I drop Paul and the Cavalier back at headquarters, and wander toward Castro Street on foot. The comforting babble from the posters falls off behind me as I make the turn onto Villa, and then my head's all full of ethanol giddiness and domestic arguments as I walk up the long flat boulevard. The mental party ends with a white blotch of shock as I hit El Camino proper, as I pass a man so full of drugs he's moving like his strings have been cut. I somehow still manage to think about the missing girl.

I duck into a bus shelter, and crane my neck down the street to watch for one of the late-night 22s. The bus makes its usual showing, five minutes after I first consider walking home; I climb on, and go sit in the back with the asthmatic air conditioners and the hobos. Mountain View streams off into long tongues of concrete and niche marketing on either side of me; I know we're hitting Palo Alto when the trees stop being confined by planters. I just ride, watching the roadside storefronts and stick-figure trees, until the silt in my head settles down enough for me to start picking up snippets of the feelings moving past me. Then I open my Moleskine, twist the nib out of my pen, and write.

I start with the old man near the front of the bus, a black guy with a scrim of pepper for hair and a goatee in bad need of scissors. Then I move to the old lady with all the tissue paper wadded up in her wrist brace, snarling at everyone who gets close like they've done her a deep and personal wrong. Then it's the late-night security guy, eyes bright in a dark face, who clearly wishes shutting the old lady up would somehow count as self defense. A pensioner with a hunchback, a purple-haired student on her way home from her third job; everyone makes their way into my notebook.

The static pulses and drops off as I scribble, real thoughts giving way to conjecture, to the hunt for a way to describe somebody's mouth. It's almost as good as the white noise from the signs, with a kicker of electric tension in my brain, the stretched-out stillness of a muscle worked just enough. Which means my mind is clear and balanced for the psychic tidal wave of slugs and abortions that sloshes onboard with the next passenger.

He's a broad guy with Semitic features, zipped up in a jacket far too bulky for this weather. He climbs all the way to the back of the bus, sits down hard and boneless under one of the vents; he grabs one of the hand grips even though he's sitting down. When I look at his aura it's a translucent blank, just a hint of distortion to let you know it's there. The old lady has stopped talking.

"Hello," he says. His consonants aren't quite right.

I click my tongue, and pretend to keep writing. "Hi."

"Randoo?" He leans closer to me; it's like being punched in the brainstem.

I glance up despite my best efforts, raise my eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Randall." He grins; I think he's proud of his brand new Ls. "Randall Chatham?"

I sigh, put away the notebook. "Who wants to know?" I keep my hands squeezed tight together and my mind as closed as I can get it.

He smiles at me; it looks about as natural as the spread of a tumor. The old black guy off-boards in a rumble of profanity.

"You work for us," the man in the jacket says, in what I guess is supposed to be a whisper.

There's that all-important, burning we, the backstage pass for the forces of darkness. "Mostly, I work for the joy of not being shoved in a van and given a napalm enema. If I accidentally improved your day in the process, I'm very sorry."

One of his eyebrows raises, but there's no light in the expression to make it go. "You are not impressive."

"Thanks, I work out. What do you want?"

His lips peel away from his teeth, snap back into place. He must be an animated corpse; normal glove-jobs have better manners. "The girl."

That puts a crack in my cool. Fervent denials echo around my skull. "Lots of little girls in the world." I'm fairly certain Marlowe was better at this.

"San Antonio," the driver honks through the P.A. Tissue lady waddles off the bus, replaced by two Hispanic kids who manage to look tough right up until they see the corpse. I'm not sure if the look they give me is positive.

"Her name is Carmel Morrison." The corpse flexes his jaw in place of a breath. "She, disappeared, today."

"Oh, yeah," I drawl. "That girl." Raising one eyebrow probably looks nonchalant, right? "Great taste in shirts."

There's that grin again. I wonder if I'll build up a tolerance over time. "Girl's missing. Supposed to get a teacher." His face slips blank again. "Agreement's not holding up."

I scoff. "Agreement doesn't hold up regularly, or I wouldn't be getting room and board to deal with you assholes, now please, what do you want? Or do I need to rephrase it in your native Caveman?"

He cocks his head all the way to one side. "You want the girl."

There's a pedophilia joke to be had, but I let it pass. "Yeah. We do."

He leans forward, nearly slumps all the way to the floor. "We can help."

"Charleston," goes the P.A., and the bus is suddenly full of drunken screaming, courtesy of three girls in Eastridge High t-shirts. The corpse just keeps on staring.

"You can help," I echo. "But why?"

"Demons getting killed. Receptive minds being kidnapped." He cocks his head the other direction. "Bad for business."

"Yeah, tragic how there's one less of you to snack on our emotions." I lean in, keep my eyes on his. "But why did they bother sticking you in a body to come talk to me about some skin-jumper getting whacked? What do you care?"

Not even a twitch. "Dead is dead, body or not. Could be a war. Could be belief."

"And heaven forbid people believe there's a way to stop you again."

He grabs another handrail, hauls himself up. Next time I'll be a little more careless with my words. "Old friend tried to track him. He's got a mask, something full of memories. Musical note in the middle of an explosion."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Must've gotten another palm reader, screwtape, we didn't have any trouble getting a face."

"Lie," he wheezes. "His mask blocks all of you. You can't project yourselves right. Too focused, too singular. But we-"

"If you use the word 'legion', I will drag you under this bus with me." My comeback ends up blurry, hummed between gritting teeth. I sit back, kick my foot up on the seat next to me. "So you can track him down for me." My voice almost cracks. "But what's really in it for you?"

The corpse bothers to grin for this one. "A favor owed."

"Bullshit."

I say it loud enough a few passengers look at me; I give them a momentary look of apology, shrug. The drunk girls are fooled, but the Hispanic kids' faces are full of shadows.

"Bullshit?" the corpse queries.

I lean in good and close. "You think you're going to tag me with an open-ended favor for help I don't need?"

His head sways side to side a little. "We know where he is. We can track him when he hunts."

"And if you could you'd take him out yourself, but I know you can't pinpoint him without getting"-I look at his body-"focused." I give him a triumphant grin, mostly to piss him off. "We're not playing ball without terms. So, again, what do you want?"

His eyes are dull, empty. He tugs at the hand grip as he formulates an answer.

"We want to meet your demons."

My words sprout wings and flutter away. The bus shudders as the driver pulls into a wireframe of a bus stop, studded with palm trees.

"Palo Alto Transit Center, this bus will head south in five. Palo Alto Transit Center, this bus will head south in five, Palo Alto."