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doll.
But those weren't pins sticking into it. Rather, they were a hundred thin
wires leading out of it. Out, and into a board with an equal number of neatly
spaced and labeled lights set into it... and even as I watched, one of the
tiny piezo crystals Christophe had so carefully embedded into his creation
reacted to the subtle change in pressure of the wax and the corresponding
light blinked on—
"Right wrist," Maxwell snapped.
"Got it," Pak said. Belatedly, I turned back to my station at the TV, just in
time to see the President's arm wave in one of his trademark wide-open
gestures. The arm swung forward, hand cupped slightly toward the camera... and
as it paused there my eyes focused on that hand, and despite the limitations
of the screen I could almost imagine I saw the slight discolorations under his
neatly manicured fingernails.
Would any of the reporters in the ballroom be close enough to see that?
Probably not. And even if they did, they almost certainly wouldn't recognize
Christophe's oddly translucent wax for what it really was.
Or believe it if they did. Doll-to-person voodoo was ridiculous enough;
running the process in reverse,
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person-to-doll, was even harder to swallow.
The picture shifted to Danzing. "He's off-camera again," I announced, getting
my mind back on my job.
The battles raged for just over an hour—the President's and Senator's
verbal battle, and our quieter, behind-the-scenes one. And when it was over,
the two men on the stage shook hands and headed backstage... and because I
knew to look for it, I noticed the slight limp to the President's walk.
Hardly surprising, really—though I've never tried it, I'm sure it's very
difficult to walk properly when your socks are full of Haitian dirt.
—
The Secret Service dropped me out of the investigation after that, so I don't
know whether or not they ever actually recovered the doll. But at this point
it hardly matters. The President's clearly still alive, and by now the stolen
doll is almost certainly inert. I haven't seen Pak or Christophe since the
debate, either, but from the excited way they were talking afterwards I'd
guess that by now they've probably worked most of the bugs out of the new
voodoo diagnostic technique that Maxwell came up with that night. And
I suppose I have to accept that all medical advances, whether they make me
uncomfortable or not, are ultimately a good thing.
And actually, the whole experience has wound up saving me a fair amount of
money, too. Instead of shelling out fifteen dollars for a haircut once a
month, I've learned to do the job myself, at home.
I collect and destroy my fingernail clippings, too. Not paranoid, you
understand; just cautious.
Banshee
The bar was a small, roadside spot nestled almost invisibly among the
mountains of south-central
Wyoming. It had probably once been a tourist trap of sorts. I guessed, before
newer roads had drained traffic away and left it struggling to survive on the
flyspeck towns loosely grouped around it. How it was managing to do so I
couldn't guess; even at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon a decent bar ought
to have had more than three cars huddled together in its parking lot. In my
mind's eye I envisioned an interior to the place as dreary as its exterior,
aching with a sense of failure, and the thought of facing that nearly made me
pass it up. But I hadn't eaten since breakfast and my stomach had been
rumbling for the past two hours... and besides, perhaps my patronage would
help a little. Pulling my old rust bucket into the lot, I climbed out into the
hot sun and went inside.
I'd been right about the bar being largely deserted; but on the plus side, the
decor was not nearly as depressing as I'd feared it would be. Old and somewhat
faded, it had nevertheless been well cared for.
Which, coincidentally, was how I viewed the waitress who reached my side as I
settled down at my chosen table. "Afternoon," she said with a smile as she set
down a water glass in front of me. "Our special today is home-barbequed
chicken with..."
"Sounds good," I agreed, when she'd finished her description, "but I think
I'll just have a medium-rare burger and a glass of beer."
"You got it," she said, smiling again as she marked it down on her pad and
moved back toward the kitchen. The chicken actually had sounded better, but
the burger was cheaper, and taking that instead would enable me to shift a
little more of my limited resources into her tip. Silly, perhaps, but I'd
always felt that a little sacrificial scrimping was well worthwhile when it
would help brighten someone's day.
Taking a long swallow of water, I moved the glass across the table and pulled
out my map. I'd need to find a motel eventually, but I wanted to get at least
a little closer to where I'd be hiking before I quit for the day. If I picked
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up Eleven and got at least to Woods Landing... "Hey! You!"
I looked up to see the barman waving the phone in my direction, an odd
expression on his face. "Phone's for you," he announced.
My tongue froze against my teeth. "It... what?" I managed.
His expression grew a little odder. "Your name Sinn?"
My stomach tightened against its emptiness. No one knew where I was... which
meant no one could possibly have called me. But someone had. "Yes... yes it
is," I told him. "Adam Sinn."
"Yeah, well, guy wants to talk to you. C'mon—I don't want my phone tied
up all afternoon."
I got my legs under me and walked over... and halfway there the only
conceivable possibility clicked into place. After nearly a year... For a
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