“Weapons. ID. Anything to indicate who he might really be.”

“And again,” Nat said with a smirk, “you’d be familiar with the cops.”

“Bite me. But also, yes.” Patrick straightened up, a wallet in his hand. He rifled through it. “Not highway patrol, from the looks of things.”

I stepped past Patrick and touched the unconscious man’s face. “Human.”

Patrick frowned. “Really? Can you tell?”

“Remember what Sheldon said? Their skin should feel different. I’ve no idea exactly how, though.”

“Huh,” Patrick grunted. Then he waved the wallet. “This is total bullshit, even at a quick glance. I’ll take a picture of the guy’s ID, but it’s a safe bet it’ll lead nowhere, even if we get the real cops involved.”

“Should we interrogate him?” I asked, gesturing to the unconscious driver.

“Do you know how to do that? Because I don’t,” Patrick replied. He fished around a little more and came up with the car fob. Grinning, he tossed it into the bushes. “Just because.”

The pizza—a large Super Supreme—was a fading memory, represented only by a few stray pieces of topping still on the tray. We all sat back, slumped in the cheap Naugahyde booth seats, waiting for our food to digest to the point where we could again bend at the waist. Even Nat had dug in with enthusiasm, actually doing rock-paper-scissors with Patrick for the last piece.

I put my hand on my stomach, suppressed an incipient belch, and said, “So, can we talk about our latest adventure? Any thoughts?”

“I just figured the Loranna were on to us,” Patrick replied. “I can’t think of anyone else we’ve pissed off lately.”

“Sure, but why send a single human operative in a poor man’s version of the cops?” Nat said. “Even if the Lorannic presence is small, they should have the resources to hire, I dunno, mercenaries or something.”

I thought for a moment, then subvocalized, “Sheldon, any indication that the Loranna are mobilizing against us? Any other activity at the barn?”

“No, Jack,” Sheldon replied in our cling-ons. “No one has gone to the office at all. It is, after all, a weekend. Perhaps the Loranna only work weekdays.”

“What if the fake cop thing wasn’t set up by the Loranna?” Nat asked.

Patrick gave her a quizzical look. “Okay. Who, then?”

“I’m thinking Phil Ross.”

Patrick and I both laughed out loud.

“C’mon,” Patrick said. “He’s a kook. Even if he’s mad enough at us to want to do something like that, where would he get the contacts? Or the money?”