Lena waited for us outside of the station. “The politicians aren’t wasting any time. Senator Keeler gave a speech a half hour ago, calling for tighter regulation of inhumans and magic-users.”

“Of course he did,” I said wearily.

“He also wants increased border security, and an extension of the zero-immigration policy on inhumans. He said Homeland Security would be investigating the possibility that these attacks were orchestrated by America’s enemies.”

Lena had rented a green Chevy Cavalier while Nidhi and I were inside with the other witnesses. I climbed into the back seat and called Helen DeYoung’s cellphone. “Helen? It’s Isaac.”

“You all right, Isaac? You sound—”

“Drunk, I know. It’s a glitch in the phone implant. Have you and Jeff heard what happened in Lansing?”

Helen and Jeff used to live in Tamarack, one town over from Copper River. They’d abandoned their house and retreated into the wild after Governor Sullivan signed the order condemning the old mining town. Nothing remained now but empty roads and bulldozed lots.

In some ways, the move had done them good. Helen said they were in better physical shape these days, and their diets had improved. So had their sex lives, which they both insisted on chatting about in impressive detail. Werewolves were notoriously open about sex. They could talk about their escapades like a Red Wings fan going on about game six of the 2008 Stanley Cup Finals. But at this point, I think they talked about it mostly to make me squirm.

Their pack tried to stay within range of the cell towers, and Jeff insisted on running into town for his weekly beer runs, but they weren’t always in touch with world events.

“We got a call earlier tonight. What the hell happened down there?”

I filled them in while Lena maneuvered through the blocked-off streets of downtown Lansing, crawling toward 496. “Do you or Jeff know a fellow named Sandy Boyle? Stroudus werewolf. I’m told he was involved with trafficking inhumans.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Hold on.” Her voice went muffled. “Jeff? You know anyone named Sandy Boyle?”

“Who’s asking?” Jeff yelled. “If it’s that pug-faced asshole from the collection agency, tell him I’m not ratting anyone out. They think they can harass us about back taxes on property they stole—”

“Calm your fur before you give yourself another heart attack. It’s Isaac.”

I heard Jeff snatch the phone from his wife. “Isaac! Is this about that mess in Lansing?”

“Yah. We don’t know much about who was behind it, but at least two of them were werewolves.”