She made the hundred miles to Pine Cove in just over an hour and a half. Effrom would be in his workshop now, working on his wood carvings and smoking cigarettes. She wasn’t supposed to know about the cigarettes any more than she was supposed to know that Effrom spent every morning watching the women’s exercise show. Men have to have their secret lives and forbidden pleasures, real or perceived. Cookies snitched from the jar are always sweeter than those served on a plate, and nothing evokes the prurient like puritanism. Amanda played her role for Effrom, staying on his tail, keeping him alert to the possibility of discovery, but never quite catching him in the act.

Today she would pull in the driveway and rev the engine, take a long time getting into the house to make sure that Effrom heard her coming so he could take a shot of breath spray to cover the smell of tobacco on his breath. Didn’t it occur to the old fart that she was the one who bought the breath spray and brought it home with the groceries each week? Silly old man.

When Amanda entered the house, she noticed an acrid, burnt smell in the air. She had never smelled cordite, so she assumed that Effrom had been cooking. She went to the kitchen expecting to see the ruined remains of one of her frying pans, but the kitchen, except for a few cracker crumbs on the counter, was clean. Maybe the smell was coming from the workshop.

Amanda usually avoided going near Effrom’s workshop when he was working, mainly to avoid the sound of the high-speed drills he used for carving, which reminded her of the unpleasantness of the dentist’s office. Today there was no sound coming from the workshop.

She knocked on the door, gently, so as not to startle him. “Effrom, I’m home.” He had to be able to hear her. A chill ran through her. She had imagined finding Effrom cold and stiff a thousand times, but always she was able to push the thought out of her mind.

“Effrom, open this door!” She had never entered the workshop. Except for a few toys that Effrom dragged out at Christmastime to donate to local charities, Amanda never even saw any of the carvings he produced. The workshop was Effrom’s sacred domain.

Amanda paused, her hand on the doorknob. Maybe she should call someone. Maybe she should call her granddaughter, Jennifer, and have her come over. If Effrom were dead she didn’t want to face it alone. But what if he was just hurt, lying there on the floor waiting for help. She opened the door. Effrom was not there. She breathed a sigh of relief, then her anxiety returned. Where was he?

The workshop’s shelves were filled with carved wooden figures, some only a few inches high, some several feet long. Every one of them was a figure of a nude woman. Hundreds of nude women. She studied each figure, fascinated with this new aspect of her husband’s secret life. The figures were running, reclining, crouching, and dancing. Except for a few figures on the workbench that were still in the rough stage, each of the carvings was polished and oiled and incredibly detailed. And they all had something in common: they were studies of Amanda.

Most were of her when she was younger, but they were unmistakably her. Amanda standing, Amanda reclining, Amanda dancing, as if Effrom were trying to preserve her. She felt a scream rising in her chest and tears filling her eyes. She turned away from the carvings and left the workshop. “Effrom! Where are you, you old fart?”

She went from room to room, looking in every corner and closet; no Effrom. Effrom didn’t go for walks. And even if he’d had a car, he didn’t drive anymore. If he had gone somewhere with a friend, he would have left a note. Besides, all his friends were dead: the Pine Cove Poker Club had lost its members, one by one, until solitaire was the only game in town.

She went to the kitchen and stood by the phone. Call who? The police? The hospital? What would they say when she told them she had been home almost five minutes and couldn’t find her husband? They would tell her to wait. They wouldn’t understand that Effrom had to be here. He couldn’t be anywhere else.

She would call her granddaughter. Jenny would know what to do. She would understand.

Amanda took a deep breath and dialed the number. A machine answered the phone. She stood there waiting for the beep. When it came, she tried to keep her voice controlled, “Jenny, honey, this is Grandma, call me. I can’t find your grandfather.” Then she hung up and began sobbing.

The phone rang and Amanda jumped back. She picked it up before the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Oh, good, you’re home.” It was a woman’s voice. “Mrs. Elliot, you’ve probably seen the bullet hole in your bedroom door. Don’t be frightened. If you listen carefully and follow my instructions, everything will be fine.”

26

TRAVIS’S STORY

Augustus Brine sat in one of the big leather chairs in front of his fireplace, drinking red wine from a balloon goblet and puffing away on his meerschaum. He had promised himself that he would have only one glass of wine, just to take the edge off the adrenaline and caffeine jangle he had worked himself into during the kidnapping. Now he was on his third glass and the wine had infused him with a warm, oozy feeling; he let his mind drift in a dreamy vertigo before attacking the task at hand: interrogating the demonkeeper.

The fellow looked harmless enough, propped up and tied to the other wing chair. But if Gian Hen Gian was to be believed, this dark young man was the most dangerous human on Earth.

Brine considered washing up before waking the demonkeeper. He had caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror — his beard and clothing covered with flour and soot, his skin caked with sweat-streaked goo — and decided that he would make a more intimidating impression in his current condition. He had found the smelling salts in the medicine cabinet and sent Gian Hen Gian to the bathroom to bathe while he rested. Actually he wanted the Djinn out of the room while he questioned the demonkeeper. The Djinn’s curses and ravings would only complicate an already difficult task.

Brine set his wineglass and his pipe on the end table and picked up a cotton-wrapped smelling-salt capsule. He leaned over to the demonkeeper and snapped the capsule under his nose. For a moment nothing happened, and Brine feared that he had hit him too hard, then the demonkeeper started coughing, looked at Brine, and screamed.

“Calm down — you’re all right,” Brine said.

“Catch, help me!” The demonkeeper struggled against his bonds. Brine picked up his pipe and lit it, affecting a bored nonchalance. After a moment the demonkeeper settled down.

Brine blew a thin stream of smoke into the air between them. “Catch isn’t here. You’re on your own.”

Travis seemed to forget that he had been beaten, kidnapped, and tied up. His concentration was focused on Brine’s last statement. “What do you mean, Catch isn’t here? You know about Catch?”

Brine considered giving him the I’m-asking-the-questions-here line that he had heard so many times in detective movies, but upon reflection, it seemed silly. He wasn’t a hardass; why play the role? “Yes, I know about the demon. I know that he eats people, and I know you are his master.”

“How do you know all that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brine said. “I also know that you’ve lost control of Catch.”

“I have?” Travis seemed genuinely shaken by this. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you can’t keep me here. If Catch is out of control again, I’m the only one that can stop him. I’m really close to ending all this; you can’t stop me now.”

“Why should you care?”

“What do you mean, why should I care? You might know about Catch, but you can’t imagine what he’s like when he’s out of control.”

“What I mean,” Brine said, “is why should you care about the damage he causes? You called him up, didn’t you? You send him out to kill, don’t you?”