Adam started fidgeting within sixty seconds of getting to the police station. I don’t blame him. Bruyn’s big “news” was that the results from the lab were finally in and the bullet that killed Claire hadn’t been fired from the same gun as the one that killed Ginny and Brandi.

That would have been far more useful to know a day ago. Now it only confirmed Paula’s story, though I guess it also meant Alastair hadn’t killed Claire using the same gun. Right now, though, the case wasn’t at the top of my priority list.

I did, however, want those crime-scene photos. Bruyn wanted an update first. I gave him some tidbits that would in no way implicate Paula. He seemed satisfied with that, and we were about to leave when his mother came in.

“I just got a call, sir. Bob Thorne is reporting a truck parked over by the sawmill since last night and he—”

“I’ll look into it as soon as I’m done this meeting,” Bruyn said, waving at us.

“There’s a reason I interrupted your meeting, dear.” She turned to us. “The vehicle Bob is reporting is a 1992 Dodge pickup, registered to Jesse Aanes from Seattle. Isn’t that the other young detective you’ve been workingwith?”

ADAM WAITED UNTIL the Jeep doors were shut before he blasted me. “Why the hell did you say we’d look into it? They were perfectly willing to send a cop to check it out—”

“When those cops returned from a call. In other words, it’s not a priority. And if we suspect anything supernatural, then we can’t let them go out there, can we?”

“You need to get—”

“First, we don’t know for sure that I’ve been poisoned. Second, there’s only a one in three chance that it’s fatal.”

“Only one in three. Well, that’s okay then.”

“I never said—”

“I don’t care if it’s one in three thousand, Savannah. I’m taking you, to the doctor.”

“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.”