Jackaby stepped up to the front of his cell, closing the distance until he was nearly nose to nose through the bars with Charlie. My employer’s expression had not changed, and he continued to scrutinize the young detective, peering into his reddened eyes and tactlessly surveying the state of the man’s hair and clothing.

“Jackaby,” I said, “it’s coming for him, too. He can hear the banshee’s wail. Whoever—whatever that monster is, it’s coming for all of us.”

He ignored me, finally ceasing his examination to fix Charlie with an aggressive stare. “Are you in control?” he asked in a hushed but forceful whisper.

Charlie looked momentarily confused by the question. “I won’t allow my emotions to get in the way of my duty, if that’s what you mean, sir,” he said. “I can face death.”

“That is not what I mean. I mean, are you in control?” Jackaby repeated the phrase with intensity. Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the officer in the desk behind him.

“You know?” he whispered in alarm, then shook his head and laughed softly at himself. “Of course you know. Yes, Detective. I am always in control, I assure you.”

“Don’t go getting any big ideas, Cane. I’m still running this show,” barked a rough voice from behind Charlie.

He spun to face Marlowe, who had entered from the hallway. The clanking handcuffs still hung from his belt, but it seemed that when he wanted to, the chief inspector could tread remarkably quietly for a man of his stature.

“You’re coming with me. Back to the Emerald Arch. Now.”

The inspector did not slow his pace to wait for Charlie to keep up, but continued straight on through the entryway, jamming his navy blue uniform cap onto his head as he moved.

Charlie gave us one last pitiful glance, and then drew himself up, jogging after Marlowe and out the door. I turned to Jackaby. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about?”

“No. I don’t think I will. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you apprised of anything urgent.”

I slumped back on the bench, lacking even the energy to argue. “Not that it matters. All three of us will be dead by morning.”

“I’m afraid it may be even worse than that,” Jackaby said flatly.

“Worse than death?”

“Worse than the three of us. Or didn’t you notice? No doubt he hurried out to avoid our taking notice, but the chief inspector’s eyes were as puffy as yours. He’s been crying.”

“Then—Marlowe hears it, too?” I said. “But that’s terrible! He and Charlie are both running straight back to the scene.”