His reaction surprises her: He laughs.

"The FBI? Please. Don't they have more important things to worry about, like pedophiles, or terrorists? Or pedophilic terrorists?"

Miriam snatches the jeans off his lap, then throws them in his face.

"Hey, don't fuckin' laugh about this, Smiley McGee. Quit with the grins. This is serious. I was at the motel, or the motor lodge, or whatever the fuck they're called, and these two FBI agents walked right up like they could smell the stink of you all over me. Ashley, they had a photo of you."

Ashley's smirk melts away. It's the first time she's really seen him stunned.

"What? My photo? You're serious?"

"Asshole! Yes!"

He chews the inside of his cheek. "What'd they look like?"

"Tall, Dark and Asshole was… well, tall. Italian, maybe. Dark suit. The other one was this mean little woman, this Napoleon in a turtleneck. Adams and… Gallo, I think. Like the cheap wine."

Ashley goes pale. "Shit," he says, quiet-like. His eyes search the room. "Shit!"

He grabs the remote control off the bed and pitches it against the TV. The remote shatters. The TV flicks off – the lesbian porn fading to a bright dot, then to nothing.

"Now maybe do you get the gravity of the situation?"

Ashley grabs her wrists, snarls, "No, you don't get the gravity of the situation. Those two aren't FBI. They're not cops. They're not anybody."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"They're demons, devils, ghosts. They're goddamn thugs. Killers."

"Killers? You're babbling. Stop babbling."

Ashley isn't paying attention anymore. He mind works; she can see it. He starts to pace.

"Grab your shit," he says. He moves to the corner of the room, and he throws aside his duffel bag before lugging out the metal suitcase. Ashley grunts as he hoists it onto the bed.

"This is about the case." She says it matter-of-factly, because she knows it's true.

"Probably." He grabs Miriam's messenger bag from the other side of the bed and slings it at her. She catches it like a football, right in the bread basket. She oofs. "Keys. Give me the keys."

"No."

"Give me the keys to the Mustang. Now."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"We don't have the time for this!"

Miriam grits her teeth. "Tell me."

"I swear to God." His hands ball into fists. "You give me those keys right now."

Miriam pulls out the keys, which hang from a fuzzy dyedgreen rabbit's foot.

"These?" she asks. She dangles them in front of him. "Go on. Take them."

He reaches in.

She whips him across the face with them. The keys cut a gash across his forehead. He staggers backward, pressing his forearm to the cut. Pulling his arm down, he sees the blood; an astonished look crosses his face. The second time now that he really looks spooked.

"You cut me," he says.

"Yup. You wanna get grabby again? Unclench those fists, buddy boy, and get to talking. Because if you don't tell me what the hell is going on, I will cut your fucking throat with these keys and stuff the rabbit's foot up your asshole for good luck."