“Wh-What do you think you’re doing?” Francis stuttered, pale under his nasty stubble.

I smiled. “I’m taking your run to interview Kalamack. You just volunteered to drive.”

He stiffened, a hint of backbone showing. “You can just Turn yourself,” he said, his eyes on Jenks and the potion. “Like you’d dip into black magic and make something fatal. I’m tagging you right now.”

Jenks made a disgusted sound and tilted the vial. “Not yet, Jenks!” I shouted, lunging across the seat. Nearly in Francis’s lap, I snaked my right arm around the scrawny man’s windpipe, gripping the headrest to pin him to the seat in a headlock. His fingers clutched at my arm but he couldn’t do anything in the close confines. His sudden sweat mixed with the scrape of his polyester jacket against my arm, and I thought it more vile than my perfume. “Idiot!” I hissed into Francis’s ear, glancing up at Jenks. “Do you know what that is, dangling above your crotch? You want to chance that it might be irreversible?”

Red-faced, he shook his head, and I eased myself closer despite the gearshift jabbing my hip. “You wouldn’t make anything fatal,” he said, his voice higher than usual.

From the visor, Jenks complained, “Aw, Rache. Let me spell him. I can coach you on how to drive a stick.”

The fingers digging into my arm jerked. I tensed, using the pain as impetus to pin him to the seat all the tighter. “Bug!” Francis exclaimed. “You’re a—” His words choked off with a rasp as I jerked my arm.

“Bug?” Jenks shouted, incensed. “You sack of sweat stink. I’ve got farts that smell sweeter than you. Think you’re better than me? Poop ice cream cones, do you? Call me a bug! Rachel, let me do him now!”

“No,” I said softly, my dislike for Francis dipping into real aversion. “I’m sure Francis and I can come to an understanding. All I want is a ride out to Trent’s estate and that interview. Francis won’t get into trouble. He’s a victim, right?” I smiled grimly at Jenks, wondering if I could keep him from dosing Francis after such an insult. “And you aren’t going to nack him afterward. Hear me, Jenks? You don’t kill the donkey after he plows the field. You might need him next spring.” I leaned into Francis, breathing into his ear. “Right, cookie?”

He nodded as much as he could, and I slowly let him go. His eyes were on Jenks.

“You squish my associate,” I said, “and that vial will spill on you. You drive too fast, the vial will spill. If you attract attention—”

“I’ll dump it all over you,” Jenks interrupted, the light playfulness in his voice replaced with a hot anger. “You tick me off again, I’ll spell you good.” He laughed, sounding like evil wind chimes. “Got it, Francine?”

Francis’s eyes squinted. He resettled himself in his seat, touching the collar of his white shirt before he pushed the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows and took the wheel. I thanked God that Francis had left his Hawaiian shirts at home in deference to his interview with Trent Kalamack.