7

I don’t know if Horace knew where I was when he’d called, or if he just assumed I’d picked up teleporting as a special skill somewhere in my travels. Maybe he honestly thought this Elizabeth Creed would hang around these particular stomping grounds for a few days yet—though that was an assumption fraught with peril. I didn’t know what she wanted, but I didn’t really think this poor woman was out to destroy the world. You have to be crazier than just schizophrenic to have an interest in that kind of thing. Usually you have to be a religious nut, too.

I hoped she wasn’t a religious nut.

And I hoped this park was close enough for me to get this out of the way tonight, because I’d just made plans to bolt for Atlanta, hadn’t I? And when all was said and done, Ian was the greater priority. Or that’s what I told myself, as I tried to keep the needling thought of hundreds of millions of dollars out of my head.

I could use the money. We could use the money. It could make us more secure. It could keep us safe. Or as safe as any of us could reasonably expect to be.

With roundabout thinking like this, I convinced myself that the quest for Creed and the penis bones was a case that would benefit Ian as much as it’d benefit me. Call it trickle-down economics, if you must. But money in my bank account is good for all of us—blind, beautiful, beloved companions included.

Back in the hotel room, Adrian was lying on his bed and wrestling with the remote, which also worked by arcane ritual magic, or so it appeared. He could only get the channel to turn over when he aimed it from just the right angle, to just the right spot.

“Problems?” I asked, letting the door drag slowly shut behind me.

“I think it needs new batteries.” He smacked it against the nightstand. “Oh hey, MythBusters,” he declared upon getting the channel to move another notch. “I can lie around and watch this.”

“Clearly.”

“So what was that about?”

“My case,” I told him. “The one that doesn’t involve Ian or your sister.”

“I thought you didn’t have a case.”

“Remember that penis bone thing I told you about? It might be back on. Hey, what time is it?” I asked.

“Going on one in the morning. Why? You got a hot date?”

“Hardy har har. No. And I don’t have a lot of time, either—not if I want to scratch this off the list tonight.” I dragged out my laptop and plugged it in, since the battery was getting low. “You ever hear of a place called the San Juan Bautista State Park?”

“No,” he admitted. “Why? You thinking about taking a tourist detour?”

“Yeah. Horace said it’s about a hundred miles from here.”

“And you’ll find your rod nuggets there?”

“I don’t know. But he gave me a lead on the woman who stole them. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic who used to work for NASA. Horace basically caught her on tape. And he’s been watching her credit cards—don’t ask me how; I don’t know the details. Give me a minute to boot up, and I’ll look it up. All knowledge is contained within the Internet, after all.”

Within two more minutes I had the park’s website on the screen and Adrian sitting on the bed beside me, as if we were naughty teenagers sharing a monitor full of porn. I clicked around a little and discovered that the park was a pretty place like most old missions, but I didn’t quite see the significance.

What did Elizabeth Creed want there?

Adrian asked it, just as I was thinking it. “What does this woman want from this place?” It surprised me, how his question had come right on the heels of my wondering. It was an obvious question, one any intelligent person might have spontaneously generated; but again I thought of the sips he’d taken, and I worried that maybe great minds don’t necessarily think alike … that maybe sometimes they’re artificially linked by a bloody cocktail.

I swallowed and answered as if there was nothing weird about it—since there might not be, for all I knew. “Horace didn’t say.”

“He might not know.”

“He must not. Otherwise, he would’ve told me. Anyway, this is the place, and she’s been hanging around it.” I glanced over at the big digital numbers on the hotel clock, confirmed what I already knew, and said, “If we want to head over there tonight, we’ll need a hotel waiting for us.”

“Us? Will I get a cut of this gig if I keep you company?”

“Maybe if you make yourself useful,” I retorted, but it brought up a good point. “I’m not in the habit of doing these ‘retrieval’ gigs with a partner, so if you want to head out in the morning without me, there’d be no hard feelings. But since I’m already here, it’d be a little dumb for me to drive back to Seattle without checking it out.”

“Sure, I hear what you’re saying.” He shrugged. “But it’s not like I’m doing anything important at home until Friday night. I already put in for the time off in order to come down here with you.”

“And if you can talk me out of a cut, so much the better, eh?”

“Right.”

“But dude, not twenty minutes ago we were having a … discussion about me trying to keep you out of harm’s way. It’d be awfully damn inconsistent of me to say, ‘Hop in my car, baby—let’s hit the road.’ ”

“Naw, not inconsistent. Logical!” he insisted, reaching for his suitcase. “There’s a world of difference between keeping me out of a vampire den and keeping me away from one lone crazy lady with a box of mystical peen.”

“Okay, I can see that. But she’s not just one lone crazy lady with a box of mystical peen. She’s one lone crazy lady who successfully murdered a man and blew up his house with a box of powerful relics. And when I frame it that way, now that I think about it … no, I’m not super-comfortable with the idea of you joining me.”

“You’re not my mother,” he groused as he began to pack. “And I’m not Domino. Think of it this way: I’m far less likely to get into trouble because the crazy-lady gig isn’t personal to me. You can grant me that much, can’t you? Even when we went after Bruner—which was completely fucking personal—I didn’t do anything to endanger either one of us. You’re not the only badass on the block, you know.”

He had me there.

Adrian and I had worked together just fine on a personal mission the previous year—I mean, we’d hunted down a guy and killed him together, so I knew I could trust him to pull his own weight. But this was different. This was my real job, and I’d never invited anyone to ride shotgun before.

I had a feeling it didn’t matter. And although I could easily leave him behind … I didn’t want to. Maybe he was right, and it’d be okay. After all, this woman didn’t know anyone knew about what she’d done, much less that anyone was after her. We’d catch her off guard, steal the box of goodies, and be back home before forty-eight hours were out.

“Fine. If you promise to stay out of the way.”

“People who stay out of the way don’t get cuts of the profit.”

“You never know,” I said. “In this case, I might well pay you to keep clear of the trouble. Call it personal peace-of-mind insurance.”

He said, “Whatever,” but he was smiling.

While the MythBusters rerun played itself out, I called around the park’s general vicinity until I found a hotel room—since we wouldn’t have time to drive back before morning. We loaded up quickly, checked out, and hit the road.

The drive to the park took almost two hours, so by the time we pulled up, the place wasn’t just dark—it was utterly deserted, and closer to dawn than sundown. We left the Taurus outside the park’s more sensitive boundaries, since we didn’t feel like forcing past the gate or busting through any of the feeble barriers that kept cars off the historic roads after hours.

It was both good and bad that the mission San Juan Bautista is really the historic district of a town called San Juan Bautista. It’s not much of a town, and they rolled up the sidewalks at twilight except for a couple of tourist hotels and a bar or two, but it meant there was an off chance we were blocking someone’s private drive, and there was also an off chance we’d be spotted as the kind of people who “aren’t from around here.”

I didn’t expect any trouble, though. For that matter, I didn’t really expect to find Elizabeth Creed. She might be spending her days lurking around the park, but I assumed she must be spending the night elsewhere. More than anything, the point of this trip was to see if we could get an idea of what precisely the crazy lady wanted with the place. Since we were in the neighborhood, and all.

I’d given Adrian the rundown on keeping his head down on the way over, lecturing him (or so he accused) on things he already knew, and generally driving him nuts, I’m sure. But the closer we’d gotten to the site in question, the harder I began to second-guess bringing him along.

And now that we’d quietly stalked past the San Juan city hall, and were working our way toward the plaza in the dark … it felt a bit real. I had actually teamed up with somebody for a case—a for-profit event that was in no way personal. This made it a first, and I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But it was too late to do anything about it now.

He slinked along beside me, or behind me in my wake, and together we snuck around the mostly empty, sprawling place. Gray wood fences offset the private homes and businesses—most of them in a similar adobe or stucco style with only one or two stories—and the streets had that gritty feel that implies they aren’t fully paved, even though they are. Everything was sandy and dusty underfoot, and overhead the sky was dark and clear and speckled with stars but not much moon.

At least if Creed tried to raise another storm, we’d have plenty of warning. I vowed to keep an eye on the sky, just in case. On a night like this, any cloud was cause for suspicion.

It occurred to me that it was a shame we hadn’t thought to bring along night-vision goggles for Adrian.

“Damn,” he said. “I wish I’d thought to bring my night-vision goggles.”

I almost stopped in my tracks, but only stumbled. There he went again, reading my thoughts. Or not? Yet again, this was an example of an obvious thing, spoken aloud. It probably meant nothing.

“If I’d known about this in time, we could’ve brought them,” I murmured softly. “But this is the price we pay for the coincidence of timing. We’re not as prepared as we’d like to be.”

“You’re never as prepared as you’d like to be. And this place is a goddamn graveyard,” he whispered back.

He was right. It felt deserted, and unnaturally so. “Shh, I’m listening. In case it isn’t a graveyard and we run into company.”

He made a grumpy noise but he shut up, which was all I wanted from him anyway. Nothing about the place felt right, from the utter silence to the too-bright stars and the long, flat buildings with their shutters drawn. Some of the structures appeared to be in states of restoration; some hadn’t made it there yet, and were boarded or offset with chain-link fences. It looked like a ghost town under construction, which is exactly as weird as it sounds.

I stopped with my back flat against the wall of a store that had been closed for decades. The stucco prickled at my shoulders, and the stored warmth of the place leached out into my back. Adrian drew up beside me, a shadow in black—silent as hell when he wasn’t talking, though he outweighed me by probably fifty pounds of muscle.

“There it is.” I gestured with a nod of my head. “Across the plaza. That must be the mission itself.”

It was a low, long building like so many of the others, and graced with a series of arches. A steeple or a bell tower or something pointed up from the far end, though I couldn’t see it well enough to tell at such a distance. The plaza was pretty freaking big, and wide open, without a shred of cover.

Adrian made another vague “hm” noise, and this time I asked, “What?”

“It looks familiar.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Wikipedia said that one of Hitchcock’s films was shot here.” As I made this feeble observation, I watched the mission as if it were going to do a trick. I was trying to talk myself out of the necessity of investigating it.

“You’re probably right. Do you think we should check it out? That’s a lot of open ground around it. I haven’t seen anybody, or any cameras. Have you?”

“No.” I hadn’t smelled any, either. Usually there’s a faint electric whiff to them, and a high-pitched hum. You know that sound when you’ve got the television on, but the volume is turned all the way down? It’s like that. It hangs out in the back of your head, not doing anything but taking up a fraction of your attention, making you aware that it’s there.

That’s what all electronic equipment sounds like to me, but my hearing is a whole lot better than the average mortal’s.

Still keeping my voice low, I confessed, “We ought to take a look around it, but maybe we should save it for last. It’s the centerpiece of the park, so it’d be stupid to skip it. We should check out everything, everywhere, since we have no idea what we’re looking for.”

“Gotcha. Time to split up?”

I almost grabbed his arm, but I caught myself in time and kept my eyes on the mission. Christ, I was clingy as of late. Undignified, that’s what it was.

I took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, let’s split up. I’ll take the east blocks over here, you take the west blocks over there, and we’ll meet up at the mission when we’re done. Stick to the shadows, and if anyone spots you, lose them however you can. Run if you have to, but if you have to take the car, send me a text message or something so I know not to hang around—and I can find a place to hide before dawn. You got that?”

I turned to look at him, and was both annoyed and impressed to realize that he’d jaunted off in the middle of my dissertation without me hearing him. I didn’t know how much of it he’d caught, but I’d front-loaded the bit about east blocks and west blocks, so I grumbled my frustration (quietly) and breathed “Motherfucker” as I vacated my position against the shop, or house, or whatever it’d been back in 17-when-the-hell-ever.

I went through the blocks and dodged only three people, two of them teenagers who didn’t want to be spotted any more than I did, and one older woman who was taking out the trash behind a restaurant.

Except for the occasional scurry of rats and cats, and the intermittent yowl of a coyote somewhere too close for civilization’s comfort, I heard nothing but the soft swish of my own steps.

There was nobody here. Just me and Adrian and the desert, and the small things that crawl in the sand, and the owls that swoop about more silently even than me at my sneakiest.

Except that I didn’t believe it.

I could feel that I was wrong, even though I had nothing concrete to base it on.

When I’d completed my rounds, discovering nothing except that this must be one boring-ass place to live, I found myself at the edge of the plaza again—this time in front of it. I crouched in the shadow of a beautiful old hacienda’s second-story wraparound porch and squinted as far as I could.

I can’t see in perfect darkness, so thank God it wasn’t perfectly dark. It was only mostly dark, which meant I couldn’t make out much detail, but I could see the huge expanse of grass sprawling out before me, and the pale, skeletal-looking frame of the old mission at the far end of it. To my left was a white building that was closed and fenced off; it could’ve been an old-fashioned saloon made out of clapboard, but it was hard to tell at this distance.

No hint of light peeked around its windows. No noises emanated from within. It was a shell of a place, and when I stretched out my feeble psychic senses, I was quite confident that it was as empty as it appeared. The closer building, the one I hunkered beside, was occupied—but not by anyone who was up to anything. Two children were resisting bedtime upstairs someplace, and downstairs someone was cleaning a kitchen while watching television.

Where was Adrian? I stretched the sensation, closing my eyes. Does closing my eyes help? I don’t know. I’m not sure why I do it. I’m not sure why I leave my mouth hanging open when I put mascara on, either, but it feels like two sides of the same phenomenon. You do little things like that in order to concentrate.

So I concentrated. And I didn’t pick him up, so either he was out of range, or my waves were failing me, either of which was fully possible. Rather than dwell on these things, I dwelled on how the hell I was going to approach the mission. If I wanted to take the long way around, there were some scraggly trees off to my right that I could hide behind. But when I judged how little cover versus how much added inconvenience that entailed, I split the difference and decided to run along the inner perimeter, and fast.

No one would see me, even if anyone knew to look for me. At a good sprint, I can run faster than most people can detect, and faster even than many recording devices can catch. Usually I turn up as a vague streak, and only then if the frame rate is good enough.

So I ran.

It took a couple of seconds to cross the vast expanse, and in those couple of seconds my rudimentary psychic sense told me two things that almost slowed me down, but didn’t.

Thing #1: Adrian was over there, someplace on the back side of the building. Or maybe it was the front side—the architecture didn’t broadcast the difference, and it looked similar from all angles. At any rate, he was on the side farthest from me, and sneaking slowly along the wall. This was excellent, for it meant that I was running right toward him, and I wouldn’t have to go hunting for him after I checked out this one last thing.

Thing #2: Adrian wasn’t alone. Someone else was over there, inside the mission someplace—not at my partner’s side, and not stalking him or anything … but definitely within a stone’s throw of his position.

Slightly distracted by these two revelations, I almost ran smack into the mission’s adobe exterior, but caught myself in time to keep from plowing into the wall and leaving a Raylene-shaped dent in the side. Just barely, mind you.

I flattened myself against the wall I had so narrowly avoided puncturing with my face and scooted around the nearest corner. This put me along the short side of the building, and facing what was left of the trees that surrounded the place in that weird living fence that served as a boundary to the property. As I stood there, listening with every sense I had available to me, the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Never a good sign, that.

I peered up at the sky, checking for sudden and improbable clouds, but saw nothing but stars—more of them than you ever see in a city, much less a city like Seattle, where the sky is so often overcast. A plane was sweeping past overhead, its red and white blinky lights revealing its southern trajectory.

And nothing else stood out against the black.

It didn’t mean that nothing was wrong. Something was wrong, but it wasn’t coming from above.

In case it would work, I sent out a silent call to Adrian. Dude. Where are you?

No one was more shocked than I was when he responded. Around back. There’s someone inside. It wasn’t a strong response—not like a shout in the ear. More like a muffled murmur. But I heard it, and I understood it.

Hang tight. I’m on my way.

“And you’re not my ghoul, not my ghoul, not my ghoul,” I mumbled as I hastily trucked around to Adrian’s side of the building.

I could sense him, but I couldn’t see him. The far façade of the mission was as pale as the front, all of it the color of desert-bleached bones in the heavy darkness. The archways appeared to go on forever, extending back to some distant vanishing point. An absurd impression, I know, but that’s how it felt. It felt like a fever dream, a hallucination, a dizzy moment brought on by a sudden feeding or too much wine.

My ankles felt loose, like they’d rattle if I shook my feet. I looked down at them, thinking my whole body was betraying me in this weird moment, and then I realized that it wasn’t my ankles … it was the ground.

A shock of grass and a dusting of pebbles beside my boots quavered and bounced, very slightly, as if they were set atop a speaker playing something that was heavy on the bass.

An earthquake?

I’d been in an earthquake or two. Nothing serious, nothing big. Seattle gets them every once in a while, being on the Pacific Rim and all, but not with much frequency or damage.

But this didn’t feel like an earthquake.

It wasn’t a shake. It was a vibration, coming up from a spot down deep, like the earth was humming. It set my teeth on edge. I gritted them and continued my hunt for Adrian.

I ducked inside the nearest arch, which placed me beneath a corridor that ran the length of the place. From inside this overhang, the mission felt even more infinite, or maybe it was only the disorientation from that deep, low-level buzz. I couldn’t hear it, exactly, but I could feel it with every inch of my skin. The tiny bones in my ear jostled together, and my eyelashes itched. I wanted to scratch at myself—scratch everything, all over.

I tamped down the urge and felt along the wall, stopping at the occasional window or doorway, all of them shut.

I struggled to recall the rough layout. I hadn’t planned to come inside; I’d assumed it’d be shut and locked, since I was heading out here after hours. And it was, wasn’t it?

I tried a door.

Of course it was locked. But this did not prevent someone from being inside, any more than it was going to prevent me from getting inside, just as soon as I found Adrian and could get a better grip on the situation. I didn’t need a perfect layout of the interior in order to get cracking. I’d worked under worse circumstances.

Adrian?

Over here. I see you.

An arm waved up ahead. I couldn’t really see that it was an arm. I could only detect the loose shape of a swaying appendage and, given the height of it, I assumed it was an arm and not a leg, or a tentacle, or whatever.

I approached the arm, and yes, found it attached to Adrian, who had crushed himself up against a shuttered window. The shutter had a crack in it, where something had busted a couple of slats. Air breathed gently out through this crack, slightly warmer than what was outside around us.

“Someone’s inside,” he said, and pointed at the hole.

“I know. But I don’t think she got in this way.”

“Very funny,” he said. “I don’t know how she got in, but I saw her for a second.” He pointed inside again. I didn’t see anything but a room with a desk and some chairs that looked like they belonged in a doctor’s office circa 1970. But as I stared a little longer, letting my eyes fine-tune to the dim interior, I detected a doorway without a door to block it, and in the hall beyond it, a glow so faint I might’ve been imagining it.

“She has a light,” Adrian told me. “She was walking that way.” He indicated an imprecise direction off to our mutual left.

“I just came from that way, and I didn’t notice anything open. She must’ve gotten inside farther down. Did you see any point of entry?”

“No, but it’s fucking dark.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“You’re welcome. We could break in, couldn’t we? Just pop one of these doors or, or whatever it is you do?”

Our voices stayed very, very low. I didn’t think anyone could hear us, least of all someone inside. “It’s noisy,” I said. “If these windows weren’t all shuttered, I’d cut the glass out and let us in that way. But breaking the shutters open is just as loud as breaching a door.”

“Raylene?” he asked, the one-word question a tiny bit loud. His eyes went big, and he was getting that glazed, disoriented look that I’m sure I’d been displaying a few seconds before. “Do you feel that?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I feel it. I’ve been feeling it.”

“What’s she doing?”

“I have no idea. Fuck it,” I declared, and I reached for the nearest door. It was doubled, and its planks were held together old-fashioned-style with big iron bands. It had a new-fashioned lock, though. A dead bolt built unobtrusively into the wood, destroying the authenticity but offering modern security.

Well, not perfect security. I jostled it open with less finesse and more noise than I wanted, but I didn’t exactly kick over an air raid siren, either.

“Come on,” I told my companion, who almost tripped over me in his eagerness to get inside. I understood. I was feeling it too, that urgent sense that shelter should be sought, even if shelter meant a building some two hundred years old and probably, God help us, not built to meet earthquake codes.

Inside it was even bleaker than the overhang with the arches, which seemed impossible but apparently wasn’t. We staggered toward the open doorway and into a hall. By then I could see again, a little, but Adrian couldn’t—so he grabbed the back of my shirt and I led him in the direction he said she’d gone.

“It has to be her, doesn’t it?” he asked me, so close I could feel his breath on the back of my head.

“If it isn’t, we’re going to feel real silly in a minute,” I told him. Then, more to myself, “I wonder where she’s going.”

Up ahead I could hear something; it hovered on the edge of the buzzing hum, a staccato noise … or not quite. Footsteps, yes. Off in the distance, deeper in the mission. I kept heading toward the footsteps, and Adrian kept his death-grip on my shirt, and the hum grew harder—not louder—beneath our feet.

Adrian all but sighed, “Earthquake?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed back. At least it wasn’t lightning. Aggravating hum notwithstanding, there was no undercurrent stink of ozone—and as of a few seconds previously, the sky had been utterly clear. I knew, because I’d been checking it. A good lightning strike or two within fifty feet of you will make you paranoid that way.

So yes, this had to be some kind of earthquake.

It made sense, from a warped, crazy-person angle. In the Pacific Northwest, she’d reached for a storm—and in California, she was reaching for the ground.

Adrian stumbled behind me, yanking my shirt so hard that the neckline jabbed me in the throat. Our feet were going numb from the vibrations, and we were both getting clumsy, so I didn’t smack him. I’m just charitable that way.

Besides, my obsessive compulsions and neuroses were distracting me. Should we get outside after all? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, in case of a quake? Override that instinct to find shelter, and find a place that won’t fall on top of your head?

But no, this wasn’t something so normal or simple. Adrian and I both knew that.

Christ, that mission was an interminable building. Again I had that sense that the interior was warped, that it was larger than it looked from the outside—larger than it could possibly be—and we were only pushing dream-like forward, skulking in place without making any progress.

Until finally, up ahead, the timbre of the footsteps changed and their location began to rise.

I stopped, and Adrian ran into my back.

“What?”

“Can you hear that?” I wanted to know.

“No.”

“She’s going upstairs. I didn’t know this place even had a second floor.”

“It doesn’t,” he whispered. “But there’s a bell tower, remember? You can see it from outside.”

Bell tower? Oh yeah. “Vertigo,” I said.

“What?”

“Vertigo. I just now remembered. That’s what movie was filmed here. There was … there was a big scene,” I muttered. “In the bell tower. Jimmy Stewart.”

“If you say so.”

“Come on. Let’s go imitate some art.”

He said, “Yikes,” but he tagged gamely behind me.

She was using a light, yes. A gas-powered lantern, a Coleman or something like it. I could smell it as we gained on her, that small, burning scent of fossil fuel and a cotton sock wick. And up ahead, somewhere around a corner, the glow it left behind was calling to me—drawing me moth-like onward.

We passed through several rooms, mostly decked out like museums with glass cases, informative plaques, and long benches for tired tourists to rest upon. And then we spotted the gate that usually blocked off the tower. It hung open, its padlock cut by something big, maybe bolt cutters. I ran my hands over the jagged edge left by the snipping and I knew the feel of it. I’ve cut plenty of locks in my time. It’s not the most elegant way to breach a barrier, but it’ll do in a pinch.

I had a feeling that Elizabeth Creed didn’t expect anyone to find out what she’d done, and she didn’t care about leaving a trail. As the low-key hum underfoot grew to a more distinct tremor, I started to run.

Adrian kept up with me fairly well. I couldn’t do my usual blinding speed, since we were indoors and it was almost too dark to see, and the stairs weren’t the kind of perfectly even steps people produce in modern times, so I had to be careful. But there was a light up ahead and I chased it, and he was hot on my heels.

When finally I burst out into the open air, the whole place was shaking and I realized in that instant that part of the hum I’d heard, and felt with my whole body, had come from the bells. They were big and solid and utterly black in the shadowed night of the tower. They were bell-shaped failings in reality, heavier than anything had a right to be.

They were bells, and not bells at the same time, and I was entranced by them.

She’d done something to them—or she was doing something to them, I couldn’t say. But they weren’t here, not anymore. They weren’t part of my universe. Or maybe (and this might be closer to correct) they were in two places at once—our world, and some other world, too.

I tore my eyes off them with difficulty. They were black holes, these bells, and their gravity stole everything.

“Elizabeth Creed,” I called. It wasn’t a question. If not her, who else could it be?

I was answered by a croaking bark. It was a cry of dismay and irritation, tempered by blind hatred. I didn’t like it, this certainty that someone wanted to blow me to smithereens on general principle.

I spun on my heels, again resisting the pull of those bells, and I saw her.

She was out on the roof, standing on the curved clay tiles that baked themselves brittle under the California sun. Her feet were steady and she was not moving—not fidgeting, not humming, not vibrating like everything else. She was the one stable speck in this warped old mission, which reassured me not in the slightest. I already knew how unstable she was on the inside.

In her hands she held a box—the kind children use to keep their pens and pencils together. It didn’t look like a humidor to me, but maybe she’d swapped it out for something of her own. She wasn’t quite the wild-eyed mad scientist I expected; her hair was graying in rivulets and it was contained in a tidy ponytail. The jeans and T-shirt she wore wouldn’t have looked out of place on … well, on me, or anyone else.

She asked, “Who are you?”

Suddenly I didn’t know what to say. I was being called upon to account for my presence there, and my future actions, and what could I tell her? I’m not ordinarily put in the position of defending myself to my victims. Most of the people from whom I steal have no idea who robbed them, and none of them ever catch me in the act. Then again, I never have to chase them down and physically take things away from them, either.

I made a mental note to consider it a deal-breaker on future assignments.

I had to tell her something, though. Or at least I thought I did, despite the fact that, in retrospect, I could’ve just barreled into her, swiped the box, and moved on with my life. I’m not sure why I didn’t. Maybe it was the hum, or the bells. Maybe it was the way she met my eyes without blinking, and made me feel like a naughty schoolchild who’s been caught eating crayons.

Regardless, I said, “I’m here to take back what you stole.” Because that sounded better than, “I’m going to steal your stuff for my own nefarious purposes,” yet it did not fully spell out my intentions.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m being paid to. Put down the bones, Ms. Creed.”

She said, “No.”

Her eyes hardened and mine probably went wide. I don’t know; I couldn’t see them. But I could feel myself starting to freak out—my hair was standing up on end again, like before the lightning in Portland, even though the sky was still as clear as a bell (but not the bells behind me).

“What are you doing?” I shrieked at her. “Put down the goddamn bones and get out of here now unless you want to die!”

She snorted. “You didn’t answer my first question, so I won’t answer yours. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Then she stuck the box into a bag she was wearing cross-body style, the strap slung across her chest. I hadn’t seen it before because it was resting on her ass. “And I’m not going to die.”

We faced each other down, both of us increasingly convinced that the other one was being ridiculous, and possibly about to breathe her last.

I have no idea what kept me from launching myself at her, knocking her off the roof and smashing her onto the ground below, but it might’ve had something to do with her right hand, which was clutching something thin, pale, and just long enough to stick out both ends of her fist.

“Last chance,” she told me. “This whole place is going down.”

“While you’re standing on it?”

She smiled, and her knuckles were so white they gleamed like teeth. “Did you know this mission, this whole town … sits on the San Andreas?”

“I did not,” I admitted, sticking to the facts because, holy shit, I only just then noticed that she was not actually standing on anything. She was hovering a few inches above the tiles, which accounted for why she was able to hold herself so steady while the rest of the world quivered.

“It has to go. All of it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Mistakes need to be unmade,” she declared.

Her eyes rolled back into her head. Her hand crushed harder around the brittle white bone, and I could see even from these few yards away that it was beginning to bend, creeping toward some shattering point.

The harder she held it, the louder the hum buzzed—and the harder the ground moved. Her lips moved too, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying, muttering in that weird, dark rhythm. What had started as an odd vibration blossomed into a lurch, a heave, and a shudder—accompanied by the crack of trees and the tinkling crash of clay roofing tiles falling to the sidewalk.

Something moved behind me; I saw it out of the corner of my eye.

Adrian. I’d forgotten he was there, behind me—still on the stairs, or near them.

Elizabeth Creed hadn’t seen him. That much was apparent from the surprise on her face when he struck her in the chest. He’d flung himself at her, shoulder-first with his head down, and hit her square and with his full weight—perhaps 180 pounds of off-duty drag queen catching a fifty-something engineer like a ton of glitter.

As they dropped to the banging, jostling roof, tiles went scattering and more than the wind got knocked out of Creed.

At a distance and in slow motion, I watched her fingers unclench and the bone slip away from her palm. It scooted down the roof and rolled awkwardly toward the edge, ambling toward the rim, over which it would tip in a matter of moments.

For no logical reason, I knew in the bottom of my stomach that I had to catch that bone. I knew that it couldn’t break, that I had to pick it up and take very good care of it until this spell, or enchantment, or whatever it was … had either dissipated or been undone.

The world heaved beneath me, or maybe only the roof did, I couldn’t tell. I tried to jump toward the escaping bone as it loped downward, but my next step dislodged a tile—sending it shooting off the roof and over into space. Forward I flopped, skidded, and flailed. Down I scooted, and the sound of clay grating against my pants, knees, and elbows was a pottery symphony … and although it felt (and surely looked) like I’d lost all semblance of control, at the last second I stretched and lashed out—and grabbed the bone right as it toppled off the edge.

I toppled off the edge behind it, or rather underneath it. I shifted midair to put my body between that precious penis nub and the hard ground below, and I did a good job.

Flat on my back, I landed with a smack that cracked my skull and left me seeing stars before I saw nothing at all.

As I blacked out, a muddy procession of half-formed images and thoughts went sliding through my mind. The sky above, speckled and domed. A cheer of relief that the mission was only one story, and I hadn’t fallen any farther. The taste of powdered clay and sidewalk dust flavored with rubber sandal soles. And the brittle, unbroken bone cradled against my belly.

The world stopped moving, but if it was the whole world or just me, I couldn’t tell.