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inside him until it could be Banished at the Church. Squatting in pig blood next to an evil piece of shit—and Lauren, too—was bad enough without having to summon her psychopomp and take care of it herself.
    Lazy, sure, but then given the type of investigation this was, the Church would probably want to get a look at the thing themselves anyway.
    She had to move him to get into his pockets; he shrieked when she did. His right arm flailed, narrowly missed her face.
    Lauren grabbed it and slammed it to the ground, eliciting another shriek, while Chess opened the slimy wallet.
    E RIK V ANHELM said the driver’s license. Below that was an address in Cross Town. Erik was awfully far from home—if he actually lived at that address—but then he would be. Nobody would try to pull shit like this in one of the decent parts of town, where the Black Squad actually patrolled and the neighbors actually cared.
    She pulled out her notebook and scribbled the information down. Never hurt to keep your own notes, especially not when working with the Squad. Or with anyone, for that matter. One of the reasons Chess chose Debunking was so she could work alone.
    Lauren held her hand out for the wallet; Chess slapped it into her palm, aware again that they were being watched. Aware too that she had to get home. He was going to show up, she knew it. If she was right about Bump owning something near here, which she had to be … yeah. Arriving with a member of the Black Squad and poking around was not going to win her any points in the Bump’s-best-pal contest.
    Would he talk to her when he came to get her?
    She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. She was sure she wouldn’t have a choice.

Chapter Six
Be aware that when you work for the Church you belong to the Church, body and soul. You cannot serve two masters.
— Careers in the Church: A Guide for Teens , by Praxis Turpin
    Pace, pace, pace. Her body still buzzed, woozy from speed; she desperately wanted to take something to come down but didn’t dare. Couldn’t fall asleep. Needed to be sharp when he got there.
    Lit another cigarette. It made her queasy on top of everything else, but what was she supposed to do? She’d rushed through her second shower of the night, dried her hair, put on makeup and a red top she knew he liked, even as the little voice in her head told her there was no point. She took another couple of Cepts to drown it out and kept pacing.
    Tried to read; the words swam on the page. Tried to watch TV; the people wandered around, saying and doing insipid things—well, that wasn’t just nerves and drugs, that was TV no matter what—until she wanted to throw her knife through the screen. She’d snapped it off and the silence blasted her from her chair. None of her CDs sounded right, were what she wanted to hear. She finally shoved in Radio Birdman just to fill the apartment with sound. Just so her misery had some company.
    Where was he? It was after three. Surely he hadn’t just … forgotten about her? Did he hate her so much he didn’t even care what she’d been doing there?
    Maybe he didn’t need to know. Maybe he was just going to kill her. She glanced at the stained-glass window that made up one wall of her apartment. Her building had been a Catholic church once, back before Haunted Week and the rise of the Church of Truth. Most churches had been razed during that week when the dead walked the earth and took millions of souls with them—and in its aftermath—but the Church had decided her building had some historical significance and was aesthetically pleasing, so it had been allowed to stand.
    There were buildings across the street. Their windows looked into hers. Was he over there with a gun? Just waiting to—
    From the street came the low rumble of a car. Of one particular car. Her heart stopped; she ran to the window, looked down in time to see Terrible walk up the steps.
    One last pat of her dyed-black Bettie Page hair; one last slick of lipstick over