So I did, which wasn’t much, but Jack Schitt’s presence clearly implicated Goliath, which she didn’t like the sound of. Few people did. Tangling with the Goliath Corporation generally left you in one of two places: inside a wooden box with a grieving family outside or inside a wooden box under six feet of soil with family wondering where you were. The former was if they didn’t hold a grudge. I’d probably be the latter.

“Ready for the Goliath rep?” asked Duffy as soon as Phoebe had left.

My cell phone rang. It was Millon.

“Give me two minutes,” I said to Duffy. “Millon?”

“I’m outside the hotel,” he said, “and you were right. The Goliath cleanup squad has just left. Took everything in the back of a van.”

Millon had tracked Krantz down to the seedy Substation Hotel at three that morning. He’d found Krantz facedown on the floor of Room 27, stone dead and looking pretty dreadful, even for a corpse at the Substation. A quick examination confirmed what Landen had thought—the corpse wasn’t Krantz but his Day Player. Next to him was an empty Tupperware sarcophagus and no sign of any others. He had come here, activated a new Day Player, waited until he was transferred, then left. The room left few clues. We still had no idea what he was doing. But we did know that Krantz had another couple days of life left in him and would be stronger, smarter and fitter. He would be harder to find, too, and, when found, harder to tackle. Still, at least we didn’t have to worry about reporting any of this to the authorities. The Goliath cleaners would have removed all trace of Krantz and, since they were experts, left intact the crusty mat of human hair, spilled beer and dried body fluids that the Substation impudently referred to as “carpet.”

I thanked Millon, told him to keep looking for the New Krantz and rang off.

I turned back to Duffy. “Listen, this may sound seriously weird, but I might turn up and not be myself one day, and if that happens, I need you to call my husband on this number and tell him that his wife isn’t who she thinks she is.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“It’s not seriously weird, it’s obscenely weird. How can you not be you, and how am I supposed to know anyway?”

“Easily. See this tattoo? It’s to remind ourselves that Jenny is a mindworm. Not mine, of course, but my husband’s. I’ll explain about Aornis one day, and if you’re wondering why I have the tattoo on my hand and not Landen’s, I meant to find out this morning but forgot to drop in to Image Ink—again.”

Duffy stared at me, single eyebrow raised. “What tattoo?”

“This one—”

But he was right. I didn’t have one. Damn. Replaced again.