I was the last one out and the small group had already formed a half circle in front of Doreen. Most of the cemetery was draped beneath a canopy of aged oak trees, which left us standing in a darker shade of night.

Doreen handed each of us copper rods that swiveled in wooden handles, like divining rods, the kind water witches use to find water.

“This little device will help you find spectral energy,” she said. “As you walk through the cemetery, hold the rods in front of you like this.” She demonstrated, holding the rods in front of her with both hands like she was holding a pair of guns. “If they start crossing, you might have found someone who wants to communicate with you. Sometimes the lines will just open up. I’ve even seen them spin. Go ahead and ask the spirits questions. The ghosts up here are used to us, so they know what to do. But do be careful, it’s dark, so watch where you’re stepping. We don’t want anyone tripping over anything. Now off you go. Have fun!”

At Doreen’s dismissal, everyone wandered off with their spirit wands, headed toward different sections of the cemetery. I stood there feeling stupid, holding the pointers in front of me.

Mr. Lewis was still next to me. He was moving slowly, his cane in one hand, both of the rods in the other. I thought that at his age, traipsing around cemeteries at night might be a bit too ambitious.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said curtly, his voice low and gravelly.

“Have you done this before?”

“Countless times.”

“Oh,” I said, a little surprised. “Have you ever encountered anything?”

“Not what I’m looking for.” He turned and looked at me, his eyes as dark as the cemetery. “I’m looking for my wife.”

His response jarred me. I had never considered looking for McKale in this way. Nor did I want to. Everything about it seemed wrong.

“You’ve been looking for her for a while?”

“Yes,” he said. Then he hobbled away, mumbling something as he crossed the grounds.

I walked off alone toward the cemetery’s northeast corner, holding the rods in front of me. About ten minutes later, Doreen joined me. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good,” she said brightly.

Nothing had happened, except the rods had moved a little, something that was almost impossible to prevent, even if you were trying.

“Tell me,” I said. “What do you know about Mr. Lewis?”

“Mr. Lewis is a retired insurance salesman from Tulsa, Oklahoma. His wife died a while back and since then he’s spent most of his time traveling the country to séances and ghost tours, looking for proof that she still exists.”

“Has he had any luck?” I asked.

“Apparently not. A lot of people have claimed to find her, but none have passed his test.”