“You know why I pulled you over, old timer?” the patrolman said.

“I do not, sir.”

“You were speeding.”

“All due respect, sir, but I was doing the limit. I checked my speedometer.”

“Why would you check it if you weren’t speeding?”

Preach chose to say nothing.

The patrolman opened his book, started writing. “Guess you didn’t know the fine for speeding in this area is two hundred dollars.”

“I don’t have two hundred dollars, sir.”

“Too bad for you, old timer. I’ll have to take you in.” The patrolman stopped writing, looked up. “You got a hundred on you?”

“That I do,” Preach said.

The patrolman showed his teeth. “Tell you what, then. Give me the hundred and I’ll rip up this ticket.”

Preach nodded. “Sounds fair to me.”

“It’s more than fair, old man. It’s a fucking gift, is what it is.”

Preach dug out his wallet. The patrolman snatched the two fifties greedily.

“Okay then,” the patrolman said. “We’re done here.”

“Not quite.” Preach leaned out the window. Crow was close, very close. He felt the shimmer, as if the air itself trembled. “You’re looking a bit pale, if I may say. Do you have a headache, perchance?”

“What?” The patrolman put fingertips to his temple. “Now that you mention it…” He winced, one eye closing.

“Sir, I do believe you’re having a cerebral aneurism.”

“A what?” But the patrolman was already slurring his words. “Hey,” he said. His eyes opened wide, then rolled up in his head as he collapsed onto the tarmac.

Preach got out of the truck cab, took the two fifties out of the patrolman’s clutches, and a moment later was on his way to the summoning.

Chapter 47

47

“This is going to be the last act,” Trey Hartwell said as he joined Albin White.

White nodded. “Down and dirty.”

The Colonial-style porch of the property’s original hunting lodge, across from the entrance to the Well, was where they sat in side-by-side rocking chairs, like old friends chewing the fat. All that was missing were corncob pipes and a packet of loose Virginia tobacco.

“There was no other way,” White said.

“None,” Hartwell affirmed, “according to the Peranomicon.” He placed the book that he had tucked beneath his arm onto the top railing. It was small, no larger than Trey’s hand with his fingers spread. It was the book he touched before every meeting of the Alchemists.