Amanda had Effrom almost to the door when she heard Travis’s name. “Is he still alive?” she asked.

“For a while,” Catch said.

“Who is this Travis?” Rachel asked. She was supposed to be the one in charge here, yet the old woman and the demon seemed to know more about what was going on than she did.

“They can’t go,” Catch said.

“Why? We have the invocation; we just need to get it translated. Let them go.”

“No,” Catch said. “If they warn Travis, he will find a way to protect the girl.”

“What girl?” Rachel felt as if she had walked into the middle of a plot-heavy mystery movie and no one was going to tell her what was happening.

“We have to get the girl and hold her hostage until Travis translates the invocation.”

“What girl?” Rachel repeated.

“A waitress at the cafe in town. Her name is Jenny.”

“Jenny Masterson? She’s a member of the coven. What does she have to do with this?”

“Travis loves her.”

“Who is Travis?”

There was a pause. Rachel, Amanda, and Effrom all stared at empty air waiting for the answer.

“He is my master,” Catch said.

“This is really weird,” Rachel said.

“You’re a little slow on the uptake, aren’t you, honey?” Effrom said.

29

RIVERA

Right in the middle of the interrogation Detective Sergeant Alphonse Rivera had a vision. He saw himself behind the counter at Seven-Eleven, bagging microwave burritos and pumping Slush-Puppies. It was obvious that the suspect, Robert Masterson, was telling the truth. What was worse was that he not only didn’t have any connection with the marijuana Rivera’s men had found in the trailer, but he didn’t have the slightest idea where The Breeze had gone.

The deputy district attorney, an officious little weasel who was only putting time in at the D.A.’s office until his fangs were sharp enough for private practice, had made the state’s position on the case clear and simple: “You’re fucked, Rivera. Cut him loose.”

Rivera was clinging to a single, micro-thin strand of hope: the second suitcase, the one that Masterson had made such a big deal about back at the trailer. It lay open on Rivera’s desk. A jumble of notebook paper, cocktail napkins, matchbook covers, old business cards, and candy wrappers stared out of the suitcase at him. On each one was written a name, an address, and a date. The dates were obviously bogus, as they went back to the 1920s. Rivera had riffled through the mess a dozen times without making any sort of connection.

Deputy Perez approached Rivera’s desk. He was doing his best to affect an attitude of sympathy, without much success. Everything he had said that morning had carried with it a sideways smirk. Twain had put it succinctly: “Never underestimate the number of people who would love to see you fail.”