I go through the same process getting out of the storage facility as in, and once the door opens and I step outside into the dry, too-warm air, I can feel the city’s magic again. That place is shut up so tight I can’t get anything from the outside. Not the magic, not the temperature, not even a single bar on my phone.

My phone. My phone can get me on the internet. The internet has information. Information like old telephone exchanges. I used to have no need for computers and cell phones. If somebody wanted to get hold of me, I had an answering service. But now I don’t see how I lived without them.

My exhaustion is gone, but adrenaline’s only going to last me so long. I pop another Adderall to pick me up, and a Vicodin to smooth things out. That should keep me going a few more hours.

I get in the car and start typing on a tiny keyboard. Now that I know what I’m looking for, it goes pretty quickly. Fifteen minutes of tracking down exchanges, area codes, and phone numbers, and I piece it together. That old exchange was in Downtown L.A. Once I have that it’s easy to narrow down.

It’s too much to hope that whoever had that number fifty years ago has the same number now. But it’s the only lead I have. I dial the number. It rings a few times then picks up with the long beep of an answering machine.

“Hi,” I say. “I found this number in a safe in Sherman Oaks. I don’t know if you know anything about it. But I need to get what was supposed to be in there. It’s a thing called a spirit bottle. And if you’re the right person then you know what I’m talking about. Call me at this number if you are. It’s really important.” I should be doing this on one of my burner phones, but I don’t have one with me.

I sit there staring at my phone, willing it to ring, but then I remember that it’s after eleven. Sane people aren’t crazy about getting late night phone calls from strangers.

And then the phone rings. At first I’m not sure I want to answer. All I wanted was a goddamn bottle to stick a god into, not this weird cloak-and-dagger shit.

But I’ve gone this far, I might as well see it through. As a great man once said, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

“Hello?”

Silence, then, “Robert? No, you can’t be Robert.” A woman’s voice, gravelly from age, maybe too many cigarettes. There’s surprise in there, maybe even shock.

“Eric,” I say. “Eric Carter. I found—”