DISCLAIMERS & CREDITS // This story is the sixth in a series, which means you'll be lost if you haven't read the first five. You may still be lost after you read them, but at least you were warned. // Most of what follows is fiction. // Everlasting thanks to my five-star beta readers—Rocky, Lyraine, D.J., Elles, and Poto—and to the Devil's Workshop list.

E-MAIL // K_Simpson@the-devils-workshop.com	

PREFACE

LIKE DEATH, TAXES, AND MARTHA STEWART, it's inevitable, but you're never ready for it. War, I mean. Especially this one.
Not even Helen of Troy caused so much damage. But at least she was Helen—not just the Hardware City girl. And at least that war had an Ajax, an Agamemnon, and a great big horse. There are no horses in Meridian. Not the front ends, anyway.
I'll tell the truth here, but I refuse to like it. Just remember the words "innocent bystander." Just this once, I had nothing to do with it.
All right, then. It all started on a perfectly ordinary day in July...

CHAPTER 1
A Perfectly Ordinary Day in July

WE'D BEEN BACK FROM NEW ORLEANS for nearly a month, nothing bad had happened, and I was starting to be deceived by the calm. Life had settled into a comfortable routine—as routine as it can get when you live with two demons and Cassie Wolfe—and the worst thing about most days was the alarm clock. The living-together thing was working out better than I'd expected, not that I'd expected much. The demons seemed to be working out too. They were remodeling the attic as living quarters for themselves—Monica at one end, Vanessa at the other—and had been too busy bothering each other to bother us.
Even work was pretty well status quo. With so many employees in and out of the loony bin lately, the agency was fairly quiet. The cause might have been the Thorazine everyone seemed to be on, but it worked for me. I was actually starting to like advertising again.
"Better watch it," Cassie told me one day. "You might be happy if you're not careful."
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"I have the right to say terrible things to you if I want to. Besides, it's true. Admit it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't feel like arguing with you right now. I'm in a good mood."
"I rest my case," she said triumphantly.
Which put me right out of the good mood...but not as far out as usual. Maybe she was right Maybe I was happy.
It lasted right up until the day Jenner finally snapped.

WE WERE IN A MEETING at the time. Jack wanted to impress the client, so he'd booked the Tank—conference room A, the best one, the one with all the windows. We hated it. For one thing, it was on the business department's floor, so we could see everything the Philistines were doing. Not even Cassie wanted to see that, and she was one of them.
But there we were in the Tank anyway. Fortunately, it was a small meeting: just Cassie, Jack, the client, and me. Also fortunately, one of the account execs outside had a TV on his desk. I'd made a point of sitting where I could see it. The meeting was mostly business, not creative, which meant I was going to be profoundly bored. And there was no harm in watching a little baseball during business hours—especially when Jenner himself was off playing golf.
We'd been meeting for twenty minutes or so when I noticed some commotion outside. Several people were crowding around the desk where the TV was, looking excited. It couldn't have been the game; the Cubs had been down 4-1 last time I'd checked. Careful not to let Cassie catch me at it, I leaned forward slightly to get a better look.
Funny—it wasn't baseball anymore, but a local news bulletin. I squinted at it a little. The video looked like camcorder footage of some kind of chase, except with really small cars and no cops. As a matter of fact, there was no street, either; the cars were running over a lawn. I squinted harder. The camera was just zooming in for a fuzzy closeup of the drivers, both men, both oddly dressed—in pastels and little hats, anyway.
Weirder and weirder. Was something going on at the clown college?
"Kerry?"
Still focused on the screen, I half-turned toward the interruption. "Jack?"
"Would you care to join us? We're having a meeting here. Totally at your convenience, of course, but we do pay you."
"Let me handle this, Jack," Cassie demanded.
I didn't like the sound of that. "Don't handle me. I was just distracted for a second. There's a TV on."
By her expression, she wasn't buying. "And...?"
But I never had to answer. Before I could come up with even a starter lie, the commotion around the TV turned to chaos; the whole third floor seemed to be crowding around it all of a sudden. My last clear view of the screen was of two tiny figures bashing each other with sticks. Then someone turned the volume up all the way.
"—other suspect was identified as Nathaniel Jenner. Both men are being questioned at this hour, pending charges. Police say—"
We couldn't hear the rest for the cheering. What didn't I get here? The boss was in trouble, and people were cheering?
A split-second later, I was racing Jack, Cassie, and the client to the TV. Cassie was way out in front.

EVENTUALLY, JACK WENT OFF to call lawyers, and we took the client back to the Tank to try to sort everything out.
"Let me make sure I'm clear," the client said again. "The head of this agency and the head of another agency tried to kill each other with golf clubs."
"It's probably not as bad as it sounds," Cassie assured him. "You know how TV reporters are. You know what they say: 'If it bleeds, it leads.' "
"They were bleeding," the client agreed.
"Yes, but I'm sure it was some kind of accident. The clubs probably got away from them."
"Golf clubs got away? That many times? By accident?"
"Well, they don't like each other very much," Cassie said desperately. "Mr. Jenner and Mr. Bennett, I mean. They might have tapped each other as a warning. Or to get each other's attention."
The client smiled a little. "That would do it. A tap with a 5 iron would get my attention. Especially on the head like that."
"Let's try to believe the accident theory for now," she said.
"That wouldn't be as much fun. So why don't they like each other?"
A long silence followed.
"I'm going to let my colleague handle that," Cassie finally told the client. "She's a better liar."
I resented that. "Not funny, Cass."
"Not a joke, Devvy."
"Can you handle it, Ms. Kerry?" the client asked. "Good liars are so hard to find these days. Never mind Enron. I mean good liars."
"You missed your calling, Mr. Cheatham," I said, unamused. "You have a real future in stand-up comedy. I'll bet if I make a few calls, I can find you just the room to work. Do you mind a few urinals?"
"I don't if you don't. Go on."
This one didn't scare. I didn't like that in a client. "Go on with what? A lie? You can't possibly want the truth."
"You got anything better?"
I started to give him something a whole lot better, but Cassie kicked the leg of my chair as hard as she could, so I gave up.
"It's like this," I told the client. "There's a girl..."

CHAPTER 2

YOU'VE GOT TO GIVE JENNER CREDIT: You couldn't hurt him by hitting him in the head with a golf club. The man had a skull like a rhino. Not much in it, mind you, but rhinos don't think much either. He was back at work the next morning as though nothing had happened.
But he wouldn't come out of his office, and his admin, Rita Sanchez, wouldn't let anyone in. Not even me.
"Oh, c'mon, Sanchez, get me five minutes. I'm your friend. I gave you a ping-pong gun once, remember?"
She brightened momentarily and opened a desk drawer.
"Don't shoot me," I warned.
"Don't be a baby. Hold still."
Impatient, I took the gun away from her. "I'm going to tell your kids on you if you don't stop that. Now, how about the five minutes?"
"Can't do it."
"It's business." I reconsidered. "Mostly."
Sanchez smiled unpleasantly.
"It is business. I swear. Jack sent me."
"Also a lie," she said.
Dammit. "Termite inspection? Candygram?"
"Give up, Dev. There's nothing to see."
"There's got to be something. Bennett went at him with a putter."
"A 5 iron."
"Whatever. Just let me in there for a minute. I want to see if he has brain damage."
Sanchez didn't answer.
"This is the part where you say, 'You mean new damage?'" I prompted. "And I say—"
The phone rang. That, she answered. While she was busy ignoring me, I tried to sneak around her desk to Jenner's door. But Sanchez was a bad, bad person; she'd scattered marbles all over the carpet, knowing no one would think to look down. I hit three pieces of furniture and a potted ficus tree before gravity finally won.
"I told you to give up," she said without a trace of pity.
So I gave up. You have to pick your battles. But I did make a note to tell her kids on her anyway.

WE ALL SAW THE OFFICIAL POLICE REPORT, because Jack slipped some cash to the right people and Kurt made a couple hundred photocopies. It was all in copspeak, of course. Still, it was a page-turner, and a lot more literate ("asslt w. dedly weaps") than the item in the Meridian Herald.

Meridian Men Come Out Swinging
At Riverpointe Club
HERALD STAFF REPORT
Two prominent Meridian business leaders were arrested Tuesday for reported assaults at the Riverpointe Club golf course.
Meridian County sheriff's deputies arrived at the scene at 2:16 p.m. in the afternoon, responding to a 911 call. Eyewitnesses told officers that two men had tried to run over each other with golf carts. When the officers arrived, the suspects had abandoned the carts in a sand trap and were using golf clubs as weapons against each other. Sgt. Randall Perdue sustained minor injuries while breaking up the alleged incident.
The two suspects, Stuart R. Bennett, 54, and Nathaniel Winslow Jenner III, 56, are both prominent in local business circles. Bennett is the president of the Ad House advertising agency, and Jenner heads up the J/J/G Advertising advertising agency. Both men sustained injuries but refused treatment at the scene.
Eyewitnesses to the incident said the two men had disagreed about something. Police are continuing to investigate.
Bennett and Jenner were released from custody after questioning, pending the results of the investigation and possible charges.	

Cassie, who'd won the fight for the Metro section that morning, threw it across the breakfast table in disgust. "Don't you have to have a license to practice journalism in this country? Or can any infinite number of monkeys put out a paper?"
"You're forgetting that I used to be a reporter," I told her.
"No, I'm not."
"You're forgetting that you love me."
"No, I'm not. You used to be one of them. You're still guilty by association. What's wrong with reporters, anyway?"
"Character defects and drinking."
"Just like advertising people?"
"Pretty much," I admitted. "But poorer."
"I still think there's something wrong with them. I mean, look at this." She snatched the paper back. " 'The two men had disagreed about something.' Disagreed? They were beating each other's brains out with golf clubs, Devvy."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"I want to know what really happened."
"You know what really happened. The same thing that always happens."
She frowned. "You don't mean...?"
"Of course I mean. The Hardware City girl."
Cassie thought it over for a minute. Then she pushed her chair back with purpose.
"Where are you going?"
"Upstairs to get the witches," she said. "If we've got to have them, we might as well get some use out of them. Maybe Monica can turn Jenner and Bennett and the bitch into bats, just like her."
I let her go. It was worth a try.

I SAID THERE WAS A GIRL. "Girl" may be too charitable; she was more like an oversexed shrew. But because she was at the bottom of the problem, you need to know something about the Hardware City girl.
Her real name, for one thing, which was Summer Showers. I'm not making that up. You can pretty much figure out what she looks like from her name, but if you can't, think Clairol. Also think glue-on eyelashes. (Cassie said they looked like dead cats.) She didn't have an IQ point to her name, but she was shrewd and ambitious and built like your basic brick house—or your basic ten-story brick office building. Therefore, she was a model.
And for the past four years, she'd been the Hardware City girl. This job consisted of posing in small costumes with big machines and sleeping with the boss. That would be Stu Bennett. His agency had the account, so he had the girl.
Trouble was, Jenner had her too. From time to time, for good measure, he also tried to get the account. But that was only fair, because Bennett did the same thing.
You need to understand how ad agencies are, though. They're all like that. If one agency has an account, every other agency tries to take it away. Even if it's a godawful account—for roach spray, say, or back waxing—it's a target. Nobody wants to write copy about back waxing, but nobody cares what copywriters want, so agencies fight like werewolves over any kind of client.
Cassie likes this part and won't apologize for it, no matter how many names I call her. After she brought in Kester Mortuaries, she told me we'd all be dead someday, and she'd make it sooner for me if I didn't just shut up and write the campaign. Sometimes I wonder why I even talk to her at work.
But I'm getting off the point, which is that Jenner and Bennett were unusually bitter rivals. No one was sure whether they were really fighting over the Hardware City account or over the Hardware City girl, but I suspected that they weren't sure themselves anymore. They'd already hated each other forever—longer than any of us had been at J/J/G, anyway—and there was no end of the hate in sight.
We'd all talked about it behind Jenner's back any number of times.
"I don't get it. The Hardware City girl? I mean, please—she's such a slut," Heather complained once.
Kurt snorted. "And you're so fifteen minutes ago. It's 'ho.' Not 'slut.' 'Ho.'"
"Or 'bitch,'" Troy said. "As in 'She be his bitch.'"
"Knock that off," I ordered.
"Dev's right. It should be 'She be his ho,'" Chip said.
"I said, knock it off. And where's Cassie, anyway? Doesn't she have some account-exec-type thing for you to do?"
"She's out seeing a client." Chip paused for effect. "By the way, she wanted me to tell you specially: It's plumbing."
"That ho," I said.
Well, never mind that. Where was I?...Right—the Hardware City girl. She was Jenner's ho, and Bennett's, and anybody's, and we scorned her. Even Kurt thought she was cheap.
But she wasn't, not literally. Summer Showers was a celebrity, sort of. She was on billboards in six counties; every gas station and frat house around had at least one of her calendars; her commercials got heavy rotation on late-night TV. It was only a matter of time before she got into Webcams. She had trophy value, and she knew it.
All of which made her trouble just looking for a place to happen.
Speaking of trouble...

THE DEMONS LISTENED FAIRLY PATIENTLY while Cassie and I told them the news. Monica looked ostentatiously bored, and Vanessa never stopped filing her claws, but they listened.
"So?" Monica asked.
"So she's a nuisance, and we hate her, and we want her gone," Cassie said. "Can you arrange that?"
I jumped in before she could answer. "She means they're all nuisances, and they should all be gone. Before somebody gets hurt."
"Somebody already did," Vanessa observed. "Not that it wasn't amusing. Can I go now? I hate golf."
"Golf's not the problem. This whole thing could get way out of hand. If we can stop it now—"
"You can't stop it," Monica said. "I could, but I don't feel like it. I don't like Jenner."
Cassie shrugged. "I don't like you, either. So what?"
Monica hissed a little but otherwise let it go at that. One thing I'd noticed about my demon was that she wasn't much good before the second coffee in the morning. We had at least that much in common.
"I'm still bored," Vanessa said. "But I'll think about it. I'll get back to you tomorrow."
That got on the wrong side of Monica. "Some of us can actually think on less than 24 hours' notice. I'll get back to them today. By 3."
"All right, today," Vanessa said. "By 2."
Monica bristled. "Noon."
"11:45!" Vanessa shouted.
We left them screaming nanoseconds at each other in the kitchen and hurried off to work, where it might be quieter.
And it was fairly quiet till just before lunch, when Stu Bennett walked in with the gun.

CHAPTER 3

NOTE: A few references in this chapter go back to The Average of Deviance.	

THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE was Kurt. A few of us were taking five in the break room between meetings when he ducked in and dived under the nearest table.
My luck being what it was, I was sitting there. He crawled all the way under, locked both hands around one of my ankles, and wouldn't let go even when I stomped him with the other foot.
"I'm going to die! I'm going to die!" he wailed.
"Good. Now let go before I get mad."
"He's got a gun! I'm going to die!"
"Of course he's got a gun. We've all got guns. Sanchez shot me this morning herself. They're just toys, remember?"
He only tightened his grip. "I'm going to die!"
For crying out loud, already. Kurt had taken a hellbrew of drugs in the mental hospital, and they tended to backfire on him sometimes. Like now. So I stomped him harder. There was no point humoring him.
But then we heard the screaming down the hall, and all conversation stopped. Screaming was normal at J/J/G, but usually not at this pitch.
Without thinking much about it, I jumped up and made for the door. Cassie was in the building somewhere; she had a knack for being where she shouldn't, so if there was danger, she'd probably be in it. If she gets herself killed, I thought, I'm going to kill her.
"Hey, Dev, aren't you forgetting something?" someone asked.
Forgetting what? What could there be to...oh. Right. That. "Goddammit, Kurt, let go."
"I can't," he whimpered. "I want to live."
For a man who wanted to live, he lived dangerously. Viciously, I tried to scrape him off against a vending machine. No luck, but at least it broke the tension in the break room. A few people were even laughing. "Somebody turn him over and rub his stomach," a girl in the back said. "I heard it works on alligators."
"I'm not touching that," someone else answered.
Not if I could help it, either. I was considering having Kurt surgically removed when Cassie stuck her head in. "There you are. What are you doing?"
"Looking for you. Trying to, anyway." Again, I tried to scrape Kurt off. Still no luck. "Look, Cass. I brought you a human sacrifice."
She narrowed her eyes at him—and he let go.
"How did you do that?" I asked, honestly impressed.
"Never mind. We've got to get out of here. They're evacuating the building."
"Why? Did Jenner take up golf again?"
Cassie grabbed me and started shoving me toward the door. "We'll talk on the way. We've got to go."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
She was. She didn't say another word till we got to the lobby. But by that time, she didn't have to. I hadn't seen that many police at J/J/G since the day I'd called them last fall.
"Keep going," Cassie directed. "Outside."
"What? And miss everything?"
"Don't argue with me. I'm saving you."
"I was going to save you."
"Too bad. I saved you first."
Irritated, I flipped my cell phone open and pretended to dial. "Hello? 911? Can you send out the blondecatchers? There's a crazy one loose downtown. Better bring the big tranquilizer darts....What? No, no tags that I can see....Don't make direct eye contact? Well, of course not. That only antagonizes them."
By the time I got done, of course, Cassie had already dragged me into the parking lot, but it made me feel a little better.
So did the carnival mood outside. Despite the police, the crowd seemed to be having a very fine time. Also despite the police, the street vendors who weren't supposed to work on that block were busy hawking hot dogs and pretzels. And although several TV and radio crews were setting up for live reports, one of the radio trucks was blasting 'N Sync at us. How serious could any situation be if 'N Sync was involved?
"Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?" I asked Cassie.
"Bennett."
"What about him?"
"He's in Jenner's office."
"So? That's just a mistake, not a felony."
"With a gun." Before I could remind her about the toys, she added, "A real one."
"A real one? With bullets?"
"I didn't think to ask about the bullets," she said tartly, "but let's go back in and find out what caliber. You stand in front of me."
In an act of will, I let that one pass. A couple of radio crews had open mikes within earshot, for one thing. For another, I knew she didn't mean it.
Probably.
We milled around for a while, trying to find out what was happening inside. Nobody seemed to know much. I was curious as to how Bennett had gotten past Sanchez, but my interest was mostly self-interest anyway.
Finally, Heather caught up with us, breathless with news. "I just heard Channel 12! They're saying he's got hostages! Lisa Hartwell just said—"
Cassie scowled. "Lisa Hartwell? What's that hussy doing here?"
"Her job?" I ventured.
She ignored me. "Do me a favor, Heather. Help me keep an eye on Devvy. If she goes anywhere near her, I want you to break her legs."
"Whose? Lisa Hartwell's or Dev's?"
"Doesn't matter," Cassie said.
"We're not doing this again, Cass," I warned her. "I didn't kiss her, and you know it."
"Doesn't matter."
Exasperated, I started to walk off. Then I replayed the past few seconds and turned back around. "What's that about hostages?"
Heather repeated what the reporter had said.
"You're not serious."
"That's what she said."
Great. Just great. Bennett had caught Jenner with the Hardware City girl.

BY 12:30, THE NOVELTY OF CRISIS was wearing off, as it tends to. Nothing had happened for a while, the vendors were out of hot dogs, and the mood of the crowd had gone south. Someone had finally threatened the radio truck, so the music had stopped too. We were so bored that we'd actually been talking to Walt for several minutes.
"I wish he'd just go ahead and start shooting," Walt was saying. "At least it would—ow!"
Discreetly, I rubbed my hand; Walt had at least one rib under all that pork. "Not even as a joke, you lowlife son of a bitch. That's not funny."
"Since when did you get politically correct? What's one boss more or less, anyw—ow!"
Cassie had been smarter than me; she'd used her briefcase. And aimed lower. We left him rolling on the asphalt, which was good enough for the time being.
I was about to suggest that we give up and go somewhere nice for lunch when a roar went up at the end of the parking lot nearest the building. Instantly, the crowd shifted in that direction. But I had a better idea. Pulling Cassie back, I waited till most of the traffic had passed and then made for the TV trucks parked on the street. She protested until she caught on. Even in those shoes, she climbed up on the Channel 12 van a lot faster than I did. In fact, she helped me up the rest of the way.
That was more like it. Sitting on the roof, we had a clear view of the lobby doors, and Cassie seemed to enjoy kicking the sides of the van.
A few seconds later, a SWAT team hustled out of the building, carrying Jenner and Bennett along with them. They both appeared to be all right—physically, anyway. Audience reaction to this fact was mixed, but there seemed to be a few more cheers than boos.
"I don't see Sanchez," Cassie fretted. "She had to be in there with them. I hope she's OK."
Considering that the woman had tried to attack me with ping-pong balls and marbles a few hours ago, I was less sympathetic but said the right thing anyway.
"It's not like it's her fault her boss is loony," she continued. "She shouldn't have to pay for what he does."
"If I know Sanchez, he'll do the paying."
"Well, maybe we should help her this time. Maybe—wait a minute. What's going on?"
I turned back toward the building. More police were coming out now, escorting the Hardware City girl. You could tell it was her because you could see cleavage even at that distance. How in the name of God could a person go around in a halter that small without putting somebody's eyes out?
To my extreme annoyance, the cops were risking their vision as hard as they could.
"We pay taxes for this?" I asked Cassie.
She smiled and gave me a little kiss on the cheek.
"What was that for?"
"Just because."
"Well, don't 'just because' me in public."
"Typical," Monica said.
Was it worth even being surprised anymore? She was right behind us, watching the spectacle over our shoulders. There was no telling how long she'd been there.
"Mind you, I'm not complaining," she added. "I like repression."
"Where did you come from?" I demanded. "No, wait—rhetorical question. What do you want? Where's Vanessa?"
My demon sulked a little. "You never say hello anymore. Just 'Go away' or 'What do you want?' Sometimes I think you're not happy to see me."
Any answer would get me in trouble, so I didn't answer.
"Not that I'm speaking to you," Cassie said to Monica, "but where is Vanessa?"
The demon flicked a talon in the direction of the building. We hadn't noticed her before, but Vanessa was tagging along behind the Hardware City girl, dressed up like a reporter, busily scribbling notes.
"I don't think she needs lessons in easy virtue," Monica remarked, "but she went to a good place to get them. Cassandra knows only just so much, you know."
"Excuse me while I whack her one," Cassie snapped.
"Let it go," I told her. "It might be a compliment. Sort of."
"You think? Let me whack her anyway."
Monica only laughed and vanished just ahead of Cassie's briefcase.

WE LEFT WORK EARLY to watch the news at the Pig & Whistle, not that it mattered; nobody had worked all afternoon anyway. Troy had taken the day off and missed everything, so he met us there to get caught up.
"So they all had guns?" he asked. "Bennett and Jenner and the Hardware City girl?"
"I bet hers has a Hello Kitty sticker on it," Heather sniffed.
"But nobody shot anybody?"
"They tried," I said. "They missed."
"Which is a good thing," Cassie added.
She didn't look entirely convinced, though, and I can't say that I was either.
"Wish I'd picked another day to take off," Troy said. "I can't believe I missed all that. What happens now?"
Cassie explained briefly about what happens to people who don't have gun permits and/or the common sense of a chicken. Then she explained about grounds for divorce. But none of us knew what would really happen next.
Not even the demons. They were just sorry they hadn't thought of it themselves. Damn them anyway.

CHAPTER 4

WHAT A ROTTEN WEEK. The boss had been arrested twice; the building was infested with lawyers; and by Friday, there were metal detectors and security guards in the lobby. The first day the guards showed up, they wanted to wand me and look in my shoes, but I convinced them otherwise. Then Cassie sailed through the metal detectors with a Swiss Army knife, a nail file, and 10 pounds of jewelry and refused to look back. One guard tried to chase her, but I convinced him otherwise on that, too.
"I feel much safer now," Cassie said when I caught up with her. "Terrorists wouldn't stand a chance."
"Are you saying you wanted them to search you?"
"Of course not. But what if I'd had a gun in my purse?"
Without a word, I opened it, dug into a side pocket, and pulled out her miniature laser gun. I had one just like it.
"That doesn't count," she said, taking it back.
"They don't know that. But don't worry. You know I'll come visit you in jail when they catch you with it."
Cassie fired at me. For such a small toy, it made alarming noise—more than enough to upset the guards. Good thing we both ran faster than they could.
But the line was drawn. She was in a mood, I was getting there, and we were going to start taking it out on each other soon. So we did the only thing we could do:
We played paintball.

Saturday Morning
The Hot Zone

I CAN'T REALLY RECOMMEND paintball. It's messy, it's stupid, and it hurts a little. But you could say the same things about life, which still beats the alternative. For Cassie and me, paintball beat the alternative too. The first time we'd tried it, she'd been really mad at me; an hour later, everything was forgiven. Ever since then, we'd made a point of playing once in a while, whether we needed to or not.
Another bonus: The demons thought paintball was beneath them, so they left us alone when we played.
We showed up at the Hot Zone two hours before it opened. Because we'd done a successful campaign for them, the owner let us have the place to ourselves sometimes. Cassie had made the arrangements right after the incident with the security guards, so it was just us and a bored clerk that morning. He barely looked up from his comic book while he checked us in, which was just as well; neither of us really cared what Godzilla was up to these days.
"No cheating," Cassie said as we walked into the playing field. "I know all your tricks, and I'll make you pay."
Then, of course, she shot a paintball at me and ran for it. She always did that. Grumbling, I started the timer and went after her.
It didn't take long to find her. She was backing around a corner, in perfect position. I waited for her to get a bit closer; then I fired.
"Hey!" a strange voice protested.
I almost dropped my gun. The blonde I'd just shot turned around, rubbing her backside, and she wasn't Cassie, not even for a second. What was she doing here?
"What's the big idea?" she demanded. "Who do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"
"Unfortunately," I said.
It was the wrong thing to say, of course, but it was also the truth, so I didn't take it back. The Hardware City girl waited about two more seconds to build up a full head of indignation and then shrieked, "Naaaaat!"
Obediently, Jenner came running. That time, I did drop my gun.

"TARGET PRACTICE?" Cassie asked.
Jenner shrugged. "Why not?"
While she told him why not—loudly and with considerable heat—I kept a close eye on the Hardware City girl. She was still mad that I'd shot her and not inclined to be friendly. Especially considering where I'd shot her.
"And even if you weren't already in so much trouble," Cassie went on, "this is the dumbest thing I've ever seen you do. Which is saying something."
"It was Miss Showers' idea," Jenner bleated.
Of course it was. The girl gave me another bad look, as though she'd heard what I was thinking, so I not-quite-accidentally pointed the gun at her again.
"It doesn't matter, Mr. Jenner," Cassie said. "You're a grownup. You should know better. You're really, really lucky the police keep letting you off with fines. You can't go around trying to shoot people and then go out and get target practice. It doesn't—"
The Hardware City girl had heard enough. "Would you get over yourself? It's not like it's real guns."
Cassie didn't break stride. "Devvy, do something about her grammar. And then make her shut up."
How did Dorothy Parker put it? You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think. Personally, I'd sooner have led a live snake to culture, if only because the snake would be more literate than the Hardware City girl. But that was neither here nor there.
Besides, before I could even think how to Do Something, the girl had flounced off somewhere to throw a fit.
"She's used to getting more respect," Jenner explained, almost sadly. "But that's all right, Derry. I'll apologize for you later."
"Don't put yourself to any trouble, sir."
As in What, are you crazy?, but he didn't seem to hear that part. "It doesn't have to be trouble. I don't even want trouble. Can we not have trouble? I'll make you a deal. I make it up for you with Miss Showers, and you—"
"Find you a grown woman with a grade-school education?" Cassie asked sweetly.
Jenner didn't hear that, either. "And you don't say a word about this to Effie. What do you think?"
I didn't think anything. It wasn't like I ever saw Wife No. 5, so I probably wouldn't have had occasion to tell her anyway. But now that he'd given me the idea...
"Devvy has enough problems without trying to save your marriage," Cassie told him. "If you still have one. Do you even realize how bad an idea this was? You can't be out running around town with that silicone slut. You ought to be home right now, giving your wife apology jewelry. Lots of it."
Apology jewelry? Unhappily, I filed that rule for future reference.
Jenner didn't look too happy either. "She already has lots. But maybe you're right. You would know, wouldn't you? You're a girl, aren't you?"
"I am a girl," she confirmed. "Thank you so much for noticing. Now go home to your wife."
"But what about Miss Showers?"
"She has feet. She can walk."
"Or you could drive her home for me," Jenner said hopefully. "Would you see to it, Derry? Could you drive her home?"
"We could," I said, "but I don't think we really want to. Would there be something in it for us?"
Cassie frowned, not liking not knowing what I was up to. But I motioned to her for quiet while Jenner thought it over.
"I could give you your own parking spaces," he finally said.
"We already have some, thanks. What else have you got?"
"Devvy!" Cassie said sharply.
I smiled at her. "Trust me."
Jenner continued to think—clearly, a slow and painful operation. "How about 10 percent off on printing? Or dry cleaning? We've got to have clients that owe us money."
"It's not about money, Mr. Jenner. I was thinking along the lines of behavior. Good behavior, I mean."
"I don't understand," he said.
"Of course you don't, sir. Let me explain. Do you see Cassie here?"
He looked her up and down to make sure that he did. Exasperated, Cassie rolled her eyes.
"There's something you should know about her," I said. "She hates being embarrassed. Do you know one thing that embarrasses her? Seeing her boss getting arrested on the evening news. This puts her in a bad mood. And I hate when she's in a bad mood. Are you with me so far?"
He said he was, so I went on.
"Now, the problem with this situation is that you have both of us in a bad mood. This is not a good thing. It's not good for morale, it's not good for public safety, and it's not good for business. Advertising is business, sir. I know that for a fact."
"Cut to the chase," Cassie demanded. "I came here to shoot you with paintballs, remember?"
"Back at you. Just let me finish this....Sir? Do you still want to make a deal?"
He fidgeted. "Should you be threatening me, Derry? You work for me."
"That's why I'm threatening you. But never mind that. Let's make this deal: You get therapy, and we didn't see you here today. If you promise to stay out of jail for at least a week, maybe we didn't see Miss Showers either. Does that work for you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No, sir."
Having no choice, then, Jenner took the deal. I could tell Cassie wasn't entirely satisfied with it, but she was dying to shoot paintballs at me, so she went along with it too.
Then we walked him out to his car—partly to be polite, but mostly to make sure that he went away. We were just turning to go back inside when she grabbed me and pulled me behind a parked Honda.
"What?"
"Shhhh. Get down."
"Why?"
Annoyed at being questioned, she yanked me down herself. Then she pointed. The Hardware City girl was sneaking back into the building, and she wasn't alone.
I couldn't believe it. "That can't be—"
"Shhhh!"
Fine. I could be quiet. I still couldn't believe it, though: She was sneaking back into the building with Stu Bennett.
Target practice, was it? This girl was already the easiest target in town, and it looked as though she practiced with every gunslinger around. I was almost sorry for Jenner.
But only almost. And only for about forty-eight hours.

CHAPTER 5
Monday

OF COURSE IT STARTED—officially—on a Monday.
There was no shadow on the day when Cassie and I got to work, if only because we'd had a good weekend. After paintball, we'd had a major lunch, hit the malls, and then gone home for personal time. Somehow, that last part had lasted well into Sunday. (I told you paintball worked for us.) Vanessa knocked once with some complaint about Monica, but Cassie threw my alarm clock at the door as hard as she could. Which totaled the clock but got rid of Vanessa, so it evened out.
Anyway, it started out as a routine morning. Then Jenner decided to call a company meeting.
I couldn't remember the last company meeting we'd had at J/J/G. We had Christmas parties, sure, and a few other events I could never get out of, but we rarely met as an agency. For one thing, we didn't have a conference room big enough. For another, you can't get 150 advertising people to shut up at the same time. In addition to which, you don't want to be in the same room with Kurt and Walt if it isn't part of your job description. It was part of mine, and I'd spent years wondering how I could get both of them transferred—to the mailroom, say, or the hot part of Hell.
But Sanchez's e-mail was very clear. We were due in the lobby at 11 sharp, no exceptions, no excuses. She added a personal note to the bottom of the mail she sent me:

Don't even think about trying to sleaze out of it, Kerry. This is *your* fault.	

My fault? I tried to call a few times to ask where her mind was when she saw it last, but she kept hanging up. Was I ever going to get even with her later.
In the meantime, there was nothing to do but go to the meeting.

SO THERE WE ALL WERE at 11, crammed into the lobby like clowns in one of those little cars. Cassie and I were backed up against one of the metal detectors, so to amuse herself while we waited, she kept passing metal objects through it: her keys, my keys, coins, whatever else she could find or scrounge. After a while, one of the guards unplugged it. Good choice. He wasn't a young man, and dealing with Cassie could have caused a cardiovascular situation.
Besides, I'd been about ready to unplug the thing myself. I loved her, but there were limits.
There were also limits to how long it was safe for Jenner to keep this crowd waiting. We'd been waiting for a while now, and if we had to wait much longer, someone was going to start the Macarena. Then I'd have to start hurting people.
Finally, a small group of suits pushed through the lobby, Jenner among them. The suits stopped in front of the long folding table where the guards had set up shop—much too close to where Cassie and I were trapped—and Jenner climbed up on the table. The better to see and be seen, I supposed, but all I could think of was Mussolini on the balcony.
"Who do you see up there?" I asked Cassie.
"Il Duce."
You can't say we weren't made for each other. Discreetly, I kissed the top of her head.
Then Il Jenner started to speak, and it was downhill from there.

MOST OF WHAT JENNER SAID that morning isn't worth repeating. He started off with some hogwash about the importance of teamwork; then he tacked off on some nonsense about the virtues of cooperation. I mean, please—we were an ad agency.
But then The Subject came up.
"Some of you might have heard the news lately," he said. "That lousy bastard Stu Bennett. It's his fault. He's got it in for me. You've heard about that, haven't you?"
"It was hard not to, Mr. Jenner," Walt said solemnly.
Jenner didn't seem to hear the snickering. "We can't have this. It's bad for business. We need to do something about it."
Leaning closer, Cassie whispered, "Great idea. Let's take him to the vet and get him fixed."
I couldn't help laughing. That time, Jenner did notice.
"Derry? Are you listening?"
"Hanging on every word, sir," I lied.
"Well, good. Because this concerns you."
"Me?"
He didn't answer but gestured to the suits, who promptly started hoisting someone else up on the table. While they did, everyone in the lobby craned to get a look at me. Cassie didn't seem to appreciate it any more than I did.
"Hey, Dev, what did you do?" someone yelled. "Give him golf lessons?"
Before I could find and destroy the person in question, Cassie grabbed my shirt hard.
"Let go, Cass. This is new."
She only grabbed tighter. It was a Tommy Bahama shirt that she'd tried to talk me out of buying ("You look like an extra from Beach Blanket Bingo, honey"), and she wouldn't be too sorry if it met with a fatal accident. While we struggled, I vaguely heard whistling all over the lobby but chose to ignore it. If that was all it took to thrill these lowlives, they'd been living under rocks too long.
"People!" Jenner said. "Can I have your attention?"
Grudgingly, I turned back to him...and my jaw dropped all the way. Now Vanessa was standing next to Jenner, wearing the shortest skirt I'd seen since "Ally McBeal" was canceled. That was what the whistling had been about. Kurt and Walt were trying to fight their way through traffic to get much, much closer to her, and I couldn't help wondering whether the demon had remembered underwear.
There wasn't time to wonder long, though. Cassie was fuming, Vanessa was vamping, the peanut gallery was still whistling, and Jenner wasn't done.
"I think some of you know this lady. Miss Vanessa works with us on special projects. And this is a special one. It needs teamwork, so I want all of you to cooperate with her. Fully....All right, now, that's enough with the jokes. I want her to say a few words to you....Derry?"
Prying Cassie off me—she'd forgotten to let go in the shock of finding her demon among us—I frowned up at him. "Sir?"
"You could say a few words too. It was partly your idea."
Cassie grabbed hold again. But I had no intention of going anywhere. "What idea? I don't remember—"
"Therapy, Derry."
"Therapy, sir?"
"Allow me, Nat," Vanessa said.
He allowed her—and had a quick look down her blouse while he was at it. Vanessa didn't seem to mind. Then she blew me a little kiss, which did not go unnoticed. Least of all by Cassie.
"I'm going to kill her. Don't look at her, Devvy."
I was for that. But the demon was talking.
"It's lovely to be here today," she said. "Just lovely. Thank you for coming. You're going to be so glad you did. It's about paintball."
"Oh, my God," Cassie muttered. "I really am going to kill her."
"Mr. Jenner did it this weekend for the first time. He saw Devlin and Cassandra there. You know them, don't you? I know I do." She paused long enough to smirk. "Anyway, he was telling me all about paintball. I told him they use it as therapy. And he said—"
"Hearsay!" I shouted.
"Oh, tosh. You know I know. Now, where was I?" The demon pretended to think. "Ah. Therapy....So Mr. Jenner said Devlin told him to get therapy, and I said, 'Well, paintball would do it,' and he said—"
Someone in the back of the lobby interrupted at the top of his lungs. "Did you tell Mr. J what kind of therapy Dev and Cassie get out of it?"
Damn every last one of our co-workers for laughing. Totally uncalled-for. Besides, how did they know?
"As I was saying," Vanessa said severely, "the concept came up. He thinks it would be good for morale if we had some team-building activity. Softball is tacky, and you're all too short for basketball, so we settled on intramural paintball."
Nuts. There was no such thing as team paintball, as far as I knew. There weren't even any rules. That's what Cass and I liked about it.
Well, one thing we liked about it.
"You look surprised," the demon went on. "I don't know why you should be. Advertising is a violent business. It ought to have violent sports."
"Tell them the rest," Jenner prompted.
She batted her lashes at him, which at least made him shut up. "They're organizing paintball teams over at Ad House this morning. Coincidence? I don't think so. I don't think we should turn our backs on them. Those treacherous beasts could attack any time now. It won't hurt if you people learn to shoot straight. So we thought we'd start you off with paintball and see how things work out. Questions?"
Moses on a pony—this had gone far enough. I broke Cassie's grip and cleared a path to the table. To save what little dignity I had left, I didn't climb up on it.
"Don't listen to her; she's crazy. Listen to me," I demanded. "I didn't have anything to do with this. Mr. Jenner's private life is his own problem, and violence isn't going to help. I said therapy, not acting-out."
Someone nearby started laughing. "Look who's talking!"
"Knock that off, or I'll act out on you," Cassie warned.
I decided I hadn't heard that. "You know what this is really about, right? Mr. Jenner and Mr. Bennett have extramarital issues. I'll translate that for you: the Hardware City girl. I don't approve of extramarital issues. Especially not this one. And I really don't like being asked to take sides when all the sides are wrong."
Up on the table, Vanessa smiled as though she knew what was coming next and already had a comeback. But it would have to wait.
"That's what this is about," I repeated. "It's not about team building. It's not about morale. It's about taking sides. Paintball teams, hell—they're trying to raise private armies here. And for what? For nothing. Two Viagra casualties who can't think above the belt want to start a war, and they want you to fight it." Oops. "Nothing personal, sir."
Jenner didn't seem to notice; something else was troubling him. "But that son of a bitch Bennett isn't good enough for Miss Showers. He—"
"Mr. Jenner, sir, with all due respect, shut up."
He shut up. But Vanessa laughed.
"Just forget this whole thing," I told the room. "No paintball. No shooting straight or crooked or at all. No helping a grown man have an affair with Barbie's trashy kid sister. And absolutely no going to war. Got that?"
"We'll see," Vanessa said—rather too happily for my liking. It didn't register on me until later that Jenner looked happy too.

Midafternoon

I WAS ON THE PHONE when Cassie slammed into my office. Quickly, I wrapped up the call. But she started talking even before I could put the receiver down.
"Wait," I told her. "Back up. What's wrong?"
She glanced over her shoulder, saw that the door was still open, and went back to close it. Then she locked it. Usually, that was a good thing, but she didn't look to be in that kind of mood.
"Cass? What is it?"
"Have you checked your e-mail lately?"
"No. Why?"
"Check it," she said direly.

To: All employees
From: Nathaniel Winslow Jenner III
Subject: War
As co-founder, chairman, president, CEO, and owner of this agency, I am declaring a state of war between us and Ad House (hereafter known as "the enemy"). This includes Stu Bennett (hereafter known as "the bastard"). Please take whatever precautions you feel necessary.	

For a long time, I just stared at the mail, willing it to read some other way. But it was no use. Finally, I reached over and switched the computer off.
"Let's go home, Cass. For good."
"Right behind you, sweetie," she said.

CHAPTER 6
Later Monday

NOTES: Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz is a real Ben & Jerry's flavor (or at least was a couple of summers ago). // The Marie Laveau reference goes to That Voodoo That You Do.	

Of course you realize this means war.
—Bugs Bunny

WE DIDN'T GO STRAIGHT HOME. It was 3:30—early enough in an emergency—so we dropped by the bar at the Omni for a drink. (All right, a couple.) Then we stopped at Ben & Jerry's.
"Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz for dinner?" Cassie asked.
"That'll work."
"I mean as dinner."
"That's what I said."
We got several pints. It had been a bad day.
It wasn't over. When we got home, we found our demons playing war.

I'VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD the phrase playing war. Very likely it's a guy thing; my brothers played enough war in their day to destroy the world twenty times over. But that's the only way I can describe what Cassie and I walked in on. Monica and Vanessa had turned our living room into a command post, complete with maps, gas masks, and sandbags, and were busy plotting strategy with tiny plastic tanks in a sand tray.
It gets worse: They were dressed up like generals. Girl generals, in stiletto heels. The skirts were cut and slit too high, the jackets were open too far, and I deeply regret to say that all of Vanessa's medals were pink. It was just how Britney Spears would dress if she had her own army.
"Sweetie darlings!" Vanessa greeted us.
"Private Sweetie Darlings. We outrank them," Monica corrected.
Still too stunned to comment, I checked on Cassie. She was ticking furiously, likely to go off at any second. As a precaution, I took the Ben & Jerry's bag away from her so she wouldn't lose it completely and start throwing ice cream.
"Something wrong, Devlin?" Vanessa asked. "You look perplexed."
"It's been a strange day."
"All your days are strange. I don't see how you can tell any difference anymore." The demon gave something in the sand tray a push with her index talon. "Did you like the meeting this morning?"
"No."
Monica smirked at her colleague. "Told you."
"Well, it was the best I could do on short notice," Vanessa said. "Nat has the attention span of a hamster. I'll have to remind him about all this tomorrow."
Cassie finally found her voice. "You did this. You gave Jenner this stupid war idea. It wasn't Devvy at all."
"No, it was her. I just embroidered it for him."
Embroidered? More like spun the thread and sharpened the needles, too. "I didn't have anything to do with it," I insisted.
"Did too. You're the one who said 'war.'"
"I also said 'a,' 'an,' and 'the.' What's your point?"
"She's not making a point," Monica said. "She's taking some petty vengeance on you for this weekend."
Cassie frowned. "Vengeance for what? We didn't even see her."
"Exactly."
"You mean she's mad because we didn't see her?"
Monica rearranged a couple of tanks before she answered. "You wouldn't let her in your room."
"We were busy!" Cassie shouted.
"So what?" Vanessa asked. "I was only going to stay a minute."
Cassie looked to me for help, but I wasn't going anywhere near there.
"She was bored," Monica said.
"She talked Jenner into declaring war on Bennett because she was bored this weekend?" Cassie asked, astonished.
"Never bore a demon, Cassandra. It always has consequences. She had the sulks all day Sunday. Besides, I was bored too."
Somehow, I felt no sympathy for her. "Sorry we're not entertaining enough for you. But there's a fix for that, you know: Go away."
"I like it here. I'm very fond of you, Devlin. I could do without the annoying blonde—"
"So could we. Take her with you."
"I meant Cassandra."
That did not amuse Cassie. "Let me see the Ben & Jerry's for a second," she told me.
Monica laughed, but I didn't. I also didn't want ice cream on the living-room rug. So I moved a few feet away to deal with the demons. "I still don't get this. Vanessa was mad at us because she was bored, so she talked Jenner into a war? And you're helping her?"
"I wasn't so much bored as insulted. You were ignoring me," Vanessa said.
On purpose, I continued to ignore her. Which made Vanessa leave the room in a fit of pique, which was all to the good. Being Vanessa, she also stuffed a few of the little tanks down her jacket before she left. Monica didn't appear to notice, and I decided not to mention it.
"It doesn't add up," I told my demon. "You two fight like cats and...more cats. Why would you take her side?"
"I told you, I was bored too. You haven't given me enough work lately. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say you've been happy."
Maybe if you put it in past tense like that. "So you're mad at us too?"
"Not so much mad as scorned."
"Don't start the Hell-hath-no-fury thing, Monica. I hate clichés."
"Then get out of advertising," the demon said.
"Funny you mention that—Cass and I are talking about it. We're going to sleep on it a few nights. But let's stick to the subject. What do you have to do with this?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just something stylish and elegant...not unlike myself. Wouldn't you agree?"
That way lay madness, so I went a different way. "Were you at Ad House this morning, by any chance?"
Monica smiled her most infuriating smile. "I try to avoid ad agencies in this town. Too many would-be hipsters in black polyester. At least you have the good taste to wear natural fibers. But then, you would. I am your demon."
"She's changing the subject," Cassie observed, "so she's lying. Of course, if she's breathing, she's lying. Why don't you let me see if I can make her stop breathing?"
"Not now, Cass."
"Not for long. Just for a year or two."
"I'm looking forward to turning you into a sow, Cassandra," Monica growled. "You'll be very fetching in a pork-chop sandwich later."
Cassie wasn't impressed. "I'll be fetching your head any second if you keep it up, witch."
Dammit, the pork chop reminded me: I was hungry. And the ice cream was melting. I couldn't leave the two of them alone even long enough to go put it in the freezer, and Cassie never, ever left me alone with Monica. She said it was because she didn't trust her—but Cassie said a lot of things that I knew not to take at face value. So the only thing to do was get it over with in a hurry.
"Help me take this ice cream to the kitchen," I told Cassie, "and then let's go out for dinner. I'm buying."
"Oh, goody! Italian!" Vanessa yelled from wherever she'd gone.
"Thai, and no demons at all!" I yelled back. Then I turned on Monica. "So are we done here? Or do you want to tell me just exactly how stylish and elegant you got with Ad House?"
For a few seconds, Monica debated whether to keep making me crazy or brag about what she'd done. "I visited people in their sleep last night. Stu Bennett dreamed about paintball wars, and the Hardware City creature dreamed about doing endorsements for paint companies. I thought it was most amusing....Are you sure you want Thai, Devlin? You had bad dreams the last time. I could visit you tonight, if you—"
Faster than I could react, Cassie snatched the Ben & Jerry's bag and launched two pints at the demon. Who, of course, disappeared first.
I watched ice cream explode on the mantel and splatter in all directions. The only saving grace was that about half a pint went into the sand tray, which would ruin the demons' battle strategy. Unless they were planning an amphibious landing. They did have the tanks.
"Devvy? Honey? Say something. I'm sorry I lost my temper, but—"
"Forget it. Let's go have Italian."

WE CAME HOME AFTER DINNER to two sulky demons and a clean living room. Vanessa, Monica told us spitefully, had actually licked ice cream off the mantel.
I didn't much care as long as it was gone. It would have been nice if the girl-general costumes and the command post had been gone too, but a person who has demons can't have everything.
"You deal with them," Cassie said wearily. "I'm going on up to bed. Don't be long."
We watched in silence as she went upstairs and waited to hear whether she'd slam the bedroom door. She didn't. But her footsteps sounded annoyed.
"I can't imagine what you see in her," Monica remarked.
"I can't accuse you of having any imagination," I said. "Now talk to me about this war thing. And make it fast."
"Mutually exclusive. There's so much to talk about."
"Then give me the short version. You and Vanessa are getting into it because...?"
"We're demons."
"And it's fun," Vanessa added.
"Not good enough," I said.
Monica sighed. "All right, then, because we're bored. And because we have a bet. She's going to run J/J/G's war; I'm going to run Ad House's. For the record, I'm going to win."
Demons betting on war. Go figure. "What's the bet?"
"Points against your souls. We think one of you might snap before this is over."
"You tried that in New Orleans," I reminded her, "and Marie Laveau smacked you down. I wouldn't try it again if I were you. Cassie might still have a favor coming."
"Mam'zelle won't bother us. This is human agency, not voodoo."
"If war for sport isn't evil, I don't know what is."
Vanessa's brow furrowed a bit. "That doesn't sound like you. You're always fighting with somebody."
"Mostly the blonde," Monica said. "Not that I blame her."
"That's different," I said.
My demon smiled unpleasantly. "Is it, now? You've never been the 'Make love not war' type. Of course, with you and Cassandra, it's always been 'Make love and war,' but I suppose you'll say that's different too."
"Good one!" Vanessa told her.
Not in my opinion, but try telling a demon she's not funny. "I give up on both of you. I'm going to bed. Try not to get sand all over the living room when you play with your little tanks."
"Tanks?" Vanessa asked. "What tanks?"
"In the sand tray. You were playing with them a couple of hours ago."
Both demons found this amusing, for some reason. "Go have a look," Monica said.
Against my better judgment, I did. And took a big step back when I saw. There was nothing in the sand tray now but two small plastic cars: a red Miata and a black BMW.
My car and Cassie's.
"Look closer," Monica directed.
I didn't want to, but I was already this far down the rabbit hole. On closer inspection, I noticed the tiny drivers: Monica in my car and Vanessa in Cassie's.
They were both naked. But you knew they would be, didn't you?
"Would you say mine is anatomically correct, lamb chop?" Monica asked. "You would certainly know."
All the bad words I knew were inadequate, so I settled for throwing the sand table over and storming upstairs. The demons' laughter followed me all the way up.

CASSIE WAS ALREADY IN BED, half-reading a magazine. She looked up, of course, when I slammed the door.
"Don't ask," I warned.
"I didn't want to know anyway. Come here."
Still fuming, I took a seat on the edge of the bed. She scooted over to say hello while I took my shoes off, which rather complicated matters. But I had other things on my mind at the moment.
"Honey?" she murmured.
"What?"
"Why do you have sand all over you?"
I hadn't noticed till then, but the shoe I'd just managed to get off was full of it. Not just sand, either, but also a tiny plastic Monica.
Without a word, I pulled the other one off, went to the window, raised the screen, and threw both shoes out as hard as I could.
"Maybe you'd better tell me after all," Cassie said. "Twenty-five words or less?"
"I only need three. This means war."

CHAPTER 7
Tuesday

NOTES: Elephant ears are large, roundish pieces of fried dough topped with cinnamon and sugar. Don't ride the Octopus after too many of them. // The Fisher's Grill reference goes back to Several Devils. // Pat Robertson is a bothersome TV evangelist.	

CASSIE WENT IN TO WORK EARLY to clear her schedule, to free the day for damage control. When I got to my office, she was clearing my schedule.
"You can't do that," I told her.
"Can, have, and you're welcome." Frowning at the screen in concentration, she scrolled down a few lines and pressed Delete again. "Coffee?"
I'd stopped by Peet's on the way in and was holding a half-full cup, but before I could call her attention to it, she added, "For me."
For her? Well, I seemed to remember having loved her a few minutes ago. So I handed it over.
"I meant a refill, bunny. I made some. But thank you."
She was still busy deleting things, so she didn't see the look I gave her for the "bunny" part. Just as well. Muttering, I took her mug and went around the desk to the credenza. She had made coffee, and stopped at the bakery too.
"Eclairs? That's not possible. You can't get eclairs in this town in the summer."
"They're little," Cassie said, as though that were some sort of explanation.
Which it wasn't, but that wasn't the problem. The last time I'd had eclairs in the summer was at the state fair years and years ago, with some friends from high school. We started at the pork-chop tent and moved on to the corn-on-the-cob stall, the elephant-ears stand, the lemonade-shake-up booth, and the corn-dog van; then we found the eclair truck parked in front of the Poultry building. Local bakeries didn't make eclairs in the summertime—they went bad fast in the heat and humidity—so this truck was a major find. We sat on the grass and ate our eclairs right there, licking chocolate off our fingers. They were so good we had seconds. Then we went back to the midway to ride the Octopus.
You can guess the rest. Maybe we asked for it. But I still say we got bad filling in the second eclairs.
"Stop thinking about that night at the fair and have one," Cassie said. "Bring me one, too."
"I told you that story?"
"The time we went to Fisher's Grill in the middle of the night and ordered the whole menu. You were trying to make me feel better."
"Did it work?"
"No. But it didn't matter. I already knew I loved you." Finally, she looked up, and she smiled. "Don't make me hurt you now. Give me an eclair."
I gave her a kiss, too. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to close the door, which Kurt was just coming through.
"Morning, boss. Nice technique. Don't mind me; I'll just run and get a camcorder."
Cassie sighed, let go, and ate her eclair for consolation. But I wasn't consoled. One of these days, I was going to take Kurt to the zoo and feed him to a crocodile. Or buy a crocodile for office use. Whichever was faster.
"Get lost, Kurt," I said.
"In a minute. Something the matter? You look pensive. That's a really big word, I know, but—"
"I was thinking about the crocodiles at the zoo. Did you ever go there at feeding time? Would you like to?"
He laughed. "Nice try."
"They feed them rats. On great big poles with clamps on the end. The clamps are to hold the rats, of course. They're already dead, but the crocs don't seem to care. I saw two of them try to eat each other over half a dead rat once. It was—"
"Disgusting," Cassie snapped. "I just ate something gooey, and now he's here, and you're talking about rats. Go take this outside."
Not insulted and not taking the hint, either, Kurt laughed again.
"Did you want something, or are you just visiting?" I asked him. "If you're visiting, I get to throw you out now. If you give me any trouble, I'll let her throw you out."
"Can't say as I'd mind a little action, now that you've got her all warmed up for me."
Visions of crocodiles danced in my head. "Thirty seconds, Kurt, starting ten seconds ago. Let's have it."
"Oh, all right, all right. Sheesh. I just wanted to ask you what team you're signing up for."
"We're not playing paintball, so forget it," Cassie said.
"Didn't say paintball. I mean teams for the war. I'm thinking about counterespionage."
I frowned. "'Counterespionage'? Let go of my chain. Twenty bucks says you can't spell it, let alone define—"
"Spy vs. spy. Didn't you see the flyers? That Vanessa babe's going all over the building putting them up."
Vanessa? Flyers? All over the building? Cassie's eyes met mine, and I didn't like the look in hers.
"She's not a babe," she informed him. "She's a bitch from Hell."
Of all the parts of that for her to take offense to... "Get me one of those flyers," I said.
Kurt seemed to be pleased by both reactions. "On my way."
"Now, Kurt."
"Going. Almost gone. Just one more thing."
"What?"
"Would you kiss her again for me before I go? It's so interesting to watch. Not as good as doing it, but—"
Cassie gave him a look that cut the rest of that right off, and he left. But he laughed the whole way.

THE FLYERS WERE BRIGHT RED (of course), and you could read the banner in the dark.
DON'T MISS THE WAR!
Don't miss the war. Don't forget to stick a wet finger in a light socket. Don't pass up the chance to get hit by a train. Why not lick a flagpole in January, while you're at it?
Cassie took the flyer away from me at that point and read the rest out loud.

In this time of crisis, J/J/G Advertising needs loyal volunteers. We especially need infantry, medics, disinformation specialists, and counterespionage agents. Call Rita Sanchez or Vanessa at ext. 1001 to sign up.
Support your agency. Support the war effort. Death to Ad House.	

Whatever.
"I wonder who wrote this," I said. "Doesn't sound like Jenner. Too many syllables in some of the words."
Cassie snorted. "The 'Death to Ad House' part was kind of pithy."
"Lisping now, are you?"
She thought about it for a second. Then she rolled up the flyer and swatted me with it. But she didn't swat very hard, so I went on.
"'Pithy' is one of those really good words that nobody uses anymore. It works as code, too. You could call Pat Robertson a pithant to his face, and he'd never know. Right now, though, I think Jenner and Bennett are even bigger pithants. What do you think?"
"I think I'm putting you to bed as soon as we get home tonight. It's only quarter of 9, and you're already delirious."
"Can't be your fault." Before she could wonder whether I was being sarcastic, I kissed her. "Will you be putting yourself to bed with me? Or is this one of those medical things?"
Cassie laughed. "Sometimes I wonder why I love you. You're such a smartass."
"For a woman who won't say 'piss,' your morals are slipping. Meet me upstairs at 7, then? Bring Chinese, and we'll make a night—" The phone rang. "Dammit. I'd better get that."
"I do love you."
"Fantastic. Hold that thought." Leaning past her, I checked the Caller ID panel. R SANCHEZ. Yup, I needed to get that one.
But Cassie only pushed the phone out of my reach. "I said 'I love you.' That's a cue, honey."
"Later. That's Sanchez. It's probably trouble."
"You're going to have a lot worse trouble than her if you don't say it."
"Fine. Love ya. Now give me—"
"Like you mean it."
The phone was still ringing. Was voice mail down again? "I meant it."
"It sounded a little flip to me. Try again."
"God, you're being difficult. What do you want? Poetry? Singing under the balcony? Bluebirds?"
"Three little words." To get the last piece of my goat, she made kissing noises. "Three itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy, one-syllable—"
"I love you, dammit to hell, and I mean it, and if you don't give me that phone—"
"How much do you love me? What if your mother and I were both drowning?"
That did it. I walked around the desk, picked up the phone, and handed the receiver to her, to punish her. Cassie was laughing too hard to talk at first.
But she quit laughing abruptly when Sanchez started talking, and she was downright grim by the time Sanchez hung up.
"What was that about?" I asked.
She didn't answer at first. "It's bad, Devvy."
"So tell me. What is it?"
"It's Ad House," she said. "They just called a press conference to declare war on us."

CHAPTER 8
Wednesday

NOTES: No offense to Southerners. // SAT is short for Scholastic Aptitude Test, which is a college placement exam for high-school juniors.	

ALL I CAN SAY IN OUR DEFENSE is that it wasn't the first time we'd gone to a press conference as somebody else. This time, Cassie went all Ya-Ya Sisterhood on me, complete with flowing silks, excess jewelry, and fake accent. The attitude was real enough, though. It alarmed me how easily she slipped into the role of Southern American Princess—and how much she seemed to be enjoying it. Was Vanessa getting to her, or was it the other way around?
Not that I was any better off. She'd talked me into a tie-dyed shirt, pink sunglasses, and hair mascara. My hair had already been three colors to start with, but none of them had been electric purple, and I wasn't convinced that it was a good look. Neither was I convinced that the color would wash out like the box said. But Cassie said if it didn't, it would freak my mother, which was some consolation.
"Stop fidgeting," she said. "You look fine."
"I feel like Jefferson Airplane landed on me."
"So what? You like them." An evil smirk. "You know I do, too."
Quickly, I dialed out the memory. "Somebody to Love" was another of the growing number of songs I'd never be able to hear the same way again after Cassie. Maybe it had been a bad idea to buy all those CDs when I went on that '60s jag a few months ago.
But being at that press conference was even worse, in my opinion. We'd had no intention of going, but when Jenner got word of it, he panicked and called for volunteer spies.
Sanchez volunteered us.
"Better the two of you than Kurt," she said when we confronted her. "He's been up here a dozen times begging to go. He said he has a great disguise. Can you imagine?"
I could. This was the same man who'd dressed up in pink taffeta on Halloween and a diaper on New Year's Eve, and he hadn't learned a thing about shame in the meantime.
"He said he and Walt have a plan," Sanchez added.
Cassie scowled. "They aren't allowed to have plans. They don't have enough adult supervision. We'll go."
"But—"
She cut me off with an elbow. "We'll talk about it later."
"We" wasn't strictly true; she did most of the talking. Someone from J/J/G would end up going anyway, she said, and Sanchez was right: better us than Kurt. Then she made several even more convincing arguments.
(1) She was going.
(2) She knew I wouldn't let her go by herself.
(3) She knew I loved her.
(4) Because she said so.
So there we were, undercover behind enemy lines. I only hoped that nothing worse than our costumes would happen.

EVEN FOR MY LIFE, the next half-hour was a new low. The Sheraton had given Ad House one of the small ballrooms for the occasion, which would have been all right if every media outlet in town hadn't showed up, so there weren't enough chairs. I'd managed to get one way back in the back for Cassie by threatening a stringer for one of the underground tabs, but he wouldn't go away after that; he kept hanging around, breathing on me, trying to get a better look at her. Also, an odd-looking security guard in dark glasses kept staring at us. And every so often, Cassie made a big show of fanning herself and telling me how wahhhm it is in heahhh, huuuny. I stood it all as best I could.
But the ordeal was still bearable—barely—until the Ad House people came in.
I'm not sure where to start. The World War II uniforms might have been someone's idea of wit; Ad House always had gone in for the sledgehammer school of humor. And Stu Bennett might have thought he looked good dressed up like Patton; he'd lost full-time contact with reality years ago. I could even almost understand the Andrews Sisters singing on the PA system; a theme is a theme.
But there was just no excuse for the poster. Bennett propped it up on a big easel before he started talking, and it stopped all conversation in the room.
Yes, it was the Hardware City girl. Yes, practically all of her. She had on a few tiny strips of red, white, and blue ribbon; bright-red chase-me pumps; and the cutest little machine gun. I WANT YOU, the poster said.
At the bottom, in smaller type, it also said TO FIGHT J/J/G, but not a straight man in the room had gotten past the top red, white, and blue ribbon. You could tell by looking what every single one of them was thinking: If I stare at it hard enough, it'll fall off.
I was standing behind Cassie's chair and couldn't see her face, but I could tell what she was thinking by how she was breathing. Two seconds later, she reached back, grabbed my shirt, and yanked me down for a word.
"I want you to develop hysterical blindness," she whispered. "Right now."
"Accent," I reminded her.
She yanked again, even less gently. "Don't yew look at that, suuuugar, or Ah'll knock yew into next year."
"How hard?"
"Fatal."
"Not looking," I said.
Which was the truth anyway. You could find more udders on a moo cow, if that was all you were after, and the cow would have better SATs, too. Besides, Bennett was just starting to talk.
"I'll get right down to it: We're in a war. Not a nice war, not a pretty war, not a war we were looking for, but a war we're in. And we intend to win it."
Hands shot up all over the ballroom, but he paid no attention.
"You've got the press release, so I don't have to go into facts here. Nat Jenner started this fight, we're going to finish it, and by God, we're going to have some fun doing it." On the word "fun," Bennett whacked the podium with his riding crop, making some of the smaller reporters in the front row flinch. "Peterson, show them the flag."
"For crying out loud," Cassie muttered.
It seemed a bit excessive to me, too, but I chose to reserve judgment until I'd seen the thing. So I watched Peterson fumble with the flag case and entertained myself with speculation. What could possibly be on the flag that could outdo the poster? Would Cassie kill me for thinking it?
—Yes. So I wouldn't tell her. But the real flag turned out to be a much more awful object of surprise: a big green dollar sign on a white field.
All conversation stopped again.
"This is business," Bennett explained. "Bottom line, war is business. I think it's time for a little truth in advertising, don't you?"
Cassie pulled me down into furious-whisper range. "Go hurt him, Devvy. I'll forgive you."
"He has a point," I said unhappily.
Bennett was just warming up. "J/J/G is out to get us. They want our clients. They want our homes and our wives and our lady friends. Well, I have a message for J/J/G: This will not stand." He whacked the podium again. "This is America. This is about values. It's good vs. evil. You know—"
A reporter up front didn't wait to hear the rest of that. "Mr. Bennett, are you calling J/J/G evil? For the record?"
"They're evildoers. That makes them evil."
He said it with a straight face. After the laughter finally died down, he added, "That's what makes us different from those bastards at J/J/G. You don't see Nat Jenner having a sense of humor."
"Let me make sure I've got this right," the reporter said. "You're declaring a war—a fun war—on J/J/G because they're evil?"
"Correct," Bennett said.
"I don't think companies can declare war under the Constitution, sir."
He said that was the Constitution's problem. Another reporter jumped in.
"What kind of war are you talking about? You can't be thinking of using real weapons."
"The hell I can't be," Bennett said. "Want to see my gun?"
I'd heard enough. "Better safe than dead," I told Cassie.
She agreed. We were just getting up to leave when the security guard I'd noticed earlier stepped into the aisle and yelled, "Now!"
For a second, nothing happened. Then a service door opened, and someone outside tossed something toward Bennett—something small, furry, four-legged, and striped.
"That looked like Walt," Cassie said. "But what would he—"
Whatever she said after that got lost in all the screaming. The something, of course, was a skunk, which was causing great consternation in the front of the room.
"Nobody move!" Bennett roared, drawing his pistol.
There was no time to lose; the lesser of the two evils in this case would be getting shot. So I grabbed Cassie and shoved her ahead of me toward the exit. Good thing we weren't far from it. She helped clear a path by yelling, "Lady coming through, yew sumbitches!"
"You can drop the accent now," I growled. "Keep moving."
We got out before the first shot. Pushing Cassie a few feet farther toward safety, I turned to take one last look. It was hard to see much in all the confusion, but I had no trouble spotting the security guard. He was standing on a chair, pumping his fists in triumph, and from the back, he looked oddly like—
"Kurt?" Cassie asked.
"Stay back," I warned her.
Another shot went off. "Shut the doors!" someone screamed. "Don't let it get out!"
I didn't know how fast skunks could run, but there was no reason to stick around and find out. Cassie and I got out of that hotel at warp 10 and didn't stop until we got back to the office.
Before we went upstairs, though, we had a word with the security guards. We told them not to let Kurt back in the building if they even thought they smelled something.

SANCHEZ COULDN'T STOP LAUGHING at our disguises, and she wouldn't let us in to see Jenner, either, so we gave up and went to see Jack. He was sitting in his big chair playing with one of those ball-and-paddle contraptions, and when we walked in, he told us he was busy.
Without comment, I took the paddle away. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out another. I took that one away, too. When he went for the third, Cassie slammed the drawer shut, missing his hand by a fraction of an inch—accidentally, of course. Missing his hand, I mean.
"Aren't you two supposed to be off doing counterespionage?" he complained.
"We resigned our commissions," I said. "We might resign more than that before the day is over."
"Bullshit, Kerry. You can't quit. We're right in the middle of getting the Mack & Ruiz account."
Cassie smiled sweetly. "Not if I quit too."
"You wouldn't."
"I will if Devvy does."
"And I will if Cass does," I said. "It's circular logic, but even you should be able to follow it. They didn't give you that many drugs in the nuthouse, did they? I bet you had lots of flashbacks about that night with Kurt Wheeler, but it was only one night." I pretended to consider. "It was only one, right?"
Jack's color went from bad to wax, and I knew we had him. But it wasn't nice to gloat, so I got down to the point.
"Let's talk deal. You fire Kurt and Walt, and we stick around to help you clean up this mess."
He swallowed a couple of times. "Which mess?"
"Jenner's war."
"I can't do anything about that. I'm only the creative director around here."
"You can do something if you try," Cassie said. "For starters, you can fire those two idiots and call up the TV stations to tell them you did. The story's going to be all over the news tonight, so you're going to be talking to the press anyway. A little damage control—"
"All over the news? Why? What happened?"
I regarded him with even greater suspicion. "Don't tell me you don't know. You probably put them up to it."
"I try not to talk to Wheeler anymore," Jack said peevishly. "And I can't stand the other guy. What did they do?"
We explained. To his credit, he said bad words.
"It doesn't look good," I told him. "Everybody knows you really run this place; Jenner can't tie his own shoes without federal help. So you fire those two and tell the press the whole war thing was just a joke that got out of hand, and—"
"All right. OK. I fire them, and you won't say anything about that...accident with Wheeler. Deal?"
Satisfied, I handed the paddles back. "Always a pleasure doing business with you. Call me when you do the firing. I want to watch."
"There's one problem," Jack said.
"What now?"
"That Vanessa babe."
Cassie started to deconstruct the "babe" part again, but I held her off. "What about her?"
"She's the one who's got Jenner all fired up about having a war. She reports directly to him. I can't do anything about her."
We all pondered that point for a moment. Then Cassie smiled.
"Leave her to us. We know someone who can."

CASSIE WAS CRAZY. Monica wasn't going to help with Vanessa. For one thing, Monica was just as bad. We hadn't seen her at the press conference, but I detected her hand in the poster, so she had to be up to some kind of no good.
But Cassie said we were out of options. If the humans we knew were going to behave this badly all by themselves, we'd be in big trouble when the demons took the field for real.
"You're always telling me 'When in Rome,'" she said. "So let's think in terms of war. Divide and conquer."
"How many pieces did you want Monica to divide me into?"
"Just give it a try. For me. You love me, don't you?" Before I could tell her to drop it or else, she added, "Yew wouldn't refuse a Southern lady, now, would yew?"
"I can't wait till you get out of character," I grumbled.
"Don't be no fun. You could get a little farther into yours, you know. Want to light my fi-yah tonight, sugar?"
Fortunately, Jack's office called just then. It was more saved from the belle than saved by the bell, but I was willing to take it. So we went back upstairs to witness Kurt's and Walt's termination. They took it surprisingly well, which was disappointing but not disappointing enough to ruin my enjoyment.
We didn't start noticing the smell until about an hour later. Maintenance finally found the dead fish in a ventilation shaft. Early reports were that they were bluegills, not too recently deceased.
Nobody knew it then, but we'd just smelled the second shot of the war.

CHAPTER 9

NOTES: The pith helmet and Dick Farmer are two of the lower-rent jokes in this series. // Piggly Wiggly is a grocery-store chain that uses a happy pig as its logo. The stores carry pork, which by definition is a pig past happiness, but whatever.	

THE PRESS HAD A FIELD NIGHT. Cassie and I watched all the newscasts we could, sitting on the living-room couch with the curtains pulled, doors locked, and phones off. Now and then, she would ask me to trade her double-fried pork for kung-pao chicken, or I'd read a fortune cookie to her, but otherwise, we were superglued to the screen.
It wasn't pretty. With zero exceptions, the reporters had dressed up in safariwear and declared themselves war correspondents; the one from the Fox affiliate even had on a pith helmet. ("Don't say it," Cassie warned, so I didn't.) Fortunately, all the stories ran in the soft-news segments, so no one had bothered with journalism. No one had interviewed Bennett or Jenner, let alone the skunk.
Which, by the way, was captured without incident and released on its own recognizance. So was Bennett—but only because his gun had been loaded with blanks. As for the Sheraton, they weren't going to press charges. "We'd just as soon not have them back, though," the manager told Channel 5.
"Back to you at the anchor desk," Dick Farmer said soberly.
Back at the Channel 5 anchor desk, of course, they were all laughing; the sports guy especially seemed to be about to wet himself.
Cassie reached for the wine and helped herself straight from the bottle.
"No Dick Farmer jokes either, then?" I asked.
I don't want to repeat what she said.
It wasn't until the late news that the demons came downstairs to watch with us. They were dressed like themselves again, which was the up side. The down side was that Vanessa had on a G.I. helmet.
"You'll get helmet hair," Cassie said coolly.
Her demon shrugged. "It'll be cute on me. Everything is."
"You're cruising for helmet head," Monica growled. "The World War II thing was my idea."
Divide and conquer, was it? Cassie gave me a significant look, which I pretended not to see.
Monica appealed to me directly. "It was my idea. You made me watch all those awful movies last summer."
"Last summer?"
"About a month before we met. Formally, that is." A tiny, evil smile flickered on her lips. "You'd just had your heart broken—again—and you got over it by locking yourself in the condo with war movies. I didn't much like Submarine Week, but Patton had its moments."
Cassie snapped to bristling attention. "You had your heart broken? When? By who?"
Confused, I tried to think back. I couldn't remember any heartbreak, but the movie marathon had been real enough. For two straight weeks, I'd rented only the kinds of movies that I never watched, on some dubious theory about using a different part of my brain. Maybe I was feeling a little hostile, which would account for the Westerns and the war flicks. But even I couldn't account for Submarine Week.
Still, Cassie was waiting, so I had to say something. "Monica's making that up. She's a demon, remember?"
"She's not making it up," Vanessa told Cassie. "You went over to Devlin's place one night to see what her problem was, and she was running The Civil War. She only does that when she's really depressed. Personally, I don't see how eleven hours of that could possibly help, but whatever—"
"How do you know that?" I demanded.
"—works for her, works for us now. Isn't that right?"
But Cassie wasn't listening. "She'd better be making it up, Devvy. I was your girlfriend before I was your girlfriend, and I had every right to know if you—" Suddenly, she heard that. "Your best friend, I mean. Was."
" 'Was'?" I asked.
"Am. Quit changing the subject."
I was just changing it back when I noticed the demons watching us avidly. Dammit. Divide and conquer, all right, and they'd tried to do it first.
"They're trying to play us, Cass," I said. "Look."
She did, and her expression darkened.
"Can't blame us for trying," Monica said.
"I blame you for having a pulse," Cassie shot back. "If you have one. Devvy, don't tell me."
I wasn't about to. In fact, discretion being the better part of valor, I got up to go see whether there was any leftover Szechuan beef in the kitchen. Or maybe some cookie dough.
Cassie called after me. "Bring back another bottle of wine!"
I didn't think so.
"And the big knife!"
And the big knife. I really didn't think so.

Thursday Morning

HEATHER, CHIP, AND TROY WERE WAITING in the parking lot at work, and they were on me before I had both feet on asphalt.
"You know, you really ought to get a new car before the wheels come off," Troy remarked.
I let it pass. Cassie and I were seeing the Miata these days; if everyone else saw the MG, it was probably just as well. "Something you want? Or are you just afraid to go in by yourselves?"
"We're always afraid," Heather said, perfectly serious.
"No reason. Kurt and Walt don't work here anymore. And Maintenance got all the fish out last night. Sanchez said Jenner wants to have them fingerprinted, but—"
Troy decided to be helpful. "Fish don't have fingers, Dev. I only got Cs in biology, but I'm pretty sure I'm right about that."
"Fingerprint the fish to find out who left them, and don't start with me this early." For emphasis, I slammed the car door. They were seeing the MG, all right; they jumped back as though they expected parts to fly off. "Now, what do you want?"
"We were kind of wondering what's going to happen now," Heather said. "With the firings and everything. And the war and all."
Great. Now I was supposed to be an oracle, too. "We talked about that yesterday afternoon. You can't have forgotten already."
"I know, but that was before the newscasts. Did you hear what Channel 10 said?"
"Don't pay any attention to them. They're yellow like Tweety Bird. Kurt and Walt aren't casualties, and this isn't a war."
"But they're mad at us now," Chip said. "And they know where we live."
"Kurt and Walt?" I had to laugh, and did. "They won't bother you. If they're out to get anybody, it's Jack. I was careful about setting that up. You didn't think I was losing my touch, did you?"
He thought about it for a second. "Well, no, I guess not. You did put the 'd-e-v' in 'devious.'"
"In 'deviance,' too," Troy said.
Semipatiently, I waited them out while they had their little laugh. Cassie had said something last night about holding my fire for battles that counted. Like she should talk. She had a point, though. We'd been through enough in the past year to kill twenty normal people, but although we'd held up so far, we were getting dangerously close to the red zone. Witness the throwing of ice cream and shoes and the sudden interest in knives. Maybe it was time to play paintball again already.
"Sorry," Chip finally said.
"No, you're not. But I've got bigger problems than you today." Pointedly, I checked my watch. "And I'm going to be late for some of them if I don't get started. C'mon."
They just stood there.
"What now?"
"What about Vanessa?" Heather asked.
"What about her?"
"Sanchez said she's your fault."
As far as I was concerned, she was Cassie's fault, but that was another matter. "Sanchez blames me for everything. It's easier than blaming herself for working here in the first place."
"But she said Vanessa knows you. Can't you do something about her?"
"Why?"
"She was going around giving everybody fish and maps of Ad House when we got here. Hey, do you know where she got the Army helmet?"
I took off at a dead run.

VANESSA WAS GONE when I got there, naturally, and it was only a whole morning's work to recall the fish. Not being a fool, I'd gone down to the mailroom and asked Connie the Barbarian to do the collecting. She had to go around to every office to deliver mail anyway, and if someone had to smell like dead fish all day, it might as well be someone who wore enough Brut to have killed them in the first place.
When I told Cassie later, she was cool to the idea. "I don't want to have an IOU out to her."
"You don't. And I don't either. It's business, not personal."
"I still don't like it. She gives me the creeps." Before I could say anything, she added, "So I'm a hypocrite. Sue me."
"Just because we have one little something in common with her now doesn't mean we have to like her. You don't like all blondes, do you?"
"Some less than others," she said—and I knew she meant the Hardware City girl. So I changed the subject.
I wasn't done with trouble that day, though. Monica popped in for a private visit right after lunch.

SHE DIDN'T EVEN WAIT for me to tell her to go away. "Ask me what's new at Ad House. You're going to hate it."
"I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
"You missed the first part of that. I said, 'Ask me.' "
"You don't have the patience to wait for as long as I'd make you. I'm having a really bad day, Monica. Just go ahead and tell me."
The demon parked herself on the edge of my desk. "I don't think Cassandra is helping your stress level much."
"I like stress."
"Then you're in luck. You're going to have lots of it. You're really not going to ask?"
On a better day, I wouldn't have. But I'd just spent an hour taking Heather to lunch, trying to convince her that getting promoted to Kurt's old job would be a good thing. And all she could say was that she saw what happened to me after I got promoted. ("I don't mean that exactly like it sounds," she said. We both knew she was lying.)
So now I had a headache and a meeting with Jack in fifteen minutes and a demon on my desk. I could make one of those things go away—maybe—by humoring it. So I asked.
"Excellent choice," Monica said. "It always pleases me when you cooperate. And when I'm pleased, I grant favors." She started to unfasten her bodice. "Shall I lock the door?"
"No favors. Especially not those. And don't do that."
The way she laughed told me I'd made a mistake. Which, of course, I had. Concentrating for dear life, I pictured a 400-pound construction worker in giant overalls in Monica's place. He looked disturbingly like the Piggly Wiggly logo, and he needed a brassiere in the worst way. I do mean "worst."
Monica knew what I was doing, of course. She simply laughed again, fastened herself back up, and got up to leave.
"You're not going to tell me?" I asked.
"You already suspect it," she said, "so I'll just confirm it for you. Stu Bennett hired Kurt and Walt this morning. Tell your little friends that they do know where they live. Have a nice day."

CHAPTER 10
Friday

NOTES: The book reference is to Who Moved My Cheese?, which is some sort of business self-help thing that did very well despite its title. // Deepak Chopra writes New Age-type books.	

THURSDAY NIGHT HAD LASTED a small eternity. Cassie still wasn't satisfied with my take on Monica's "heartbreak" story, and there were never any demons around when you wanted them, so I spent the evening under a cloud of suspicion. "I'm not mad at you," she said at one point. "I'm just disappointed that you didn't tell me."
Then she gave me another of those awful reproachful looks—like a basset hound who didn't get a new chewy bone for Christmas—and I went up on the roof to sulk in the hammock for a while. I hated that look. Anger, no problem. Accusations of criminal intent, no problem. Basset-hound guilt-outs...problem. She'd learned that trick from her mother, I just knew it.
Cassie might turn out like her mother, you know, Mr. Wolfe had said at Thanksgiving. I'd dismissed the warning with a smart remark at the time but hadn't forgotten it. Was there something scary way down in her DNA, ticking?
That line of thought didn't improve my mood. There was no telling what was in my own DNA. Did Cassie ever wonder? And if she ever did, how fast would she run? She had met my family.
So I went back inside, ready to apologize for everything I'd ever said or done or thought, whether or not I'd actually said or done or thought it. She'd already turned in for the night, though, and when I asked, she said she was asleep.
"Would you rather I sleep on the couch?" I asked.
"Of course not. I'm not mad at you."
I decided to take her at her word, because she didn't sound upset. When I came out of the bath, ready to get into bed, she even turned the covers back for me.
Then I saw why: She'd drawn a line down the middle with her reddest lipstick.
"You've got to be kidding," I said.
"It's not personal. I have this tiny little headache. Sweet dreams."
For spite, I slept right on my edge of the mattress—which caused me to fall out of bed when I reached over to turn off the alarm in the morning. Cassie was sympathetic, but not to a fault.
It was no way to start a day like the one we had coming.

WE HAD A TEAM MEETING first thing. Granted, we'd never met under wartime conditions, so I wasn't sure what to expect, but I certainly didn't expect to be issued a whistle.
"Civil defense," Jack explained. "If anyone sees Kurt or Walt, blow your whistle."
Naturally, Heather and Troy had to test theirs right away. That did not make them popular with the rest of us. As for Jack...
"Great idea," I told him. "Not too original, but I guess you just didn't have time to borrow the Bat Signal from Commissioner Gordon. You're off your meds again, aren't you?"
"I'm not taking any chances."
"Stop trying to scare people. Those two aren't smart enough to be dangerous."
"Easy for you to say, Kerry. They won't come looking for you."
No, and that had been the beauty of the plan. "You didn't have a choice. They embarrassed the agency in public. On purpose. What kind of message would it send about corporate America if we didn't punish wrongdoers?"
"Don't go there, Devvy," Cassie said.
"Why not? Even the worst CEO would fire people for throwing skunks around in press conferences. I'm not saying you are the worst CEO, Jack. Not strictly speaking, anyway. But—"
Fortunately, he wasn't paying any attention. "I should've let Jenner fire them."
"What difference does it make?" Cassie asked. "Somebody had to do it. You did it. It's over. Can we get on with this meeting now, already? I've got a 10:00 uptown."
I glanced at her. She wasn't in any better a mood than I was and therefore not to be trifled with, so the sooner we got out of there, the better. "Second that. What's next?"
At which moment the door opened and Vanessa sashayed in, carrying a folded piece of cloth. "There you are," she said, unnecessarily. "Am I late?"
Jack shrugged. She took the vacant chair next to me—where Cassie would've been sitting if she hadn't been mad—and smiled at everyone winningly.
"Are you supposed to be here?" I asked.
"Yes. Did you miss me?"
Troy said that he had and started to add that she looked very lovely today, but Heather elbowed him so hard that his chair jumped sideways.
"Never mind," Jack said. "What have you got there?"
"I'll show you. Hold on to this, Devlin." The demon got up, handed me one end of the cloth, and started walking backward, pulling the other end. As she went, the cloth unfolded, resolving itself into a flag.
I'd been afraid of that. And even more afraid that it would be exactly what it was.
Cassie wasn't amused. "You can't be serious."
"I thought we were going in for truth in advertising," Vanessa said, all mock innocence.
"Not that much."
"Don't look at me. Mon—Ad House started it."
Warily, I checked the room to see whether anyone but Cassie and I had caught that slip. Evidently not; they were still trying to come to terms with the skull and crossbones.
"I told Nat we should have our own battle flag," the demon went on. "It'll bring us together as a people. He liked this one. Do you like it?"
She'd asked me directly, so I answered her. "No. It's a Jolly Roger."
"Roger who?"
The slackers in the room found that terribly witty, which would only encourage Vanessa, which I didn't want. "We're not flying a pirate flag. I don't care what Jenner says."
"You don't have to care. He didn't ask you to pick out a flag; he asked me." To be irritating, she flipped her hair at me. "The rest of you like it, don't you?"
"I wouldn't say 'like,' exactly," Chip said carefully.
Jack was still staring at the flag. "Jenner approved this?"
"He said we can't let Bennett out-Bennett us," Vanessa said. "If the enemy has a flag, we have to have one too. Ours is cuter, don't you think? I don't know where they got the idea of a dollar sign, but if you ask me—"
"Ayn Rand," I said.
The demon blinked. "Pardon?"
"Ayn Rand. Atlas Shrugged. It was a gold dollar sign there, not a green one, but Bennett wouldn't know that. The only books he reads are about mice moving cheese. If he can even read those."
I felt Cassie's annoyance level rise across the table. She generally avoided junk lit, but I'd given her some trouble about reading the cheese thing, which had caused some brief unpleasantness between us. So what if I'd read Deepak Chopra just once?
"Whatever," Vanessa said. "How do you feel about matching armbands?"
Cassie was telling her exactly how she felt when an intern threw the conference-room door open.
"We're meeting here," Jack told her sternly. "So if you don't mind—"
But the girl didn't hear. "There's anthrax in the mailroom! Everybody out!"

THE EVACUATION WAS SHORTER this time. The anthrax in the mailroom was in fact an Anthrax CD, mailed to J/J/G in a plain manila envelope with no return address. But even if Walt hadn't been stupid enough to send a CD that he'd written his name on, we wouldn't have had any mystery.
Neither was there any mystery about how the story got out of hand: J/J/G was the oldest established permanent floating Telephone game in town. Add in the chronic betting problem, and you could make a case that the agency was one big Guys and Dolls revival. Without the hats.
I said as much to Cassie, who forgot she was mad at me long enough to laugh. "If we see a Salvation Army band, we'll run for it," she said.
Then she remembered to be mad again and added that I wasn't in any danger of salvation.
"Don't you have a 10:00?" I asked, impatient.
"Rescheduled. Anthrax."
"We don't have anthrax."
No, not technically. But we had poison later the same day, in the form of a Poison CD dropped off by courier, and Connie the Barbarian found a rubber rat in the afternoon mail.
We also started having an epidemic of hang-up telephone calls and/or breathers on the other end of the line. That was easy enough to avoid; we let voice mail pick up. Unfortunately, we had big mailboxes, so someone left me all the William Shatner cuts from Golden Throats and that damn Titanic song.
Clearly a copycat crime. Grimly, I went down to Cassie's office.
"It wasn't me," she insisted. "I still sort of love you."
"Sort of?"
"All you have to do is tell me who it was last summer, Devvy. Then I'll go kill her—or him—or it—and everything'll be fine."
"There wasn't anybody."
She regarded me narrowly. "Maybe I should ask Vanessa. I'll bet she could find out."
"Fine. Ask her. Get me in even more trouble."
"You're not in trouble." A suspicious pause. "Not really."
"Then God help me if I ever really get in trouble with you."
She agreed that God would be a big help in that case, and I was about to say something even more unwise when Vanessa popped in. For once, I was happy to see her.
But she wasn't happy with us. "I wish you two would stop it. I'm getting all these bad vibes off you, and I've got a whole lot of work to do. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," I said. To Cassie, I added, "Which is exactly what I did. Nothing."
Vanessa seemed to be surprised. "You mean she's mad about what Monica said last night?"
"I'm not mad," Cassie snapped. "I'm disappointed. There's a difference."
"Don't listen to Monica, girlfriend. She doesn't like you."
Cassie smiled thinly. "Mutual. Devvy has the world's worst taste in demons."
It took all my self-control to let that one go. "If you came here to help," I told Vanessa, "you can start any time. Tell her I didn't do anything."
"You didn't."
"I know that. She doesn't know that."
"I don't know what I know," Cassie said. "Did you fall in love with somebody last summer or not?"
"Not. I did not—"
But Vanessa stopped us both in our tracks. "You did too. You just didn't know it yet." Then she turned on Cassie. "It wasn't Monica who broke her heart, if that's what you're thinking. It was you."
Cassie was at least as startled as I was, which was very. "Me?"
"You were getting all serious with that John guy. You were thinking he might even ask you to marry him. You made a special point of telling Devlin all about it." Vanessa smirked and patted her on the back. "Very demonlike of you, Cassandra. I knew you had potential."
While Cassie scrambled to think through all that, I started breathing again for the first time in nearly a day. I'd blocked the whole John thing, just like I'd blocked everything else for years, so no wonder I hadn't remembered. Now I did. God, the relief. I would never have admitted it, but the whole idea of Submarine Week had been worrying me a lot.
"Did that help?" Vanessa asked.
"It helped me," I said. "I can't speak for Cassie."
Neither could she herself at the moment. I couldn't really blame her. But that didn't mean I wasn't enjoying the payback.
"She'll be all right," Vanessa said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Then she vanished, leaving us alone. It was very, very quiet in Cassie's office.
"I guess that makes me innocent," I finally said. "I guess you're sorry you doubted me."
She didn't say anything, but only because she didn't know what to say.
"You'll probably want to make this up to me somehow. Considering that I've never given you one single reason not to trust me, you may want to put some thought into it. You could start with—"
"Dinner tonight? Anywhere you want."
"Dinner's a start. What else?"
She thought about it—not very long—and decided to show me. That would work too.
What didn't work was the knock on the door just then. Sanchez opened it without waiting for an answer, and she didn't even seem to notice what had almost been going on.
"We've got trouble," she said. "Jenner just bought a tank."

CHAPTER 11

NOTES: In this context, "MP" is short for "military police." // The Midwest tends to get tornadoes instead of earthquakes, but the New Madrid fault in Missouri shifts every so often. // Hummers are the consumer version of Humvees, the gigantic military vehicles.	

WINSTON CHURCHILL SAID democracy is the worst form of government except for all the alternatives. Except in election years, I agreed. But democracy needed some work if it would let just anyone buy a tank.
Especially Jenner. Especially when it meant he might start wearing camouflage.
I did my dead-level best to talk him out of the tank, and I tried everything: appeals to reason; citations of the lessons of history; threats of ratting him out to the police, his wife, and the Hardware City girl, not necessarily in that order. Nothing worked.
"We're under attack," he said. "We're at war. You can't have a war without tanks."
"But they don't have to be real tanks, sir. I know where I can get you some toy ones. And a sandbox to put them in, too. No charge. How about it?"
"I don't think you're taking this seriously, Derry."
I was trying hard not to. "All right, then, look at it this way. A tank is a big, big responsibility. Bigger than a pony. Tanks need a lot of attention. You can't just get them and not take care of them. It could only end in tears, sir."
On the other side of the door, I heard Sanchez snort. Terrific. Eavesdropping, when she ought to be calling up the seller and canceling the order. That was the first thing I would've done, anyway. Every admin worth his or her salt knew how to impersonate the boss over the phone, and for one who worked for Jenner, that should've been an imperative.
"What was that noise?" Jenner asked.
"I can't imagine. Let me go see." Careful to block his view of the hallway, I opened the door a few inches, grabbed Sanchez's left earring, and twisted, with satisfying results: She yelped like a stepped-on squeaky toy. Then I closed the door again. "MPs, Mr. Jenner. They were going to arrest you for not having a tank driver's license, but I made them go away. OK?"
Frowning, he tipped his chair back and chewed on the cap end of his fountain pen for a while. "I'm not as dumb as you think I am," he finally said.
You couldn't possibly be. "Of course not, sir."
"I know Miss Sanchez sent you to talk to me. She's always sending somebody to talk to me about something. And she always sends you when she's desperate. Why is that?"
"Wish I knew," I said, meaning it profoundly.
"I think she's desperate about the tank. She doesn't seem to like it. Women don't like tanks, do they?"
I said that was true, pretty much, trying not to wonder whether it was true of Cassie in an especially vengeful mood.
"Women are funny that way," he said.
"Yes, we are."
"All except Miss Showers."
That caught me off guard. "How's that?"
"Miss Showers. She likes tanks. As a matter of fact, she found me the one I just bought." While I tried to decide whether I'd heard him right, he chewed on his pen some more. "Do you think I should let her drive it, Derry? She thinks it would be fun, but I don't—"
"Wait a second. You're seeing her again?"
"I never stopped. Can't let that SOB Bennett get ahead of me."
"You might not want to be too sure he isn't, sir. Did you know she did a war poster for Ad House?"
"The naked one with the ribbons?"
I took a few seconds to think how to answer. "You could call it that. So you knew?"
"Of course I knew. She gave me a copy. Want to see it?"

CASSIE CUT STRAIGHT to the chase. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'I've seen it, thanks.'"
"In that tone of voice?"
"A little nicer."
"But he showed it to you anyway, didn't he? And you looked."
Restive under the cross-examination, I scowled at her. "Only for a second. Just to be polite. Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"
"I don't know. Is that freak of nature in it?"
"Which one?"
Cassie laughed. "That's a point. But you know what I—"
"Stop fishing, Cass. I love you, no matter how much recreational surgery anybody else has. Do you want the rest or not?"
"You love me?"
"As of this second. You're on probation, though."
"Small mercies," she said dryly. But she was smiling. "All right, go on. Tell me the rest. How'd you leave it with Jenner?"
"I told him to go test-drive the tank before he decided for sure."
"Devvy!"
"Work with me, Cass. This is Jenner we're talking about. He'll wreck the thing before he's gone a hundred feet. Then we won't have a tank to worry about, and all the property damage'll be on somebody else's property. Not bad for thinking on my feet, is it?"
She frowned, deep in thought. "I don't know. Something about this bothers me."
"It probably should. It could be a sign of mental health."
"I still don't know. Maybe you shouldn't have given him the idea. What if he can drive a tank?"
"He can't do anything else. I'm betting on 'can't.' "
"But what if he finds someone who can?"
Good question. Too good, as it turned out. We got the answer the very next day.

Saturday Morning

THE PLAN HAD BEEN to go in to the office for a couple of hours, to catch up on some of all the work that hadn't gotten done that week, and then take off for a weekend of R&R. There was this little resort Cassie knew about, only two hours away; a travel-agent client owed her a favor, and she owed me some making-it-up, so she booked us in for the weekend.
"Sunday night too," she said. "We'll just come in late on Monday. What are they going to do? Fire us?"
Doubtful. As long as Jenner had eyeballs, and as long as Cassie looked the way she looked, she would get away with anything she wanted. Theoretically, I really objected to that. But I wouldn't mind a short Monday, either.
So we synchronized our watches and agreed to leave at 10 sharp, no matter what.
That was the plan, as I said. The reality was that we never made it into the building. We'd just reached the end of the parking lot when the world began to rumble; a second later, we heard the awful noise.
"An earthquake? Here?" Cassie asked.
Later, we could discuss the New Madrid fault; right now, we needed to get away from the building. So I pulled Cassie back. At about the same time, we started hearing the terrible honking and screeching of tires on the street. Wrong direction, then? Uncertain, I pulled her the other way.
"What are you doing?"
"Saving your life for you," I said. "C'mon. This way."
She was going to argue, just for the sake of argument, when she froze.
"Cass? We've got to get out of here."
Silently, she pointed, and I turned in time to see a Chevy run off the street on purpose. Then I saw why. A vintage tank was lumbering drunkenly down 10th Street, more or less in our direction, rather less under control. While we watched in amazement, the gun turret swung around in a circle—first clockwise, then the other way.
"Get Wife No. 5 on the phone," I told Cassie. "We need to have Jenner committed now."
"Safety first," she said.
Agreed. We stood there for a few more seconds, trying to predict which way the tank would go; then we made our best guess and ran the other way.
We watched from behind a Ford Explorer while the tank ran over the curb, the parking meters, the sidewalk, the hedges, and most of the lawn, finally coming to rest barely ten feet from the main lobby door. We waited for the engine to cut off. And then we waited for Jenner to climb out. If we didn't see a machine gun on him, Cassie said, we could tackle him.
Jenner finally did get out, looking unarmed. But before we could make our move, someone else got out.
The Hardware City girl. Naturally. And she had the keys.

WE HAD A FAIRLY UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW with them. I tried to keep the main points simple, though, for Jenner's sake.
* Joyriding was bad.
* Joyriding in a tank was very bad.
* Joyriding through downtown Meridian in a tank could've gotten somebody killed.
* Cassie and I could've been the somebodies.
The Hardware City girl was not moved. "You didn't get hit. I know how to drive these things."
"How did you ever manage to learn?" Cassie asked, her tone pure acid. "From video games?"
She said yes, of course. And of course she had. What did we expect?
"This isn't a video game," I pointed out. "This is a real planet, with real motor-vehicle laws. I'm not even sure you're allowed to drive a tank on a public street. Do you have license plates? Or insurance?"
Jenner waved his hand to dismiss the issue. "We only needed to drive it here. We won't drive it anymore unless we're provoked."
Provocation could be arranged, if I knew Monica. And Vanessa. I doubted she'd have thought of the tank all by herself, but she was enough like the Hardware City girl that she might want to take it out for a spin too.
"I'm still really disappointed in you, Mr. Jenner," Cassie said.
"Wait and see when the bastards attack. I think you'll be proud of me then." Business concluded to his satisfaction, he held out his arm to the Hardware City girl. "Ready to go in and plan some more strategy, Miss Showers?"
We watched them walk off. Under my breath, I reminded him not to forget the strategic protection. Then we started to follow.
But as we drew even with the tank, Monica appeared on the gun turret. "Working today? What dreary creatures you are. Go off and play."
"Go off and get out of your way, you mean?" I asked.
"That too."
"Maybe we should," Cassie told me. "I don't feel like being under a roof with the slut and the witch today. Do you?"
No, I really didn't. And if we left for the resort now, we could get in some tennis before lunch. Or some not-tennis, come to think of it. But first...
"Are you up to something that I need to know about this weekend?" I asked Monica.
She laughed. "You don't trust me."
"No reason to start now. Are the cops going to come about the tank?"
"Already handled," she said. "Vanessa's downtown flirting with the chief of police."
Well, then, we were good to go. I scanned the street to make sure no squad cars were coming. They weren't, but that black Camaro was still circling the block. I'd noticed it earlier, while we were talking to Jenner and the girl. I couldn't tell who was driving it—the driver was slouched behind the wheel with a gimme hat pulled over his eyes—but the word "militia" had occurred to me. Just what we needed: a wannabe with a grudge against everything.
I was about to ask, but Monica had already read my mind. "You don't have to worry about that either. It's Kurt. Bennett won't let him near the guns, so he's got him on spy d—"
"Guns?" Cassie repeated.
"Paintball, of course. They're drilling today. We're being very professional. Unlike some people." The demon patted the turret she was sitting on. "This thing isn't even a good museum piece. Oh, well, we're on top of that, too. Are you two leaving, or what?"
Cassie grabbed my sleeve. "Leaving. Come on, Devvy."
"Wait. What do you mean, 'We're on top of that'?"
"Nothing serious. Bennett is out pricing Hummers, that's all. See you Monday."
For a few seconds after the demon vanished, we both stared at the place where she'd just been. Jenner had a tank. Bennett was pricing Hummers. Kurt was playing some stupid spy game. Something bad was going to happen, and we were going to have to stop it.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I asked Cassie.
"As long as you're thinking we can check in at the hotel early now," she said. "And you'd better be. Do you know what I packed?"
I was still working on the arms-race problem and didn't catch the undertone of the question. "No, what?"
"Think small."
"Small?"
"Think black."
"Black?" Finally, the anvil dropped. "You don't mean—"
"The Terminator," Cassie confirmed. "I might even be wearing it right now."
"God, you're evil," I said.
She allowed that she could be. We were on the road in two minutes flat.
I guess we couldn't have been expected to notice that the black Camaro was following us.

CHAPTER 12

CASSIE SAW HIM FIRST. We were coming back from tennis when she noticed something shadowing us behind the hedges, and before I could stop her, she went in after it with her racket. Not feeling the need for any more exercise right before lunch, I took a few steps back and watched the hedges shudder violently. A few seconds later, Cassie emerged, dragging Kurt by the ear.
"We need to speak to the management about pest control," she told me. "I found this in the shrubs. What do you suppose it is?"
I leaned on my racket, pretending to think. "Some kind of slug. Or maybe a leech with feet. You shouldn't touch it."
"It is kind of slimy," she agreed.
"It dresses funny, too. We'd better just kill it with a shovel."
Wincing, Kurt broke Cassie's grip on his ear—but not before she got in one last tweak. "It's not what it looks like, you guys. I can explain."
"You can try," I said.
He opened his mouth to tell a lie—it was all over his face—but Cassie showed him her racket again, and he reconsidered. "I'm counterspying."
I told Cassie that she could hit him off her backhand if she really wanted, adding that a little practice wouldn't hurt, but she reminded me how many points she'd just won off me on her backhand, I reminded her about all those dubious line calls, and we got a bit preoccupied. In the confusion, Kurt tried to sneak away. But Cassie was there in time with a well-placed forehand. Even I had to pity him a little.
"You were saying...?" she asked.
He took evasive action before he answered, covering himself. "I'm a counterspy. Ad House sent me. But I'm here to help you. Honest to God."
"God wouldn't vouch for you, Kurt. Try again."
"The truth would be a nice touch," I added.
"I'm telling the truth. Would I lie to you guys? Would I sell out my pals?"
Yes and yes, and we all knew Cassie and I didn't even have to say it.
"It's all a setup," he insisted. "I talked to Jenner. He said he'd hire me back if I got something on Bennett. So I'm counterspying."
"Doesn't explain why you're spying on us," I said.
"Bennett wants me to follow whoever who might be trouble at J/J/G. I told him nobody's more trouble than you two." He gave us his version of a charming smile. "He hates your ads, boss."
"She's not your boss anymore," Cassie reminded him.
"Well, see, that's not really true. I'm not really fired. That's why I followed you—to tell you. Bennett thinks I'm spying on you, and nobody'll know. Pretty slick, huh?"
More like the best he could do on short notice; Kurt never had been much of a liar. But something else was wrong with that story, and I couldn't think what.
Cassie, however, could.
"You say you're not fired at J/J/G," she said, "and you're hired at Ad House. So you're on two payrolls at the same time. You're getting paid by two different agencies to play one against the other, which is all you're any good for anyway. Is that what you're saying?"
I swear it was only a reflex, but I got most of my racket head on him, and this time, he went all the way down.

KURT TALKED A LITTLE after he was rehabilitated enough to talk at all. Some of the information was useful (Bennett really was buying a Hummer), and some of it was merely interesting (gossip about people we didn't like). But the only real intelligence we got out of him was about Monica. He hadn't seen her. He hadn't even heard rumors about her. Whatever was going on at Ad House, it seemed to be the unassisted work of humans.
Had Monica been lying? Imagine that—a demon lying.
But the more I thought about it, the more it made a certain twisted sense. Monica once said that making me worry about what she might do was more effective than anything she actually did. Starting a war would be just like her—but pretending to start one to worry me would be even more like her.
I'd talk to Cassie about it later. First, though, I had to get rid of Kurt. So I made him promise to tell us whatever he found out, and I sent him away.
Well, Cassie did—she told him she'd call security if he didn't leave—but the point is that he left. We watched him drive off to make sure of it. After which she called security anyway; she'd written down the Camaro's license-plate number as a precaution. They said they'd keep an eye out.
"Now we're going to forget all about it," she said, hanging up, "and we're going to have fun. Or else, Devvy."
So we did. And I only thought about it maybe two hundred, three hundred times.

I'D FINALLY STOPPED THINKING by that evening. A day at a spa is very good for the nerves—especially when someone else is paying for it—and Cassie thought she could arrange a diverting night. By the time she went in to start the whirlpool, I'd forgotten that Kurt even existed.
"Give me a couple of minutes," she said. "Don't forget the wine."
Right. I opened the bottle, to let it breathe, and then sat on the end of the bed in my robe to watch a little TV. Five till; might as well check Headline News. One of the TV stations had sued the local cable operator a few years ago, and as part of the settlement, it got a five-minute local news block on Headline News every half-hour. Worked for me.
"You're not watching TV, are you?" Cassie called when the set went on.
"Only for a minute."
"Don't get interested."
"No danger. It's local news."
I heard grumbling from the bath, but then the whirlpool started, and she wouldn't be able to hear anything anyway. So I turned up the volume.
At first, it looked like some supermarket-opening story, with a reporter broadcasting from the parking lot. Boring. I was about to switch channels when they cut to a shot of the Hardware City girl. Even that didn't hold my interest much. She was sitting at a table, signing autographs like she did at all her personal appearances; I couldn't see what was so newsworthy about that. The crowd was acting awfully excited, but I figured she'd just popped out of her top at some point, like she managed to do at so many of her personal appearances.
Then I noticed Bennett at one edge of the frame and Jenner at the other edge. Seconds later, bodies started flying across the screen.
"Cass!" I yelled. "You'd better see this!"
No answer. Of course not; she couldn't hear over the whirlpool. Keeping sharp watch on the TV, I started backing toward the bath, turning up the volume with the remote as I went. It was hard to follow what was going on, because the camera kept cutting away, but I did catch a wild shot of what the Hardware City girl had been autographing:
Copies of the Ad House war poster.
"Screwed," I muttered. "We're screwed. We're going down. Cassie!"
"What?" she asked in my ear.
So much for the spa's soothing effect on the nerves. I jumped at least a foot and almost lost the remote. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Well, don't yell like that. What's the matter?"
I stood aside to let her see the screen.
A half-hour later, when it was time for the next local news block, Cassie and I were both sitting on the end of the bed in our robes, the wine half-gone and the whirlpool running forgotten.

WE FINALLY DID HAVE that diverting night—the next night, with the help of a few too many margaritas. Even at that, we'd had to spend the day avoiding news. Cassie had taken our cell phones and her pager to the front desk and asked the clerk to lock them up; I'd thrown the morning paper out in the woods; we'd agreed to keep the TV remote, but only to use it for HBO. And we'd played so much tennis that even the sight of a racket was faintly revolting now. We finally took the gear out to the car, locked it in the trunk, and retired to the spa to soak in seaweed and steam and whatever else they had.
Around midafternoon, we got word that Kurt had tried to come back, but the guards had stopped him at the gate. Cassie said they should feel free to shoot to kill if Kurt tried again.
So we passed the day. Eventually, we passed the evening too. It wasn't until late that night that I noticed the message light blinking.
Well, Cassie was asleep; what would it hurt? Carefully, trying not to dislodge her, I reached for the phone on the night table. The Terminator was draped over most of it—I wasn't sure how that had happened—so it took some maneuvering to dig it out. Finally, I got the receiver and pressed the message key.
Kurt's message was uncharacteristically short and to the point. Violence all weekend, property damage, better get back early Monday—and by the way, we never saw him this weekend.
I didn't say the bad word that loudly, but Cassie woke up anyway.

Monday Morning

IN DEFIANCE OF KURT, and also just because, we showed up for work at the usual time. What wasn't usual was the heavy police presence. A couple of squad cars were parked on the street right out front; a couple more seemed to be circling the block; and even from the parking lot, we could see uniformed officers stationed by the lobby doors.
Needless to say, there was a heavy media presence too. But at least the police were keeping the animals back.
"Deep breath, sweetie," Cassie advised as we got out of the car.
It was the right idea, but that way also lay hyperventilation, the risk of which got greater as we got closer to the building. Kurt hadn't exaggerated. Something had happened over the weekend.
My first thought was Vikings. Granted, Meridian was a little far inland for longboats, but this had the-guys-with-the-hats-with-the-horns written all over it. I mentioned that to Cassie, who'd been thinking angry football fans instead.
"Same difference," I said. "But I meant real Vik—"
At which point I caught sight of the tank and forgot the rest of the word. The tank was halfway through the glass wall at the south end of the lobby—rather, what had been the glass wall before the tank went through it—and the half that was still outside was covered in graffiti. From a distance, we could make out JJG SUX and HI MOM. (Later, we heard that someone had sprayed JOHN 3:16 on the tank, too, but we refused to believe it.)
"I can't wait to hear the explanation for this," Cassie said.

GETTING THE EXPLANATION took a while. So did getting to our offices. The whole place looked like a frat weekend gone horribly wrong. It wasn't so much the vandalism as the media the vandals had worked in: paint, shaving cream, eggs, and Jell-O.
"College," I declared.
Busy navigating around debris, Cassie didn't react at first. "What?"
"Reminds me of college. Did I ever tell you about the trick with the envelopes?"
"Do I want to hear this?"
"You get one of those big manila envelopes and fill it up with shaving cream. Then you slide the open end under somebody's door and jump on the envelope. The stuff shoots out like it was in a cannon." Seeing Cassie's disapproving expression, I added, "You can use flour instead, but shaving cream really works better."
"Where did you go to college, again?" she demanded. "Was it even accredited?"
I would've had words with her about that, but then I caught sight of Chip and called him over. He seemed to be awfully happy to see us.
"Thank God," he said. "I've been looking for you two. Where were you all weekend?"
"Out of town. We needed a vacation," Cassie said. "Now I think we need another one. What happened here?"
He was awfully eager to share the bad news, too. A lot had happened, starting with what we'd seen on TV Saturday night. The Hardware City girl had been making an appearance at one of the Hardware City stores; Bennett thought it would be fun to have her give out the war posters; and when Jenner found out, he'd driven over to the store in a rage.
Fortunately, he'd taken his car instead of his tank, but that was only because the Hardware City girl was the only one who knew how to drive it.
So he'd crashed the party and punched out Bennett, Bennett punched back, the Hardware City girl's admirers got into it, and the situation deteriorated from there. When the police showed up and tried to separate them, Bennett and Jenner attacked them, too. They were both in big trouble now, charged with resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, creating a public nuisance, and several other things; Chip couldn't remember them all.
Cassie gestured impatiently. "OK, fine, but what about this? How did this happen?"
Well, he'd been getting to that. He didn't know quite how, but word had gotten out to all the employees of both agencies, and there'd been some unrest.
"Some unrest," I repeated.
Chip shrugged. "OK, a riot. Their goons came here; our goons went there; it got messy. That's what I hear, anyway. I was home at the time, I swear."
"What about the tank?" Cassie persisted. "How? Who? Why?"
"Nobody knows. We think a bunch of guys from Ad House pushed it. Seems kind of big to push, if you ask me, but—"
"Not if you have the keys," I said.
Cassie glanced at me sharply, and I knew she knew what I was thinking. The last time we'd seen the keys, the Hardware City girl had had them. Evidently, Kurt wasn't the only double agent in this war.
And maybe—just maybe—more than two could play that game.
"I've got an idea," I told Cassie.
"Oh, God," she said.

CHAPTER 13

NOTES: Anna Nicole Smith, who is famous for being famous, had a series on MTV when this chapter was written. I swear the Hardware City girl isn't based on her, but there may be parallels. // If you missed the 2001 Academy Awards and/or the huffing and puffing later, Bjork went dressed up like a swan. // No offense to the Osbournes, who are my very favorite TV characters these days.	

CASSIE HATED THE IDEA. She admitted that she didn't have a better one, but she still hated it.
"I don't see many options, Cass. It's going to be each against all before long if we don't do something."
"That's not what bothers me. It's the someone you want to do it to."
Patiently, I went over it again. The Hardware City girl was the real problem. Bottom line. No question. She had no incentive not to be the problem, though, because she was getting exactly what she wanted out of two men at the same time, along with the fun of starting a war. So we were down to three solutions: (1) let her have her war, (2) geld Jenner and Bennett, or (3) get rid of her.
I voted for (3). It would be the least messy. Also the most amusing.
"All we have to do is work her ego," I said. "If we convince her that she could be more than just a serial mistress—that she could be anything, even the next Anna Nicole Smith—"
"Devvy, that's cruel." She reconsidered. "Not that I care."
"—she'll be on the next plane to California, and it'll all be over. Except the shouting. But there's always shouting." I tried smiling at her, but it didn't work. "C'mon, Cass. You know it's worth a try."
"I still don't like it. What if it backfires? What if she really gets famous?"
"Of course it'll backfire. We want it to backfire. She'll sleep with everything in Hollywood, and eventually, she'll end up on some game show or 'Survivor: Detroit.' But only if she's lucky. So she gets punished too."
Unhappily, she weighed the pros and cons again. "I hope you know what you're doing."
So did I.

Tuesday Night

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, I took the Hardware City girl out to dinner. I want this on the record: It was business. I would sooner have had dinner with Jabba the Hutt. But she wouldn't even talk to me unless there was money involved—not hers—so I had no choice.
Cassie refused to go along. She said she'd go take a yoga class instead, and then some karate or maybe kickboxing, and God help me if I was five minutes late getting home, but I knew that anyway. So I figured nothing very bad would happen.
Other than having to have dinner with the creature in the first place, of course. But I'd make it quick.
And it would have been quick except that the girl couldn't be bothered to tell time. I'd gotten so bored waiting for her that I'd gone to wait in the bar, and by the time she finally showed, I'd gotten so bored waiting in the bar that I'd ordered a Scotch.
I hate Scotch. But at least it was fast.
"You're late," I informed her.
"So? They're not out of food yet, are they?"
"They might be out of tables. They had to give ours away on account of your being"—I checked my watch to verify—"forty-five minutes late. Now we get to start all over again. And it's a forty-five minute wait. Why don't we just forget—"
"Oh, pooh," she said. "Where's a waiter?"
It took less than a minute for us to get seated after she found a waiter. Four of them, actually. I hated to admit it, but the girl was good for something after all.

BY THE TIME THE ENTREES CAME, I'd heard her whole life story and was seriously considering ordering a fifth of Scotch and a straw. Ordinarily, I'd have felt sorry for anyone who'd lived twenty-two years without learning a thing. But it's hard to feel sorry for someone who has four waiters, two married men, and a few thousand college boys under her thumb. By then, it was all I could do to be civil.
Besides, I was antagonized enough by her outfit. Bjork in that swan at the Oscars was a wallflower by comparison. The Hardware City girl was wearing what appeared to be Spandex and dental floss, and probably not enough of the floss to hold the thing together all night. The waiters were strategically positioned around her, waiting for the laces to break when she took one deep breath too many.
Which she would at some point. I just knew it. The better not to see, I turned slightly sideways.
I might not have noticed the woman sitting alone at that table if she hadn't made such a production of hiding behind her menu. Even at that, I might not have paid much attention if she hadn't been wearing sunglasses. What kind of head case would wear sunglasses in a dark restaurant at night?
Then I noticed the long black raincoat, which looked like the one I had at home. Exactly like it, in fact. Not to mention the familiar-looking bracelets on her wrist. Suspicious, I checked the woman's left hand for the sapphire ring I'd given Cassie for Christmas.
She had it on her right hand instead. No doubt that was her idea of disguise. We were going to have to have a very long talk after dinner.
But in the meantime, there was no reason not to have some fun with her.
So I turned back around and smiled at the Hardware City girl. "Let's have that talk now. Want to scoot your chair a lot closer?"

I ALMOST HAD HER. I was thisclose. All I'd had to do was say "The Osbournes," and the Hardware City girl was all blonde ambition. She could do that, she said.
Of course she could, I told her. If they could be famous, there was no earthly reason why she couldn't be. Shouldn't be. Why not? As a matter of fact, I believed in her so much that I was willing to finance the plane tick—
At which point something hit me in the head. No damage—just a wadded-up packet of Equal. I was impressed by Cassie's aim, though.
"Where was I?" I asked.
The Hardware City girl reminded me about the plane ticket. She seemed to remember something about first-class, too.
"You'll meet more people in coach. The more networking you get in, the better. It's a long flight to California. And you're a friendly type, aren't you?" To start closing the deal, I moved my chair closer to hers. "Now, about when you think you can leave..."
This time, it was a napkin ring, and it landed right in my linguine.
"Gross," the Hardware City girl said, as though it were my fault.
I glanced over at Cassie. She was back behind the menu, feigning innocence.
"There must be some technical problem at that table," I told the girl. "The service items may be slippery tonight. I'll go speak to the headwaiter about it. If you'll excuse me..."
But I only got halfway out of the chair before another napkin ring hit the table—coming from another direction.
The girl glared at me. "What is it with you, anyway?"
It was a good question, one that I badly wanted an answer to myself. First, though, I had to find the other guilty party.
Who didn't take much finding. Kurt couldn't have been more obviously in disguise if he'd been dressed up like a swan. Reminding myself not to kill him right away, I walked over to his table and yanked off the white wig and semi-matching beard.
"Did you take these off Santa?" I asked him.
He snatched them back in a panic and put them back on. "Dammit, boss, you're blowing my cover."
"You blew it yourself. What's the big idea, throwing things at me?"
"Keep it down. I was trying to get your attention."
"Why?"
"You're getting too cozy with her. It doesn't look good. Jenner's here spying on her."
Somehow, that didn't surprise me. "And you're here spying on him?"
"Well, it's complicated."
"Just give me a scorecard."
"You don't really want to know."
"No. You're right. I really don't. Now, if you're done being a moron, I've got to get back to Her Worship."
Kurt smiled unpleasantly. "Which one? The Hardware City girl or Cassie?"
Definite personal foul, and I was about to flag him one for it when Jenner scuttled past us, headed straight for the girl. Was he kidding with that fake beard?
"When you said I don't want to know," I said, "you meant I don't want to know that Bennett's here too. Right?"
"He's not here."
"Good. Then we may get out of this restaurant alive." Warily, I watched the Hardware City girl pretend not to recognize Jenner. "I'll deal with you later. I've got to get back to—"
"I mean 'not here' as in not in this room," Kurt said.
"Perfect. Now, if you don't mind, I'll—"
"I didn't say he's not around."
Exasperated, I gave him a bad look. "Don't talk to me anymore, Kurt. Not ever."
"OK, boss. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Fine, I said. I would remember that later.

JENNER WASN'T HAPPY to see me back, and neither was the Hardware City girl. That made three of us.
Make that four. I got hit with another Equal packet as soon as I sat back down.
"That woman over there did that, Derry," Jenner said. "I saw her."
"It's just Cassie, sir. Ignore her."
"Did you do something to her?"
"Not yet," I said.
"It's been like this all evening," the girl complained. "People keep throwing things. I'm not having any fun."
Jenner put a hand way up her leg. "Well, I'm here now, honeybunch. Want to get out of here?"
Before I was done with her? Not a chance. Not after what I'd been through to get to this point. I'd almost had her on the plane. So I casually asked how Mrs. Jenner was, and mentioned that it had been a while since I'd talked to her.
Jenner suddenly remembered urgent business and scuttled off again. I watched the girl watch him go. There was no warmth in it at all, not that I'd expected any.
"So," I told her. "Sunny California. The glorious future. When did you want to leave?"
I'll never know what she would have said. Exactly at that moment, a Hummer drove into the restaurant.

CHAPTER 14

NOTES: The Hummer with the environmental license plate is real. It cut me off in rush-hour traffic a few days ago. // Successories makes "motivational" goods built around themes, such as Achievement. I prefer Despair Inc., especially for Conformity and Idiocy.	

THE GOOD NEWS was that nobody got hurt. That was also the bad news, in my opinion. They say God takes care of fools and drunks; Stu Bennett being both, he never got a scratch.
If he'd come anywhere near Cassie with that thing, though, I'd have totaled him.
"How many points for this?" she asked me.
Considering the question, I topped off her wineglass. We'd already paid for the bottle, and there was no reason not to finish it just because some idiot put a hole in the restaurant with a Hummer. "Off his driver's license or off his IQ?"
"He has no IQ points. Look at his sex life."
I winced. "Can we not?"
"Let's do the math on the license, just for fun," she said, ignoring me. "They've got him for public intoxication, property damage, reckless driving, being a public nuisance—"
"Also sleeping with one," I added.
"—and driving while stupid. I think that adds up to all ten points, don't you?"
"Sleeping with the Hardware City girl alone ought to be good for that. Wouldn't you say, sir?"
Jenner, who hadn't said a word since he joined us, only blinked. He still appeared to be in shock. It was too bad that he couldn't go home, but the police weren't letting witnesses leave just yet. Kurt's doing, I figured. He'd lost no time Telling All as soon the law showed up—in fact, he was still talking to a bored-looking cop who'd stopped taking notes fifteen minutes ago—and I had no doubt that All included the really good stuff.
"Don't pick on him right now," Cassie said. "He's got a lot of explaining to do in a few minutes. We don't want to make him think....Can Devvy pour you some wine, Mr. Jenner? Or did you have enough before you came here tonight?"
"I think he's sober, Cass."
"Unlike some people," she agreed.
We both gave Bennett another long hard once-over. He was slumped on what was left of the Hummer's right fender—and on the Hardware City girl, who was very busy holding him up. Affection had nothing to do with anything; she'd seen the flash of the police camera, and she'd wanted in front of it, that was all. The photographer was snapping her from every angle now, pretending that she was the critical part of the wreckage.
Which she was, actually.
I wondered whether the photographer would think to shoot the front license plate, too. Only Stu Bennett would buy an environmental license plate for a Hummer, and maybe only Cassie and I would appreciate the outrage, but we did. Cassie thought she'd like to have an enlargement for her office. "Better than Successories. I'd call it 'Buttheadedness.'"
"Language," I cautioned, glancing at Jenner.
"I am watching it. I don't think what I really wanted to say is a word."
"Whisper it to me."
She did. I frowned. It was a very bad made-up word—one that I'd used a few times myself. But before I could have at her about it, Jenner said something even worse.
"Excuse me, sir?" I asked.
He didn't answer, being fully engaged by whatever he was staring at. Cassie nudged me, smiled, and pointed.
Bennett had his hand up a certain part of the Hardware City girl, and the cameraman was getting it on film just fine.
"I'd call this one 'Salvage,'" Cassie said.

THE MERIDIAN HERALD CALLED IT "Adman Charged with Drunk Driving, Lewd Conduct" instead. They ran the photo on the front page the next morning, blurring the Hardware City girl's whatnot and Bennett's forearm, but any fool could suss out the geometry.
"I think things are getting out of hand," Cassie said at the breakfast table. "So to speak."
Not being at my best at that hour, I let it go.
"I'm not sure that was a joke," she added.
Neither was I. Little did we know that it was about to get a lot less funny.

Later That Morning

NOBODY TALKED ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE all morning. Heather said she kept changing radio stations on her way to work just to see whether all the DJs were telling jokes about it (they were), and Troy said he'd heard that customers were already lining up outside Hardware City stores (they were).
"Some advertising, huh?" he asked.
Briefly, I considered throwing him out of my office. Cassie and I had just seen the news footage on TV in Jenner's office—he hadn't turned up for work yet, but Sanchez had let us in so she could watch it too—and it was some advertising. Channel 10 was doing a remote from the Hardware City on Rucker Road, where the line went all the way around the parking lot. You couldn't buy that kind of publicity. You couldn't write the campaign that could generate those crowds.
You couldn't kill the creeps with the FREE BENNETT signs, either.
"Cheap stunts always backfire," I growled. "Never forget that."
Cassie, sitting on my chair arm, rubbed my back mock-reassuringly. "Little Miss Hardware City is cheap, all right. And I'll bet she knows lots of stunts."
Heather and Troy exchanged nervous glances. Finally, Troy smiled. "Still mad at you about last night, is she, Dev?"
"I was never mad," Cassie lied. "Disappointed, maybe. Disapproving, of course. But never actually m—"
"Drop it, Cass. I wouldn't touch her with a pitchfork. It was business. If you don't get over it, I'm going to..." Then I remembered that we weren't alone. "Don't you two have work to do? Somewhere else?"
"Nothing this fun," Heather said. "Go on."
Fortunately, the phone rang. Relieved, I reached for it—but Cassie grabbed it first. "Kerry Hospital for the Criminally Insane," she said brightly. "We're full up, but if you'll leave your name and number..."
Troy and Heather laughed, but I'd just seen Cassie's expression change, so I motioned to them for quiet. We all watched her listen. Then she hung up.
"What?" I asked her.
"He's in a coma."
I felt my stomach twist. "Who?"
"Stu Bennett," Cassie said. "Somebody shot him."

WALT'S TEAM STARTED the whodunit pool. The odds were even on Jenner, 3-1 on the Hardware City girl, and 10-1 the field, including Bennett's wife, where I would have put my money had Cassie not stopped me. Only creeps would bet on a thing like this, she said, and besides, she wasn't getting in till the pool got bigger.
Then we both started laughing. It wasn't funny, not at all, not even for a second, but it was all getting to be way, way too much. What could you expect us to do, anyway? We were still laughing when Monica popped in.
"Very progressive of you both," she said. "I'm pleasantly surprised. You have promise."
"It's just stress," Cassie snapped, "and go away."
"You may want to enroll her in charm school," Monica told me. "Or get her a nice leash for when you have to take her out in public. With a little bell on it, to warn people when she's coming—"
"Go away, Monica," I said.
"—so they can run for their lives. Do you want me to leave, or do you want to know who shot Bennett?"
Long silence.
"How much is the pool now?" I asked.
Cassie whacked me, but not very hard.
"Ask Vanessa. It was her idea." Monica shuddered slightly. "That Walt creature would have come up with it eventually, but—"
"Just tell us," Cassie said. "Then go away."
The demon muttered something about ingratitude but told us anyway.
"No," I said.
She repeated the name.
"That's why Vanessa started the pool," Cassie said, disgusted. "She knows nobody'll get it. So she knows she'll get to keep all the money."
Monica laughed. "Spoils of war, Cassandra."
"It's not a war," I said.
"Isn't it? Well, we'll see. They know about this pool over at Ad House now. They're not very amused. I expect you'll have company soon."
I didn't like the sound of that. "You told them?"
"Just your little friend Kurt. He's a terrible spy, you know. Can't keep a secret. How long do you suppose he'll last when the shooting starts?"
"There isn't going to be any more shooting," I insisted. "Bennett shot himself. You just told us that. Didn't you tell Kurt?"
The dead silence in the room answered the question. Of course not.
"I might have mentioned the pool on the Internet, too," Monica said. "Did you know the Hardware City girl has a fan club? With chat rooms? They think you're all betting on her. They find that disrespectful. Did you know most of her fans have guns?"
Furious—and suddenly frightened—I shoved my chair back so hard that it tipped over. "Damn you. You're the Devil."
"Demon," Monica corrected, "but thank you. Have a nice war."
She hadn't entirely vanished when we heard the first shots downstairs.

CHAPTER 15
One Day Later

WE COULDN'T GET ANYWHERE near the building (what was left of it) the next morning. The media had set up Camp J/J/G in the parking lot—just the usual tent city that you see on TV every time a big story breaks, but still something you never expect to see in person. Most of the press was harmless enough, though. What worried us was the law—everything from city police to sheriff's deputies to state troopers to SWAT teams, dozens upon dozens of them, all bristling with attitude and weapons. It wasn't that J/J/G didn't need protection, but it was a little late now.
What worried us even more was the military presence. Jenner and Bennett might have played with tanks and Hummers, but the National Guard had brought the real things, and there was no reason to doubt that they were loaded with live ammunition.
Cassie picked out a young-looking Guardsman and tried to explain that our offices were in the building, that we needed to go in to get our belongings, but it didn't work. Neither did flirtation. Finally, I pulled her back. They were just things; if we lost them, we lost them. We still had our lives. That was what counted.

WE'D SURVIVED, obviously. When the shooting had started downstairs the morning before, we'd flipped the fire alarm—J/J/G didn't have a moron alarm, so that would have to do—and cleared out down the back stairs. We were out of the building before the worst started. And we saw it all from the top of a TV truck, just like before. Only this time, it was for real.
This time, people died. That was real enough, wasn't it?
Eight people were gone: one of the security guards Jenner had hired; a couple of people from Ad House; but mostly fans of the Hardware City girl, most of whom were too drunk or high to know, or care, what they were shooting at. They were in all drawers downtown now. One truly sick son of a bitch had tried to set an elevator car on fire but set himself on fire first; he was in a drawer now, too.
Eight people gone. Like that. For nothing.
Monica and Vanessa said they were sorry. They said they never really had anything to do with the war anyway; they just wanted us to think they did, because it was more amusing that way. They said humans acted worse on their own than anything demons could make them do. They said they were just proving a point. Did we not get it?
"It was supposed to be paintball," Vanessa insisted. "Paintball and dead fish and stuff like that. It was supposed to be fun."
Cassie was too horrified to respond. And I was too angry. So Monica tried.
"I tried to stop it, Devlin. But there were too many of them. They were like animals. How was I supposed to know they were really crazy?"
In my opinion, the fact that they belonged to the Hardware City girl's fan club was an excellent clue. (The actual name, I learned later, was Slaves of Summer Showers. It would be pointless to comment on that.)
"It's that damn testosterone," Monica continued. "Worse than crack."
I could have killed her. If it had been possible to kill her, I really might have tried.
"You can't expect much better from them. They couldn't get real dates if they paid cash. Have you seen them?"
I'd seen Trekkies. Did that count? No, probably not. At least "Star Trek" was about something—not about some overdeveloped, underwitted vacancy in platform shoes. What made men lose their minds over that? I didn't understand the chemistry of it.
But then, chemistry was never my best subject. After all, it had taken a demon to get me to fall for Cassie, who was even better at making people lose their minds.
But that wasn't the point. The demon in question had just killed people, as surely as if she'd done them in herself, and if I had stopped her a long time ago, I could have stopped this.
"You're not listening, Devlin," Monica complained.
No, I wasn't, and I wasn't ever going to again. The games were over now. This was war.

WHAT CASSIE AND I DID THE REST OF THAT DAY isn't important. But you should know what a few other people did.
Jenner went to the hospital to try to visit Bennett in intensive care. I had to give him points for that. But I couldn't blame Bennett's wife for threatening to kill him, either.
Howard Abner released a statement from the Family Foundation, saying that the violence only proved that advertising is immoral.
Ad House's acting management fired Kurt. When Kurt called Jack to tell him the good news—that he was coming back to J/J/G—Jack fired him again.
As for the Hardware City girl, she was on that plane to California after all.
It had taken exactly one news cycle. She'd made her national-TV debut the night before, when the networks picked up the story from their local affiliates, and her phone never stopped ringing after that. Overnight, she'd acquired an agent, a manager, a publicist, three talk-show offers, and a magazine cover. Now she was on her way to LA to cash in.
She might as well have; she was out of a job by then anyway. That same day, Hardware City Stores had fired Ad House as its agency of record. Ad House's acting management canceled her contract something like thirty seconds later.
Upon hearing that the Hardware City girl was no longer the Hardware City girl, a despondent fan hanged himself. When word reached the ex-Hardware City girl that night, she shrugged.

WELL, ALL RIGHT, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT CASS AND I DID that day, because you'd probably have done the same. After we heard all this news, we went to the Pig & Whistle, gave my car keys to the owner for safekeeping, and did not drink responsibly.
I know we stayed lucid enough to talk about what to do, though, because when I went through my pockets the next morning, they were full of Pig & Whistle napkins, all covered with weird hieroglyphic scrawls that turned out to be my own handwriting. Cassie, who felt only marginally better than I did, said my writing always looked like that. She said she'd always wondered how I got out of third grade without learning how to write in cursive. She said a guinea pig stoned on peyote could write better than that.
Then she topped off my coffee, brought me an ice pack, and deciphered the notes for me. I knew she would if I let her get away with all the above, which I did. Sometimes, you just have to let Cassie get things out of her system.
After that, we talked it all over again.
"You're sure?" I asked her. "You'll go through it with me?"
"Don't even ask that question, Devvy. You know I will."
I did know it, actually. But I wanted to be sure. "We'll have to wait till the worst is over. The funerals, the trials..."
"Whatever. Whenever. I'm with you."
As little as I really felt like it in my condition, I smiled at her. "Do I deserve you?"
"No," Cassie said, "but you're stuck with me."
Likewise, I told her. Now all we had to do was get unstuck from a couple of demons.

CHAPTER 16
The Last Shot

NOTES: For anyone who's been deprived of Warner Bros. cartoons, Wile E. Coyote is forever getting hit on the head with Acme (A Company Manufacturing Everything) anvils. Sometimes, he falls off a cliff right after that; sometimes not. // Belinda the Witch first turned up in That Voodoo That You Do.	

THE SHOCK TOOK A FEW DAYS to wear off, and even then, it got worse first: Stu Bennett died. We all felt bad about that, but Jenner especially took it hard. The day J/J/G moved to the new temporary offices, he sat in his car outside the old building for hours, watching the workmen salvage what they could. When the foreman found out who he was, he tried to give Jenner the J/J/G sign from the lobby, but Jenner refused. It was over, he said.
I know this is true because Jenner told us himself. He'd called Cassie and me into his office the next day and told us he was quitting.
"I don't think you can quit, sir," I said.
"No? Why not?"
I was patiently walking him through the logic of it—for one thing, who would he resign to?—when Cassie lost patience and elbowed me.
"Never mind Devvy," she told him. "What she means is that we don't want you to quit. Isn't that right?"
She was giving me the You Let Me Handle This or Else look, so I said yes, it certainly was. Cassie went on.
"You've been under a lot of stress lately, Mr. Jenner. I don't think you really want to quit. Maybe you just need a vacation. What do you think?"
"I've already thought. I want to quit."
Cassie and I traded apprehensive glances. He was serious.
"You can't do that, sir," I insisted. "That would leave Jack Harper in charge. And he's still crazy."
I didn't mean to put it quite that way—it got out before I could stop it—but not even Cassie objected. Truth was, he was still crazy, and we all knew it.
Of course, Jenner was even worse, but we all knew that, too, and besides—
"I'm not leaving Harper in charge," Jenner said. "That's why I called you in here. I want you two to run the agency for me."
It must have been one of those Acme anvils, because Cassie and I went as stupid with shock as Wile E. Coyote.
Then, to my astonishment, Cassie started laughing. A second later, so did Jenner.
When Sanchez came in to see what all the commotion was about, we told her. She laughed so hard that she got hiccups.

AN HOUR OR SO LATER, we'd worked out a compromise: Jenner would take a vacation, as sort of a retirement test drive, and we would give his offer serious thought. That's what we told him, anyway. Personally, I wanted no more part of J/J/G, but Cassie reminded me that I could fire Jack, which was a real incentive.
As for the demons, they were divided on the question. Monica wanted to burn the new agency down; Vanessa wanted to keep it and promote herself to managing demon and fashion director.
But we were working on them, too.

WE'D ALREADY PUT PART ONE of the plan into effect. I still had Belinda the Witch's business card —the one she'd given us in New Orleans, the one that said "French Quarter Tours, White Magick, and Charms" — and with misgivings, I'd called the phone number. To my surprise, she answered. She said she knew I'd be calling. And she said she'd overnight a package to me later that day.
I really hated that witches used business cards and FedEx, but when I said so, she scolded me about being half-demon myself and then hung up.
Cassie didn't like that "half-demon" business, but I decided not to remind her that she probably was too. At any rate, she'd forgotten about it by the time the package came.
For a wack-job witch, Belinda was thorough. She'd sent us a voodoo shop in a box, along with instructions and a list of contacts. I was a little insulted that one of the contacts was a psychiatrist, but we were already going to be dealing with priests, so why not bring in secular religion too?
We divided up the amulets and the tasks, and that very night, we burned the first candle. Vanessa complained of a headache in the morning. That was all good. Monica, however, seemed to be fine. She said something about the rebound effect and then vanished for the rest of the day. That was all good, too.
Or so we thought. We didn't know that we weren't done with the human evils among us yet.

CASSIE AND I WERE JUST LEAVING a meeting on the executive floor. It hadn't been much of one; J/J/G's business had dropped off sharply since the riot, so there wasn't much work to do. Neither were there many people left to do it; unsurprisingly, nearly a third of the staff had resigned.
It was no consolation that Ad House was in the same boat—only leakier, what with having a dead president and all. Jenner had made noises about a merger, but Ad House's acting management was in no mood to consider it. Even though Stu Bennett's suicide had nothing to do with J/J/G, I suppose it was easier for Ad House to blame us than it was to blame themselves. The Hardware City girl had been their creature, and I wouldn't have wanted to take the rap for that either.
Be that as it may, we were leaving a meeting when the last trouble crossed the T of our path in the hall.
At first, it didn't register on me that Kurt wasn't supposed to be there. He'd been fired, for good. But after three years of working with someone, you get used to seeing him around the office, and you don't give it a second thought. As best I can remember, what I was thinking was that he was in trouble with me for ditching the meeting.
A split-second after I remembered that he didn't work for me anymore, another thing registered: He was wearing his militia camouflage disguise again. Now, why would he still be playing spyboy?
Irritated, I started to go after him, but Cassie yanked me back urgently.
"I'm not going to hurt him," I protested. "I'm only going to whack him upside the head."
She only held on tighter.
"What's with you?"
"I don't know," she said. "I just have a bad feeling."
Something about the way she said that gave me a bad one too. "Demons?" I asked, instinctively touching the talisman in my pocket.
At that, Cassie pulled out her own talisman. Then we both checked all the charms and crosses on our persons—all of them intact and apparently working.
"No," she finally said. "It's probably just—"
I think she said "my imagination," but that's when the shooting started again. And it was coming from the direction in which Kurt had been walking—from Jenner's office.

CHAPTER 17

NOTES: The mirror spell is based on a real one I learned in New Orleans (really), but I've changed all the details, so it probably wouldn't work.	

ON MY DARKEST DAYS, I liked to complain about the body count in advertising—figuratively complaining, of course. It had never occurred to me that any of us could be in real mortal danger. Actually, it had never seriously occurred to me that I was mortal, or that Cassie was. Death happened to other people. Mostly, it happened on TV, in the movies, and in the papers, to people I didn't know, in situations that I'd never be in, so there was no reason to give it much thought.
But death has a way of being inconvenient. Eventually, it finds out where you live, where you work, and who you know, and after that, it never really goes away.
The hard part is when it happens to someone you don't like.
Make that two someones.

I WASN'T AT THE TIME, but I'm grateful now that Cassie wouldn't let me go that morning in the hall. She called 911 on her cell and made me wait with her till the EMTs and the police came. From what we heard later, what had happened in Jenner's office was nothing we needed to see.
The story took a while to piece together. The way we finally understood it, Kurt had gone right past Rita Sanchez into Jenner's office. Like me, she'd forgotten for a moment that Kurt didn't work there anymore, so she'd made only a token protest about bothering the boss. The clients had left, so it was just Jenner and Jack in there; whatever Kurt wanted, she figured that they could deal with it on their own.
She hadn't seen the gun, because he'd still had it tucked under his shirt.
Kurt had fired all the shots. The first missed Jenner, but he was dead on target with the rest. When Jack jumped in front of Jenner, Kurt dropped him with two shots. Then he turned the gun on himself. The police weren't sure why he hadn't fired at Jenner again—he still had two bullets left—but maybe he'd been after Jack all along.
That's what Cassie and I thought, anyway. Neither of them had been right since they'd wound up in bed together that one night. True, they hadn't been right before that, but whatever had happened must have been more than they could handle—just like the Hardware City girl had been more than Jenner and Bennett could handle.
In the end, then, it had all come down to sex. It was only sex, but it had cost 11 lives.
"I guess we're not the only ones who have demons," Cassie said.

JENNER CLOSED THE AGENCY for a week, and we all went to the funerals. Jack's was hard ("I know he was an SOB," his widow told us, "but I liked being Mrs. SOB"), but Kurt's was just about impossible. After the graveside service, Heather, Chip, and Troy went off to find a bar—any bar—and Cassie and I decided to go for a very long walk.
Cemeteries are peaceful, as a rule. And they focus your priorities in nothing flat.
We'd just crossed into the old section when we saw our demons perched on monuments like evil-tempered ravens, waiting.
"Ignore them," I told Cassie. "We'll go the other way."
But no sooner did we change direction than they changed tombstones. I figured we could play this game all morning, so it was better just to have it out. Sticking one hand in my raincoat pocket to make sure that the talisman was still there, I walked over to Monica and waited for her to say something.
She didn't. Neither did Vanessa.
We could play that game all morning, too. I decided to pass. "Ten seconds," I told Monica.
"I think I'll take more," she said. "We have so much to talk about now. Your little rebellion, for one thing. Do you really think those ridiculous charms are going to work?"
I shrugged. "Haven't seen you around the house lately. Sounds to me like they're working."
"You'll run out of candles eventually."
If that was what she wanted to think, fine. After we'd burned the second one, Vanessa had quit the premises, too, and Cassie got right on the phone to New Orleans to order a case of candles. We were expecting them any day now.
"You can go back to Hell," Cassie told her. "We're going home. Come on, Devvy."
Monica laughed for no reason that I could see. "How dull you are. You've just been to a funeral—a funeral for someone you wanted to drop dead—and all you can think about is going home. When you should be out celebrating."
As badly as I wanted to argue back, something told me to keep quiet. A glance at Cassie confirmed it. Grimly, I felt for something else in my pocket and waited.
"Humans are worse than we are," Monica continued. "Just look at the two of you. You wish bad things would happen to people you don't like, and when they do, you feel guilty. You don't care about people while they're alive, and when they die, you feel guilty. What would you call that, Vanessa?"
"Guiltiness," Vanessa said promptly.
My demon made an impatient gesture. "Hypocrisy."
Vanessa sniffed. "Whatever."
"Hypocrisy," Monica repeated. "You hate it in other people because you refuse to see it in yourselves. Which is more hypocrisy. And also pride—which is a deadly sin, Devlin; you may remember that from Sunday school. Not that I'm complaining. You've made wonderful progress with that. At this rate, in a few more months, there'll be no telling you from Lucifer. And then, of course, I'll have you. Gives a whole new meaning to the expression 'Pride goeth before a fall,' doesn't it?"
"Don't listen to her, Devvy," Cassie said softly.
Monica laughed. "Don't listen to her. You know I'm right. You may be in some danger of examining your conscience right now, but we both know it won't matter. If someone has to die to inconvenience you enough to examine your conscience at all—"
"Go to Hell," I said, meaning every word for the first time in my life.
"—you have no conscience to examine in the first place. But we both know that, too. Do you think you have a demon by accident?"
"Now," I told Cassie.
We pulled out the little mirrors, aimed them, and said the words. Just as Belinda the Witch had promised, something slammed into the mirrors and bounced off with stunning force. Both demons shrieked and vanished just ahead of whatever it was—which was nothing to fool around with, because it tipped over a row of massive granite markers like so many dominoes.
We only noticed that after we collected our wits and got back up; the recoil had thrown us several feet backward. Being a witch, of course, Belinda the Witch hadn't warned us about that part.
"Are they gone?" Cassie asked.
I shook my head. "It's just a deflecting spell. But it'll buy us some time. Want to take that walk now?"
"You must be insane, honey," she said.
I admitted that she had a point, and we started off toward the car. Neither of us said anything for a while.
For one thing, I was busy wondering whether Monica was right.

Afterword

THERE'S A GREAT LINE in the first Addams Family movie about the human spirit: It's hard to kill, even with a chainsaw. I wouldn't say that Jenner's and Bennett's war was a chainsaw, exactly, but even with all the damage it did, it didn't kill our spirits. J/J/G reopened; we all went back to work; and in time, we got back to the business of living.
That went double for Cassie and me. We got on with it—and we also burned a candle every night, to be safe. We knew the demons would be back. They always came back. They were like roaches that way. But this time, we'd be ready for them.
We hoped.

To be continued in The Devil You Know
(c) 2003, K. Simpson