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"Yes, right after we stop at the sawmill, which is on the way out of town, Adam. I'm not being reckless. If Dr. Lee said I was in serious danger, we'd be halfway to Portland by now. If you want, you can drop me off at the motel and I'll ride to the clinic while you check up on Jesse."
"I'm not sending you off on your motorcycle if you're sick."
"Then we're stopping at the sawmill unless you can give me one valid reason why Jesse would be parked in that neighborhood all night." I met his gaze. "Michael Kennedy almost certainly got killed because of a lead I sent him on. Are you honestly asking me to leave, knowingJesse could be in trouble?"
The anger
fell from his voice. "No. I'm just ..." He looked at me. "I'm worried about you, Savannah. First a killer targeting investigators. Then a killer targeting witches. Now you're almost certainly poisoned, and I'm worried."
"I know. And I appreciate it."
He blinked then, like he'd expected me to come back with a smart-ass rejoinder. When I didn't, he didn't seem to know how to answer, just took out his keys, jiggled them for a second, then said, gruffly, "A quick check. Very quick," and started the Jeep.
WE FOUND JESSE'S truck a quarter-mile from the sawmill gates. We parked behind it. I tried his cell one last time--I'd been calling it since before we said good-bye to Bruyn--and got his voice mail again.
As Adam got out of the Jeep, I tested a light-ball spell. It took two tries, but if I concentrated it would work. When I tried moving on to a fireball, Adam opened the passenger door.
"I'm just--" I began.
"Fretting about your spells."
"I'm not fretting. I'm heading into a potentially dangerous situation. Just give me a minute--"
He hauled me out. "You're quite capable of taking care of yourself, spells or no spells, Savannah."
I wish I could agree. With my spells failing, I felt like a knight walking around in his long underwear. I reminded myself that I wasn't completely naked. I just needed to conserve spell power, which meant letting Adam bring a flashlight and lock picks.
The sawmill was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall barbwire-topped fence, plastered with Keep Out signs and security company warnings. That would have been a lot more impressive if those signs didn't appear to have been printed on a home computer. They were barely leg ible, the laminate weather-beaten and cracked.
All I could make out was the company: R. G. Ballard out of Columbus. There was certainly no sign of a patrolling guard. The entrance into the parking lot was locked, but the gates didn't close properly and we easily slipped through the gap.
The sawmill was short and sprawling, with a few small outbuildings. A lot of square footage to cover. Adam looked from building to building, scowl deepening.
"We'll start at the midpoint, behind the sawmill," I said. "I'll cast my sensing spell." I stopped. "Shit."
"It might not have done much good anyway," he said, and I didn't know if he meant there was just too much space here ... or that my spell only applied to the living.
As we rounded the corner, we saw an old sedan pulled up near a back door to the sawmill. Someone had slapped a magnetic sign on the door. R. G. Ballard Security.
"Seems we have security after all," Adam said. "No need to worry, then. We can get back in the Jeep ..." He caught my look and sighed.
"Cut it out, okay?" I said. "A security car doesn't mean a security guard. The owner probably stuck that magnet on a clunker, and parked it here to make it look like the place was guarded."
"Easy enough to check." Adam took out his cell. He dialed the number on the magnet, frowned, then swore. "No signal."
"Seriously?" I tried mine. Same thing. "It worked out by the road. I'll run back and--"
He caught my arm. "Let's just get this over with."
THE RECEIVING DOORS were open. We stepped into a big room with an old metal desk and a whiteboard covered with the ghosts of words and numbers. A pair of work boots sat forlornly in one corner, one tipped over and filled with shredded paper and baby mice.
The next door opened into a hall dotted with security lights and papered with yellowed motivational posters. Beside one someone had written in black marker: "You know what really motivates workers? A fucking job."
Most of the posters had been defaced. Parting words from the employees. If I had to face rainbow posters exhorting me to have a positive attitude, I'd add my own commentary, too. And I wouldn't wait until after I was laid off.
Most of the office doors were closed, empty nameplates on each. The last one, though, stood partly open, light seeping into the hall. When I headed toward it, Adam passed me. I grabbed his arm. We faced off, but only for a moment. He wasn't happy to be here, meaning he was spoiling for a fight. Best not to give him one. I let him go.
He cleared his throat loudly as he approached the door. The sound echoed through the empty hall. He slowed, listening for any sounds of movement. Nothing. He pushed open the door and looked inside. I trailed him.
