Not Providence: "I am about to—or I am going to—die; either expression is correct."

Arabella's made of grins and alarm bells for the first two miles. I wheel us off the freeway at Palo Alto, pull into the first gas station I can find. She raises an eyebrow as I reach past her into the glove compartment.

"Need some supplies," I say. My face is painfully close to hers. "And some camouflage."

I hold up the deck of Tarot cards from my glove box, and replace my Nine of Swords with the first trump I find. My brain jangles with animal noises, sunsets, the musk of arousal. Figures I'd get the Empress. Arabella's

grinning at me through the lash of symbolism; I get out before my hands get ahead of my morals.

Into the gas station; I smile at the Indian woman behind the counter, ask for two cartons of Camels. I'm in and out before we can make small talk, and wedge both cartons between the windshield and the dashboard.

"Toss that card out the window," I say, as I hand Arabella the Nine of Swords. "We'll pick it up on our way back."

"What?"

"Someone in Redwood City's scanning for us, and they probably zeroed in on that card." I wag my eyebrows. "Best disguise is the one that keeps changing."

Her smile gets big enough to support civilizations. If I do nothing

else good tonight, at least I scored points with the underage girl.

Palo Alto turns into Menlo Park, and a Target where I snag a Spongebob Squarepants backpack. In Atherton I toss the backpack in favor of a Giants jersey, and that goes out the window as soon as we hit Woodside. Every time I step out I'm a different Tarot card, the Lovers, the Chariot. I can taste the trail of conniption fits we're leaving behind; I get some small satisfaction imagining the look on Dr. Barg's face.

We leave the freeway for good on the south end of Redwood City, and Arabella's adrenalin chokes up into fear. I slide my hand over hers before I realize that won't help.

Dr. Bingo's house is dark when we get there, not a single streak of light behind the boarded-up windows. The car's clock puts it at two in the morning, and my cell phone says it's a little bit past. I drive by at a suburban cruising speed, watch

in the rear view for lights and motion. Nothing.

"This is the place from yesterday?" Arabella asks.

Yesterday. My head twirls at that. "Yeah. The doctor's place. Don't say his name," I warn, before she can respond. "Might light us up."

She snorts. "Please, who's been training with the Zen Avenger?" Her features flatten as she studies the house. "You think he's the one puppeting Kincaid?"

"It's a likely scenario." I pull into the lot outside Redwood City Kaiser,

and offer her the deck of Tarot cards. "You're coming in?"

Arabella looks at the deck, shrugs. "Have to start some time." I feel sweat and desperation as she draws the Devil. I think I might be proud of her.

"I don't pack weapons as a rule."

"And demons would care why?" She says it tellingly bright, her teeth just a

little too bared. All I see in her mind is the card's face, the red, insensate malice. "You really think the doctor did it?"

"Did it? No." I flip through the Tarot cards, one-twoing my brainstem with archetypes. It's like head-butting the surface of a pool. "The murderer's Kincaid, straight up, no chaser." I slap the rest of the cards back into their box, and put the delirious, eye-straining Star into my pocket. "The doctor's just the man with the answers."

"Right." Arabella's still clutching her Tarot card, turning it over in her hands.

Looking at the Devil's face hurts her. Thank God for small favors. "So what's the plan?"

I open the glove compartment, and pull out both cell phones. "March in there like gangbusters and make Dr. Bingo squeal."

Her crazy look only lasts a second. "I'll keep my defenses on high."

"Good girl. Take this." I hold out Kincaid's cell phone.

"Why the hell do we have that?"

"Evidence," I mutter. "If the call history's on that phone we've got proof Bingo's

pulling the strings."

"What if it's not on there?"

I pull out a solar-bright grin. "What if Bingo can't be sure it isn't?"

"I wonder what answering questions with more questions is indicative of?"

"I'm going with dashing good looks and action-hero confidence." My wit appears to have

checked out for the night. "Why don't we get a move on before they figure out where we're parked?"

Winter rolls down Arabella's spine. She's out of the car before me, staring down the moonlit street toward suburbia. We take a quick look around the lot, send out feelers for loud symbols or coiled-up minds; and with our chests full of cement, we head for the house.

The neighbors' pinwheels are whickering in the breeze, and all the sheet metal makes the block feel like leftovers. Dr. Bingo's house is still six kinds of dark, the same angst-bomb hovering inside the gate. My mouth's turned into a sand trap.

"They've got memories planted in the front yard," I say. "Like a minefie—"

"Angst-bombing," Arabella cuts in. "I feel it too, don't worry." She touches my hand, and all of a sudden she's reassuring me.

I get the gate open without any fuss, keep my mind closed as I step over the bomb. Arabella's one step

behind me, two when the bomb tries to hit her; she tangles up in a flurry of tension but is together enough to fake a smile when I look back. I head up to the front door, make her stand off to the side. At least I remember to wipe the sweat off my face before I knock.

After two slow knocks I think I see lights inside. There's a mutter and a growl, a late-night attempt at conversation. My third knock brings footsteps thumping toward the door; I clench my fists behind my back and try to think like a thug in a fedora.

The door opens, and Dr. Bingo is there in front of me, now looking like a rodent who fell into a whiskey bottle. Recognition hits my eyes right as his nostrils flare. He leans against the open door, crosses his arms; even with my defenses up and a Tarot card in my pocket I

can't mistake the worry in his aura.

"What?" he spits, looking at me like an incontinent puppy.

I grin like a pre-teen missionary. "That any way to greet your designated protector?"

"It's two in the morning," he groans. "You're knocking on my door at two in the god-damn

morning. What do you want?"

"Justice." Me and Schwarzenegger, baby.

Bingo manages the first half of a cry, and Arabella and I have him by the arms, both pumping out negativity at Mach One as we slam him against the wall. I clap a hand over his mouth, close the door with my foot; Bingo snarls something about police as I send more anger his way.

"We know it's you, Bingo!" I snarl in his ear. "We know you hired the killer!"

"What?!" he gasps. "You're out of your mind, you're out of your fucking mind!" I feel fear slosh through him, hand all clenched up, images of his career up in smoke.

Footsteps thunder from upstairs; I see the big guy catapult down in a new color of muumuu, big-nosed face

all squinched up in anger. If he gets into a fight it'll make his day.

"You'll get your say, Binkowski," I snarl at him, "but it doesn't look good if you keep struggling—"

The guy in the muumuu rushes forward, and stops when he sees who we are, questions stewing in his eyes. That's the closing bell for Bingo's composure.

"You're not police!" He shouts. "You've got no right, you're not, you're trespassing—"

"We've got a gang of astral entities who are annoyed about you nearly exposing them," Arabella says. Her pupils are the size of quarters, and her mind feels like a riot. "They won't want to hear you threatened us with the police."

That tears Dr. Bingo right in half. "Barney! Barney, god damn it Barney, get down here—"

I hear more footsteps, faster and lighter. The old man comes barreling down, his eyes glossy with cataracts.

Feeling his mind is like being immersed in oil, and as I duck behind my defenses I feel greasy ghost hands thumbing at the tip of my brain.

"It's over!" I shout at Bingo, before I look Barney straight in the eye. "I know you hired Kincaid!"

Barney's jaw drops open; and in that moment of shock, I look through him, and see the angle man crawling around inside. Jackpot.

I let Bingo go, let his struggling die out in shock. All my attention is on the old man. He starts to step backward, horror leaking out into his aura. I see it again as he retreats: the same color, the same moves, the sickly, arachnid form I'd seen in the man Paul was paying.

"Gotcha."

It's picture-perfect: the old man the murderer staring down a cannon loaded with evidence, me the heroic detective with the morals hidden under the scruff. I'm ready to tell him what he did wrong, to flash evidence at his friends and nail his ass unerringly to the wall.

Perfection is fleeting, though, according to smart people with pithy speech patterns; and today's reminder is a

shocked breath from Arabella, and the scuff of feet on a hardwood floor.

I swing around, plant an elbow in Bingo's chest before he can get a grip on me. He makes a noise like a busted faucet, smacks into the wall; but as he falls away I feel the tension in the room, feel my mental image of the Tarot card shatter. My defenses are down, all my attention on protecting Arabella, and as fast as I can get them up it's not fast enough.

My fists both clench, and a truck driver coated in mercury sits on my chest. I can't even swear before that same oily feeling burns through the center of my thoughts, and I feel insect legs and unconvinced laughter chisel away at my brain. I lose feeling in my arms at the same time I

forget my name.

There's a demon inside my head.

Book 1: The Progress Trap
Part Seventeen

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Book 1: The Progress TrapPart Seventeen