Be sure.
"He and his friends are doing rituals of separation. They've learned how to split the light from the meat. Completely. This isn't astral projection; they are separating soul from body. I think he was trying to get back to his body; I think that was the whole point of their ritual."
"Why? What was the point?"
"To prove his worthiness, to prove that he was ready to join their inner circle." To prove he could survive the experience.
Some of the sly amusement dropped away from Pender's face. "They're organized?"
"It didn't happen spontaneously."
"You seem to know a lot about this sort of ritual."
"He possessed the old man, bent him to his Will."
Violet dots swam in his irises as he waited for me to give him more information. "And?"
"It's an abomination. It kills the body and the spirit. Our journey to enlightenment isn't a path that requires innocents to suffer. That's not knowledge." He was Watching me now, gauging my unconscious reaction. I gave him little to read, just verbal propaganda drawn from a few thousand years of Roman Catholic history and an expression full of shock and horror.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Is that part of your religious upbringing, Mr. Markham, or are you trying to impress upon me the depth of your compassion?"
"My compassion."
"Ah," he nodded, and I managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, of course." He touched the corner of his mouth as if to stop the twitch. "And, when you had your talk with this transgressor, were you going to ask him to vacate the old man's body?"
"It was too late for Mr. Summers. I was trying to stop him from possessing another body. The woman in the Acura. Your detective. The driver of the car that. ."
Pender's gaze fell toward the closed folder. One of the pages inside had to be the field report from the police on the scene. His fingers moved idly on the cover, tracing some mental pattern in his head. "A Cadillac," he offered. "The car that hit you was a Cadillac SRX. He was controlling the driver's body?"
"Yes."
"And you think his possession has killed this person as well?" His interest seemed piqued, as if I had finally offered enough information that he couldn't dismiss the possibility that I was the smaller problem here. Now there was something larger to deal with than just an adept performing an Act of Will in public.
"Even if he just possessed her long enough to return to his real body-wherever it had been taken-she'll be severely touched. And she'll know who they are." I nodded. "Yeah, if Doug doesn't burn her out, they'll kill her."
"Do you know who they are?"
"No, just the one guy. Douglas Rassmussen. Son of Frederick and Amber." I spelled the last name for him. "I don't know who his friends are."
Something passed through his eyes, something he hid almost as instantly as it flared. I was left with a momentary spasm in my gut as if the ground had unexpectedly rippled beneath me. The name meant something to him.
"Well," he said, standing up. "I'll look into it." He held up the folder. "I'll check the databases."
"What about me?"
"I haven't decided, Mr. Markham. You're a wild card and I'm not sure I should let you run free in this city."
"My business is almost finished," I said. "There would be no reason for me to stay here after I was done."
"You never did tell me what your business here was."
"Looking for an old friend," I said. "A woman."
His tongue touched the edge of his lip, almost mocking me. "She break your heart?"
"Sort of."
"Financial dispute?"
"No."
"Pity. Financial disagreements rarely end in bloodshed. Just lawyers." He shook his head as he walked to the door. "Matters involving heartbreak. .?" He punched in a code on the door's security lock. As he opened the door, he left me with a parting observation. "They always seem to produce collateral damage."
V
It was hard to say what Pender believed and what he already knew. A Watcher trait: you could never really be sure they didn't know more than you, even when they seemed to be clueless. Some of the lieutenant's reactions seemed too forced, too naive, to be true; while at other times he appeared genuinely puzzled.
I couldn't decide which was better.
After he left, I considered my dearth of options. Regardless of what Pender did with the information about Doug, he knew who I was and, eventually, a report containing my name would be filed with the head office in Paris. After that, it was just a matter of time before the wrong person realized the record of my death was a premature one.
He'll come. It wasn't like Antoine to leave matters unresolved. He'd want to finish our business. The wound had long been healed but, for a second, the skin on my stomach tightened. The invasive memory of cold steel. He'll need to finish it, and not just for Watcher honor.
Was there enough time to find Kat? Doug's trail was about to become a clusterfuck of police interest. I wouldn't be able to get anywhere near him without Pender's knowledge. I needed another approach.
I was still rolling that conundrum over in my mind when the door clicked. A pair of uniforms looked in. "Mr. Markham," one of them said. "Please come with us."
I did so dutifully-up two elevators, and through a number of long windowless hallways. A pair of thick doors disgorged me into a receiving area, and I discovered we were above ground. At a caged window, I signed for my personal effects; then, plastic bag and coat in hand, I was led through a security station, and found myself in the lobby of Seattle Police Headquarters. My uniformed guide nodded at my uncertainty, and pointed toward the door. "Have a nice day," he said.
Through the tall windows fronting the building, I saw Pender waiting on the front steps, wearing a full-length wool coat against the wind and Seattle damp. Hands clasped behind his back, head tilted up as if he had just stepped outside to check the weather.
I sorted through the plastic bag for my belt and shoelaces. After threading them through their respective places, I slipped on my coat and dumped the remaining items into my jacket pockets. The wind teased at me as I exited the building, like a coy lover blowing through the hole in my shirt. I tugged at the lapels-the coat fell awkwardly across my shoulders and back. It had seen better days. I had seen better days.
"Patientia beneficium qui exspecto," Pender said to me by way of greeting.
I hesitated, and then inclined my head a fraction. "So I've heard." It was an old society saying: those who watch reap the rewards of patience.
"I should leave you in custody, Mr. Markham." His eyes tracked the cars on the road, registering and cataloguing. "Drop you in a hole; forget about you for a few days." The echo in his voice said it all. A few days. He finally looked at me. A grim smile flattened his lips. "But what would I learn from watching you in a small box?"
"My sleeping habits," I said.
"Exactly, and I don't really care much about them. I'm more interested in what you do when you're awake, when you are on the prowl." He looked at the street again. "Besides, how far do you think you can run?"
"Far enough," I said.
He nodded at that. "Probably. But that wouldn't solve your local problem now, would it?"
"No."
His voice dropped to a feigned stage whisper. "So what's to be gained by running?"
He had a point. One that had been nagging at me while I was in the room. If I bolted and went to ground, I could probably disappear. I had done it once before.
But she's here, the Chorus reminded me, tugging at my groin, lighting up my lower vertebrae. I was close. Close enough that I could find her in a day or two. If I got lucky. If Pender watched, and didn't act. If he waited to call Paris. If. .