From the snort you might have thought he was changing back to pigbrain again, but actually it’s a lot louder and less pleasant when it really happens. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Patience. Just let me get some slops down. I’m starving.”

“Doesn’t the . . . the other version of you eat?”

“Yeah, but not enough to keep eight hundred pounds of pork happy after I change. But I’ll be right on it in half an hour or so, man.”

It’s always strange to be talking to a pig in the middle of the night, but as swine go, Fatback is definitely one of the best. “Thanks. Call me if you get anything interesting, otherwise just send it all to my phone.”

“No problem, Mr. B. If you’re trying to find a dead guy, though, maybe you should talk to some other dead people. You know a few, right?”

“Know a few? They’re my bread and butter, Georgie. But I’ve got to get some shut-eye first. I feel like shit.”

“Count your blessings, Bobby. That’s what I sleep in.”

So the next day, when the sun was far enough up the sky that it didn’t give me a headache, I went to see the Sollyhulls.

The Sollyhull Sisters are a pair of middle-aged Englishwomen who died in a fire half a century ago—almost certainly one they’d set to get rid of their parents. Because of this, they didn’t go to Heaven, of course, but for some reason they haven’t gone to Hell, either. Still, the sisters are very nice, if a bit screwloose, so I try not to think too much about the arson part of their bio. I really needed some expert help to find out how Smyler had come back, and the Sollyhulls liked me and were always willing to chat. My world is full of folks like that—in-betweeners who don’t quite belong to one side or the other. (My piggy friend Fatback didn’t really count that way, because he hated Hell so badly for the were-pig thing that he spent all his time getting up in their shit, research-wise.)

I caught up with the sisters at the latest diner they were haunting. They preferred tearooms, but apparently San Judas was short on good ones. I took a table in the back where it wouldn’t be so obvious that I was talking to invisible people—invisible to everyone but me, that is. As always, I had brought the sisters a gift, so after the two ghost-ladies had finished telling me about the fun they’d had teasing some paranormal investigators who had started hanging around their previous diner, I lifted a small, gift-wrapped box onto the table. “Here, I brought you a little something,” I said, and took the lid off the tin.

“What is it?” Doris asked. “Oh, Bobby, you darling—pastilles! Betty, violet pastilles!”