She refused the card and pointed toward the exit. “Get out. Now.”

The door slammed behind us right as we made it into the hallway. Locks clicked and chains slid into place. We stared at the door for several moments, then walked to the elevator in silence.

Disappointment and frustration flooded my thoughts as I watched a hobbled elderly woman using a walker at the opposite end of the dim hallway. Cindy definitely knew something about the original abductions. More than something. “You read her feelings. Tell me what you think,” I said.

Lon pressed the elevator button and pocketed his business card. “She was scared out of her mind. Someone wouldn’t be that afraid just casually remembering a town terror from childhood.”

“Someone would be terrified, however, if they’d encountered the town terror,” I said.

Lon nodded. “She was on the original list and was replaced at the last minute. She could’ve been captured by the Snatcher and either escaped or was released.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t she go to the police?”

“Too scared, maybe? I’ll tell you what, though—she was lying about her father getting a job. My guess is that her folks moved away to get her out of town and protect her from the Snatcher . . . maybe also to spare her from being in the public spotlight.”

“If any of that’s true, then she might know stuff, Lon—where the Snatcher took them the first time, what he did, what he said. We’ve got to get her to talk. She might be the only person alive with firsthand knowledge of all this.”

“She won’t talk,” Lon said shaking his head definitively. “We scared her, and she doesn’t trust us. If we want to get information out of her, we’re probably going to have to use magick—maybe one of your medicinals.”

I grimaced. “That seems icky. If she’s been through some sort of torture, I don’t want to traumatize her again.”

Lon sighed, heavy and deep. “You’re right. Maybe we can come up with a better way. In the meantime, I’m thinking we should find a death dowser.”

“A what?”

“An Earthbound who can find dead bodies.”

“Dead bodies . . . You want to find the original group of kids?”

“I don’t want to, but it might help. Might lead to Bishop or give us some clues. The bodies of the original kids aren’t at Sandpiper Park—we know that much. Police dug up the whole park looking for them. So if they aren’t there . . .”

“Then maybe wherever they are will lead us to Bishop,” I finished. “But what if they aren’t dead? What if they’re alive somewhere and have had their memories stripped or something?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. But we have to try, and a death dowser would help. Earthbounds with that knack are extremely hard to find, though. Haven’t heard of one in La Sirena, so we’ll need to put some feelers out here in Morella.”

And by “we” he meant me. Seeing hundreds of Earthbounds walk in and out of Tambuku every week, you’d think that I’d have heard about somebody. I strained to recall any customers who’d mentioned a knack like this in the past. Though I was coming up blank, I could, however, think of one person who might be able to help track someone down. And unless hell froze over, I’d see him later tonight at the bar.

My shift dragged. During a lull, I found myself staring at a sign behind the bar. Two hooks on the top held changeable plastic numbers, and the bottom read __ MORE DAYS TILL HALLOWEEN in orange and black script. Since it was after midnight, and therefore officially a new day, I swapped out the 9 for an 8. Eight days remaining until Halloween, nine until All Saints’ Day, and three since the second kid went missing. My mind kept churning up images of Cindy Brolin and how she acted when we brought up the recent disappearances. She looked so . . . haunted. What did she know, and how could we persuade her to tell us?

As I was pondering this, a regular entered the bar, his arrival announced by the squawk of the motion-sensor toucan.

Bob.

Just the Earthbound I wanted to see. Well, the Earthbound I was forced to see every bloody night I worked. With slicked-back dark hair and an endless supply of short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts—tonight’s was blue, with Sailor Jerry–style pinup girls—Bob waved to a few other regulars before bellying up to the bar. I prepped his drink before he got there: a Singapore Sling with extra Cherry Heering. If I needed an important favor from any of the other regulars, I might have considered slipping in a drop of one of the magical medicinals that I kept hidden in a small compartment behind the bar, a little something to make them more compliant. Bob, however, was my number one fan. No push needed. A few weeks ago, he was depressed for days when I told him I was serious about Lon.

“Cadybell, Cadybell, trap me in your sweet summer spell,” Bob said dramatically as he spun toward me on the barstool. He drummed his hands on the bamboo edge, then dug into a wooden bowl of rice crackers.

“It’s autumn, you know. Not summer,” I said. “You need a new poem.”

He offered up a lopsided grin in response. One of Bob’s eyes was a wee bit lazy. You didn’t notice it right away; it was only after chatting with him for a couple of minutes that you realized something just didn’t quite focus on you. Even so, it was his bulbous, red drunkard’s nose that stole all the attention.

He wasn’t the easiest guy to look at, and he was mildly irritating to talk to. But he seemed to know just about every Earthbound in Morella, and I trusted him. After two years of hearing about the minutiae of his daily life, it was kinda hard not to.