeders wandering all over the house."

Chad wipes the sting in the air off his eyes. "No."

Are you forgetting that I'm the one with the gun right now?

"Police or hospital. Your choice," Zandra says. "Either way, you three are leaving together."

Chad takes a beat to think.

"This is the trauma you've been looking for, child. You're going to get a glimpse of what it's like to be me. With time, you'll be able to hone it. You'll be able to ride the waves of those weird, little coincidences of life, and notice that there are patterns in everything," Zandra says.

It always amazes me how some people go out seeking trauma, as if nothing has ever happened in their lives. Pathetic.

That convinces Chad. He dabs at his face with one of the towels. "What do I say happened?"

"I don't care, but give me back the knife," Zandra says.

The lawnmower knife returns to its sheath up Zandra's sleeve. Zandra wraps the revolver in the slack of her purple gown. After scrubbing the gun clean, she hands it back to Sunglasses.

Following an awkward shuffle over the greasy kitchen floor, Bexley, Chad, and The Crocodile leave Carey Manor for their pickup truck.

Zandra, Sunglasses, Carter, and Hank retreat to separate bathrooms to wash up. Seeing as how the banquet hall, kitchen, and lounge are all saturated with bodily fluids, they rejoin each other near the ornate spirit board Zandra used a day earlier.

The board attracts Hank's curiosity, but Zandra doesn't join him.

My work is almost done here. We've no time for games.

"Let's not tempt the spirits more than necessary, child. This place is coming alive," Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve.

"Speaking of which, did Chad ever mention whether he found the source of the screaming upstairs?" Sunglasses says. Zandra notices a boxy bulge in his suit jacket pocket. It matches the outline of a Paratechno Spirit Box 3000.

Carter, sporting a fresh cocktail, shakes his head. He says, "No more ghost hunts. It was that crocodile-alligator-lizard-human-hybrid thing. He tried to kill Zandra. We're free to leave now, right?"

No.

Sunglasses turns to Zandra. "Are you ready to say who it is? Only two choices, really."

Hank takes a wobbly step backward. His equilibrium is off.

"It's as good as a coin flip at this point, if you want to keep it simple," Carter says after a slurp.

Sunglasses's fingers tap at the shape of the Spirit Box in his jacket pocket. He stops after he notices Zandra noticing.

Hmmm.

"Yes, we're very close. First, I wonder if Carter is thinking what I'm thinking about certain discreet assets of Carey Manor," Zandra says.

Carter snaps his fingers. He can barely connect the digits to do it, and when he shouts, "Now we're talking," the hot vapors that come up from his belly nearly create a heat mirage of alcoholic fumes.

"I wish we would get to the point, Zandra," Sunglasses says. "This evening isn't going to last forever. Your safety and that of the country are at stake. Is it Carter or Hank?"

There he goes sounding like a script from a secret agent movie again.

Hank pushes his back to the wall, gripping at a length of trim running up to the ceiling as if the entire room were spinning.

Not feeling so well, Hank? That's OK. You stay quiet for now. In due time, Hank. All in due time.

"Tell us, child, what have you heard about these assets?" Zandra says to Carter.

Carter polishes off the cocktail and struggles to balance the glass on a nearby tabletop. He clears his throat once out of necessity, and two more times for sake of his personality, and says through rubbery lips, "Mr. Gene Carey, the old patriarch who used to own this place before dying under mysterious circumstances, burned through a lot of wives in his time. He got a knife in the back. Unsolved. Probably one of his ex-wives. Anyway, some of those lucky ladies hid money on this property for safekeeping, since ol' Gene was a real bastard. And some of that money was hidden so well that he never found it. Legend has it, if you can find it, you can keep it, because it's completely unaccounted for."

What actually comes out of Carter's mouth isn't nearly as eloquent as that, but enough bits and pieces make it through for the others to understand.

"And where is this supposed money hidden?" Sunglasses says.

"No one fuckin' knows. Or if they did know, they didn't tell anyone, because why would they?" Carter says. "Could be millions. Could be more."

Interesting.

Zandra drags her bad ankle over to the spirit board on the marble pedestal. She runs a hand across its gold inlays.

"Let's consult the spirits," Zandra says.

It's a tight fit, made even more cramped by Hank's dry heaves, but all four manage to squeeze into the oversized phone booth lined with velvet drapes that Zandra and Sunglasses visited earlier. Carter's hot breath makes the booth feel like scuba diving to the bottom of a martini glass.

"Couldn't we do this outside of whatever this thing is?" Hank says.

"It's all about creating a sense of space, child," Zandra says.

"A candle might help with that, if it didn't burn these ugly drapes," Carter says.

It'd probably ignite your breath, too.

Zandra asks for silence as she gets into her "trance." After conjuring up words that vaguely resemble Latin, she places the fingers of her right hand on the planchette of the spirit board. The others join her.

The ideomotor effect becomes more potent with more participants. A little nudge is all that's needed for Zandra to guide the planchette.

Zandra starts with a few leading questions. She leads the planchette into place for the answers she needs to establish a base. Sunglasses records the session with his smartphone.

After a few softballs, Zandra gets down to business.

"Spirit, is there any money hidden on this property?" Zandra says.

The planchette moves to "YES."

"Is any of that money discreet? That means that if someone took it, the owners of this property would not notice," Zandra says.

The planchette circles, and then returns to "YES."

The others know what's coming next. Even Hank leans in a little closer to the spirit board.

"Where is that money located?" Zandra says.

One gold-inlayed letter at a time, the planchette spells out the word, "WINE." Some of the fingers escorting the planchette across the board tremble for the second word, "CELLAR."

As easy as typing on a typewriter.

"Whoa," Carter says and removes his hand as if he'd just touched a hot stove.

"No, no, child, you must stay in place. We must close the door now," Zandra says in a flat, monotone voice.

Carter obeys and places a finger back on the planchette. "Anyone else feel this thing is kinda warm?"

"We're all touching it. Maybe that's it," Sunglasses says, and Carter shrugs his shoulders.

Zandra recites some more Latin-esque gibberish before guiding the planchette toward the word, "GOODBYE." To her surprise, her light touch encounters some resistance.

What the hell?

Despite Zandra's best efforts to regain control, the planchette spells out the letters, "ITSATRAPAXE."

"It's a trap? Like booby traps with axes?" Sunglasses says.

That wasn't me.

Years of practice allows Zandra to keep her composure, but inside her mind races.

Carter jerks his hand away from the planchette once again. "Fuckin' thing is hot. You all don't seriously feel that?"

"Could be the alcohol," Sunglasses says.

"Fuck you," Carter says. He sucks on his index finger.

Zandra feels the planchette relax. She guides it to "GOODBYE."

Was that you messing around, Carter? You talking about it being hot to distract us?

For the first time this evening, despite all the chaos, Zandra feels her control slipping away. She dismisses the group. They peel out of the oversized phone booth one at a time.

"Booby traps, eh?" Carter says. "Fuck a million dollars. There's probably a billion down there."

I need to get him alone.

Zandra rubs her temples and says, "That's exactly right, child. I'm getting a clear visual impression, but it's fuzzy. Whatever is down there, it's deep. We should be extremely cautious."

Hank's expression switches from mild interest to its evening default of nervousness. He says, "I thought maybe this would be like digging up something in the yard with shovels. Booby traps? I don't know about that."

Zandra limps to Hank and places a reassuring hand on his upper arm. "Then you should stay here. This isn't going to be for the faint of heart."

"Do I still get a cut?" Hank says.

"We have to find the money first, child," Zandra says. Her eyes shift to Sunglasses. "You'll be sure to take care of Hank until I get back, won't you? It's important he be kept safe."

You understand what I'm saying, right?

Sunglasses replies with an overextended nod and says, "Absolutely."

Good. We'll settle up once I get back.

Zandra releases Hank. She shuffles off to mix Carter a fresh cocktail. He follows closely behind.

"I think I know where they keep some shovels. It was dirt when you were down there on the ghost hunt, right?" Zandra says as she hands Carter the cocktail.

Carter helps himself to a sloppy sip and mumbles something that sounds like, "Mm-hmm."

Then away we go.