I'm itching to turn and look out the window, to see if Jack's still there. But if I do, she might see him. Or Larsson might see him while she's stripping the sheets on my bed. Anything they see here, Quincrux will pluck from their heads, as sure as sin.

"So, how are your wounds? Do they pain you?"

"My side hurts a little. I'm still numb in my hand."

"You'll be starting physical therapy soon."

"Yeah. That's what they tell me."

Underneath Paranoia, she writes Extremely wary- understandable-history of abuse.

Jesus. This woman. I should make her stand up and dance a jig or something. Maybe start talking only in gibberish and have a seizure so she can get a taste of her own medicine.

Ah.

I can't do that.

Damn.

"You don't seem to want to talk about your wounds. Is the memory too painful?"

"What memory?"

"The Dubrovniks' house? When they wounded you."

"No. That memory isn't painful at all. The girl is safe now, and the woman got what she deserved. And he'll get what he deserves soon."

"Surely you must still have strong emotions regarding their capture of you."

"They didn't capture me. I told this to the police. We..." Ooops. Almost let it slip. "I went there to save the girl. I broke in."

More notes: Persists in delusion.

"Where did you get your degree, lady? I am not persisting in my delusion. What exactly do you think happened there?"

"What I think isn't the point of this conversation."

Responds to memory of incidence with aggression.

I throw up my hands. Either they're trying to keep me here, or they're trying to get me out of here as fast as possible and into the psych ward. I'm not an idiot. I read books. I watch the Discovery Channel. No one keeps a kid without health insurance in the hospital for this long unless there's something to gain. But what's being gained, I don't think I'll ever know. I don't even have the energy to dig around in her skull to find out.

Something's going on behind the scenes. And the fact that my face is on CNN every fifteen minutes isn't helping. Lucky for me, I'll be gone before it all plays out.

I shouldn't do it. I really shouldn't do it. But I do. I make her add a little something at the bottom of her notebook page.

I am a stupid cow.

She's not. But damn, she sure doesn't listen for a shrink.

TWENTY-ONE.

By the time Larsson and Kristeva leave, it's night and I can't see if Jack's out there anymore. I have to assume he's squatting in the hospital complex, probably on a roof, but I'll have to wait before I know for sure.

The orderly brings a tray with stuff that looks like food but doesn't taste like it. I leave it on the rolling table, untouched.

I'm lying in bed when the meaty officer goes on break and is replaced by the skinny, weasel-faced policeman. He comes into the room, makes sure I'm here.

"Hey, sport. How ya feeling?"

"Fine. When are they sending me back to Arkansas?"

"No idea, kid. The news says you might stay here."

"In the hospital?"

"Nah. North Carolina."

"Why?"

"Trial."

Like hell. I'll never get to the trial. Quincrux will stop me before I have a chance. Spirit me away or wipe my brain.

All signs point to get-the-hell-outta-here.

I let the weasel get his coffee and read the paper, kick back in his chair in front of my door. I'll let him have his nap and chat with the nurse whose thighs don't whisk. She's got nice legs for a nurse. I can give him that much at least. Because, after I use him, he probably won't be trusted to be a policeman anymore.

It sucks, but that's the way it's got to be.

The sun hasn't come up yet. It's lighter in the east, above the winking, electric glow of the hospital complex. There's a forest of buildings out there, and Jack could be watching from the roof of any of them.

A nurse comes in to peek on me, and I have to take her over. I have to, if I want to escape. To survive. I don't have time to pick and choose.

It's not an easy thing, possessing a person. I don't mean simply skimming the surface, reading her thoughts. I mean really getting in there and using her body, looking through her eyes, speaking with her mouth. Walking. Turning doorknobs. Even the simplest action produces so much sensory input, it's hard to retain control. Sometimes I find it hard to believe Quincrux could ever have controlled the whole yard at Casimir, but other times ... That's like-I don't know-godlike power if he can do it. The witch's number of five seems more realistic, though still a bit out there. I'm so new to all of this. Maybe the trick is to enjoy it.

And what if one of the people were from Maryland?

But more than my unease at possessing people, I don't like that while you're in there, they have to go. You have to boot them out into the wide blue yonder. What does that leave them open to?

I'm not really comfortable doing that to this nurse. She's just doing her job. She came to work tonight never expecting to have someone go all Exorcist on her.

But I have to see Vig again. I have to see Coco. Even Moms and Booth.

I don't want my life to end here. Snuffed out by Quin-crux because I won't give him what he wants-because I won't give him Jack.

I dig around in her head until I know what I need to know. I turn her around and march her out to the break room down the hall. I have her take from her locker an extra set of the green pajamas all the hospital staff wear. I'd rather they be a man's size, but I'll take what I can get. Anything is better than trying to escape with my butt hanging out.

From her wallet she removes her cash: forty-six dollars. No one carries around cash these days. Then she checks other lockers until she finds one that isn't locked. Inside are a blue-jean jacket and a pair of tennis shoes.

As she's walking back to my room, I'm struck by a moment of dizziness and have to put out my arms. Possession is like having two TV shows on at once and trying to follow both stories. Your consciousness is always tugging at you to reenter your own body, but you're also getting input from your...

Your host. That's what Quincrux called it. Your vessel.

God, I'm everything my mother said I am. And worse. So much worse.

I'm the devil now.

The nurse brings me the clothes, the shoes, and the money-nodding and smiling at Weasel on the way into my room-and lays it all down on my bed. Weasel never suspects.

I walk her out of the room, down the hall, past the nurses' station.

"Hey! Lacy? Where are you going? We need you to check on Mrs. Peterson in thirteen. Lacy?"

It's like moving a boulder, but I make her turn her head and say, "Okay. Be right back."

It sounds a little mushy-mouthed, to be honest. But I don't have a lot of practice at this.

"Are you okay? Lacy?"

Walking is easier than talking. I get her legs working again and move her over to the elevators. Raise arm, press down arrow.

"I'm fine." That sounded better. Less mushy-mouthed. For a moment I'm amazed by the feel of my tongue forming the words. Her tongue. It's hard to keep our bodies straight.

The two night nurses stare at me, and I stare back.

"Just gotta check something." That bit actually sounds good.

The doors slide open, and I move inside. The line between puppet and puppeteer has disappeared now. Once I'm sure the elevator is heading down, I let her go. I have to. I could get trapped in here.

This is the worst part, really. Once you take hold of someone, the body doesn't want to let you go. But Lacy is out there, hammering to get back in. And now that I'm thinking in her body, using her brain, referring to myself as I while wearing her skin, my... awareness ... my soul, even ... doesn't want to leave her.

I'm descending, rocking back and forth in the elevator carriage and watching the numbers decrease over the door. On the inside, incarcerado, it's a fight to unclench. To let go.

That bit of me that is purely me twists and frets to be let loose. And Lacy screams to be let back in. She hammers at me, she writhes and squirms.

Suddenly I'm out and gasping back in my room.

"Thank you. I'm so sorry."

Nothing. She's gone. I only have a few moments until she puts everything together. God, I hope I haven't infected her with this ... horror. This terrible gift.

No more time for remorse. Only time for rock and roll.

The Weasel is even harder to possess. Has he been to Maryland? To someplace nearby? Does that matter? Do the witch and Quincrux have the same problems with Marylanders as I do? Or can they overcome it, the mysterious rider?

Weasel's older, for one, and his grip on his body is more tenacious, maybe. I have to force myself in, bully my way through. And the Weasel is strong. It's a fight. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he instinctively knows he doesn't want it to continue. He throws up defenses. His body tightens, and he bites his tongue, hard, until blood comes and the pain blossoms, bright and overwhelming, and I lose ground. I feel my control slip. I'm sliding back to my body.

But the pain dies, and I have real reason to fear that this is my only way out. So I have to get rough. MeShreve closes his eyes, and I tear myself away from my birthbody. I hurl myself through the darkness between lights, and I invade Weasel. On all fronts, I attack. I fill his senses, his eyes, his skin. He can hear and taste me. I fill his mind with me, my essence, that part of me that is nothing but me-not body, not habit, not blood or flesh, but me. Solely. And I hurt him. While he fights me, I race through the chambers of his mind. I find his moments of weakness. His hurts and betrayals. His failures and losses. All of it, I force on him. I make him relive it.

He flees into the beyond. And I have control.

We stand. MeWeasel remains outside the door, and MeShreve walks out, clad in the new clothes that are tight in the legs and crotch. The shoes are too large, making walking more difficult.

But once those parts of me near each other- MeShreve and MeWeasel both outside my room -we/I turn and walk toward the stairwell down the hall. Feet match time. Arms swing as one.

"Hey! He's not allowed out of his room."

Nurse Larsson stands down the hall, by the nurses' station.

"Hey! Jimmy! He's not allowed..."

I turn my heads and look back. She's still, a dazed look on her face. She shudders. And then she smiles.

Walking forward, she limps.

"Where are you going, Mr. Cannon?" It's strange to hear Quincrux's inflections coming from Larsson's mouth. Her voice is high, so squeaky. I thought that was affected. I guess not.

But she doesn't sound bored. Quincrux has finally invested himself in something-catching me. But he isn't assaulting me mentally. So, what does that mean?

Now is not the time to chat with Quincrux. Now's the time to haul ass.

It's hard to get both parts of me to move in unison, but once I do, I clear the twenty yards to the stairwell fast and come to an abrupt stop. MeWeasel yanks open the door, steps through. MeShreve follows after.

I take the steps two at a time. Two flights up I have a moment of vertigo and feel a hitch in MeShreve's side. The sutures have been removed for a week, but I'm still sore and it feels like something might have ripped in there.

We keep climbing up the stairwell. At the top, the door is locked.

A sign proclaims, ROOF ACCESS FORBIDDEN. The phrase is repeated in Spanish. Thoughtful.

I shove at the push-bar release. It depresses, but the door remains unmoved.

MeShreve sits down. Leans back into the cinderblock walls. Closes his eyes. Below, the sound of feet echoes up the stairwell. Doors are opening. I transfer all my awareness into MeWeasel.

I throw myself at the door, shoulder first, once. Twice. The pain is outrageous and huge. It looks so easy on TV. I kick at the center of the door. Nothing except jarring vibrations running up and down my frame.

I'm about to throw myself against the door again when I remember.

I pull the gun from Weasel's holster. I haven't had a lot of experience with pistols, but I know most guns have a safety. I find it and flip the switch.

"Mr. Cannon!" The voice echoes up the stairwell. This is the real Quincrux speaking, not one of his drones. "This is futile. There are no exits from the roof. Either you realize this and know something I don't know-which I find highly unlikely-or I have you trapped."