Silence blooms like cancer. Paul's got his aura running full-steam, and Arabella's watching both of us, trying to feel our reactions out. My brain squirms through six shades of doubt on its way to nausea and a frostbitten feeling; this is apparently Arabella's cue to start a lecture.

"Arthur's gone," she tells the two of us. "The human." I get a special glance made just for me, a little scan to see if this is under my skin yet.

Dr. Barg jumps in there, with a warning look for our girl. "Kelly says it's been something like 48 hours, but he can't be positive it wasn't 72. They're spread thin."

My lips remember what they're there for. "Any contact?"

"Zip," Dr. Barg says. "Kelly claims her partner's not detectable anymore; no scan has turned up him or any known masking symbols."

"Claims," Paul says. He spits out a laugh that could curdle milk. "Hefty emphasis there."

"Feeling distrustful?" Arabella needles.

I give her a look. I can't stop her mood but I can distract it. As soon as her attention's on me I look at Barg.

"Who could've hit him?"

"Kelly didn't know," Dr. Barg says. "They didn't have any extant enemies, no specific targets they were trying to bust. Violations are rare things in Mendocino, it's not an area known for its criminal element."

"Unless you count pot," Arabella says.

Barg pretends not to hear her. " Kelly is still in action, but even with all the punch a demon packs she's not enough, and she has to keep a low profile until she's certain this isn't—"

"The Pocket," I say, as soon as the thought comes to mind.

Barg narrows his eyes at me, but still nods. My stomach turns into an ice cube tray.

"We have to consider all possibilities," the doc continues. "Even possibilities we want to call highly unlikely."

"Like the Pocket." I'm counting my fingers again. In another world, this would be funny.

"He was the first thing I thought of, too," Arabella says. "It's not like we made a lot of 4-d friends with that revelation."

The room is going spiky; I make an executive decision to forcibly change the subject.

"How bad is this? I mean, peacekeepers getting targeted is plenty bad, but how bad is this for Mendocino? How many people do we have up there?"

That rates a gale-force scoff from Paul. "Mendocino County is high on crazies, low on major birthdays. They have like a tenth of the average talent and most of it away from population centers."

"And Mendocino County was a nutjob trap," Arabella comments. "A huge chunk of the mental patients Reagan cut loose wound up there."

"Prime real estate," Paul says, and I can tell he's loving it. "Easy to hide the quirkier of us. They keep populations low to avoid notice, but there are plenty of them out there."

I darken. "Fantastic," I say, with extra emphasis. "Demon Central. Great." I throw up my arms. "And why are we going again?"

Dr. Barg gives a measuring gaze to the ceiling lights. "Arthur was a personal friend of mine." There's a ghost of what might be real emotion in his voice; any second now he might think about shedding tears. "Kelly knows we've been successful, and could use the extra help while she tries to figure out what happened to her partner. And honestly, having you leave town for a while is really not the worst plan."

"All of us?" I ask.

Dr. Barg leans back in his chair, and tells me with his eyes he's done answering questions. "Do you remember what happened the last time something scary but possibly insignificant happened?" He goes all febrile on me. "This is a chance to know if something much bigger than one disappearance is coming our way. And it's a personal favor to Kelly, and to Arthur"—he slaps a hand against his chest—"and to me." His words are concrete. "Are we clear?"

"Yeah," I say. I clap my glass down on the table. "Crystalline lake under a high noon sun."

His face tries to remember what a smile looks like. "Good."

"So we're good?" I ask, glaring.

Dr. Barg settles into a chair. "We're good."

I nod, and swallow my swear words. "I'm gonna go pack."

Taut confusion follows me up the stairs. I take the hall one notch faster than normal and dive behind the Van Gogh before the goldenrod swirls off her brain can catch up.

Socks, underwear, sense of abandonment; two t-shirts, three, four, I'll never feel my fingers again, six. Might need a flashlight, might need a pocketknife, will need my sunglasses, will need to consider if leaving would be so bad. I blink back into focus with my attention glued to the wall and someone knocking at the door. I open it a scalpel's breadth, one hand planted on the print, and lock up at my own reflection in Arabella's mismatched eyes.

"Hey," she says, with a throat full of panther.

Blank face, but one cocked eyebrow. "Hey hot stuff. Trying to catch me changing?"

"Boys have cooties," she says flatly. She balls up one fist to mark the line I just crossed. "We're out of here in the morning. I figured coffee and double-check early and then real breakfast on the way out. Good for you?"

"What's the drive like?"

"Six hours, seven with traffic." Dr. Barg's words in her mouth. "Should be there for a late lunch, Dr. Barg says there's some great food."

"That's fantastic," I snip. "Good to know we'll at least eat well on our way straight into a snow-job."

She shakes her head, too cool for my kiddie bullshit. Snowflakes really are alike if you look at them from a distance.

"So"—she runs a hand up the doorframe, strikes a pose that needs a couple years to look sultry—"It's cool if I drive the first leg, then?"

"Only if you pit-fight Paul for the privilege."

Her eyes sparkle. "Nice alliteration, Tex. Paul already said I could take first leg."

"This just in: Hell frozen over. Nice work." I give her a nod so she knows I mean it. "Sure, you can take the first leg, as long as you hug me like a doting father who indulged his daughter."

"I don't need your perversion tonight." She pads the counter with a smirk. "Gonna go get the car packed now, see you in the morning."

"Morning," I agree. "Seeya cutie."

She fires a smile over her shoulder and breezes off down the hall. I close the door, and look at a duffel bag full of clothes that suddenly doesn't seem that important. Some shirts, some underwear; I think there's a pair of pants in there somewhere; I'm worried about what will happen the next time I talk to Dr. Barg.

"I can do laundry in Mendocino," I mutter, and zip it up.

I wake up the next morning feeling all the joy and passion of a frat boy after the puking starts. When I come downstairs Paul's sitting at the kitchen table in a Hawaiian shirt and a safari hat, doing his best to start an argument about how we should pack the car. Well, if one of us wasn't going to wait until the drive to grab breakfast, he'd be my pick. Luckily in this house there are times when scowling is just plain polite.

"Mornin' sleepyhead," Paul says, in the middle of Arabella's rebuttal. "Feelin' a little less tense?"

I groan, stretch my back. Arabella's mind feels like burning bacon. "Is there still a peacekeeper missing?"

"Sure is."

"Then no." I head for the kitchen and the sweet embrace of Mr. Coffee.

"Randall," says my favorite dry-ice tone.

I turn around with a sigh worthy of a dozen Nirvana albums. Dr. Barg is sitting in his office chair, and has forgotten the meaning of the word "impressed"

"What's up?" I mutter, dumping my bag on the couch.

He nods toward the office. "A word?"

I shrug. "Take your pick." I motion for him to go first, and follow as he rows himself into the office.

He closes the door without ceremony, and goes about filtering through the room, picking at the bric-a-brac. I sit in my chair and stretch my back and don't ask questions, but it doesn't take long to see he's pulling out Tarot cards, pentacles, photocopied Seals of Solomon. They're going up on the walls one by one, blanketing us with a blizzard of symbolism. My brain tries and fails at doing a bootlegger turn.

"Sir, pardon my French, but what the fuck?"

He looks back at me, not a spark in his eye, and finishes hanging a Dali print on the door. Then he turns to me, and gives me the smile Judas probably gave right after the Supper.

"Paul."

My spine turns into a javelin, and my brainstem breaks out in hives. Dr. Barg settles into his chair, eyes asking for the obvious question. I give it to him with a sigh.

"Paul?" Cut and print; perfect delivery.

He speaks in a warm whisper. "Do you believe his story?"

"His story?" I'm incredulous.

He's still not impressed. "Do you still think he didn't try to play us during the Kincaid incident?"

Lightning splits my brain. I cross my arms, keep my thoughts focused on Barg's face. "You're asking that now?"

"Yes."

No affect or apology; not even a hint of a joke. I make an in-depth study of the books stacked up on the far table.

"Last I checked it didn't matter. You believe him, he's still on the team, we still fight for the rights of mind-rapists and confused prepubescents everywhere." I let him see my eyes on that one. "Right?"

He's about to correct me, and he makes sure I know it first. "Wrong. We're a team, not a corporation. We've got a job to do that keeps good lives from being disrupted—and bad ones," he admits with a raise of the hand, "and I need to know you three trust each other."

I look askance. "Are we headed to one of those men's retreats with the herbal tea and drums? Because I'm allergic to a lot of face paints—"

"Randall." He waits for silence to continue. "Answer the questions." There's a hint of a stammer there, a fleck of clay on his feet. "Do you believe what Paul says? Do you trust him?"

I take a deep breath, feel the air through my nostrils. Man, those books are interesting.

I think about Paul: about the smirks, the fist across my face; about the image of him sweating hailstones as he pays off a demon called Barney; about a confrontation in a field of signs and the soft look in the center of him when he told me his whole fiendish plan. And I think about him less than twenty-four hours ago, and the way he talked about my hand and Barg's legs. One finger…

I think one of the books is in need of a new cover.

"His plan was moronic," I say. Books are still more interesting than Dr. Barg's face. "It was self-serving, it was designed to annoy all of us, and even if it was necessary he could've at least told you." I try to give that just the right amount of emphasis. "But Paul's a pussycat," I conclude. "And he wants the best for himself and for us." I have to chuckle at that one. "If only because we snap so pretty."

Nothing about Dr. Barg's face changes, but there's something cozy in his eyes.

"Good then." He points at the closed door. "You're going to have some time alone with the man. I'll be curious to hear if that interpretation holds up."

My face collapses. A subway car roars through my spine. If my jaw hasn't dropped it's only because it's locked up instead. Dr. Barg pushes his chair away from me with a cane, shakes a mouse to get one of the computers up and running again.

"Doc?" I squeak.

He doesn't even turn around. "Goodbye Randall."

That's it: an order gift-wrapped in conjecture, and he's off to read news feeds for signs of demonic activity, or comment in blogs by other old professors telling us how nothing has been good since the things they cited in their dissertations. I don't slam the door, but he sees me do it seven or eight times in my thoughts.

"Jawohl, Oberst Barg. Natürlich."

He stops his typing, and I'm out the door.