"What do you want?" Beck asked his visitors, all the while looking at his wife with a troubled face and a troubled mind.

"We want you to let us search your car," Andy said. He'd gotten closer while Alcee was staring at his wife. "And just in case you think I'd plant something in your car, we'd like it if you'd let this young lady do the search."

"You think I'm taking drugs?" Alcee's head swung around like an angered bull's.

"Not for a second," Mr. Cataliades reassured him. "We think you have been . . . bewitched."

Alcee snorted. "Right."

"Something is wrong with you, and I think you know it," Mr. Cataliades said. "Why not let us check this simple thing, if only to rule it out?"

"Alcee, please," whispered Barbara.

Though he was obviously unconvinced there was anything in his car, Alcee agreed with a nod to the search. He withdrew his car key from his pocket and unlocked the car doors with the electronic key without moving from the front door. He gestured with the hand holding the key. "Knock yourself out," he told the girl. She gave him a bright smile and was in the car so fast she seemed to be a blur.

The three men moved closer to Alcee Beck's car.

"Her name's Diantha," Mr. Cataliades told Alcee Beck, though Alcee hadn't asked out loud.

"Another fucking telepath," Alcee said, with an ugly sneer. "Just like Sookie. Our town didn't need the one we got, much less another one."

"I'm the telepath. She's much more. Watch her work," said the part-demon proudly, and Alcee felt compelled to watch the white hands of the girl as she patted and probed every inch of his car, even leaning close to smell the seats. He was glad he kept his car clean. The girl - Diantha - slid bonelessly from the front seat to the back and then froze in place. If she'd been a dog, she'd have been on point.

Diantha opened the back door and emerged from the car with something clutched in her left hand. She held it up so they could all see it. It was black and stitched with red, and it was mounted on twigs. It had a vague resemblance to the omnipresent dream catchers sold in fake Indian stores, but it emanated something much darker than the desire to make a buck.

"What is that thing?" Alcee asked. "And why is it in my car?"

"Sookie saw it get thrown in, when you had your car parked in the shade at Merlotte's. Someone in the woods tossed it through your window." Andy tried not to sound relieved. He tried to sound as though he'd been confident all along that such an object would be found. "It's a charm, Alcee. Some kind of hex thing. It's made you do stuff you really don't want to do."

"Like what?" Alcee didn't sound disbelieving, just startled.

"Like persecute Sookie when the evidence is far from conclusive that she is guilty. She has a good alibi for the night of Arlene Fowler's murder," Mr. Cataliades said, reasonably. "And also, I believe you haven't been yourself at home since the murder." He looked at Barbara Beck for confirmation. She nodded violently.

"Is this true?" Alcee asked his wife. "I've been scaring you?"

"Yes," she said out loud, and took a step back, as though she feared he would sock her in retaliation for her honesty.

And with that clear evidence that Barbara feared him for the first time in their twenty years of marriage, Alcee had to admit that something was wrong with him. "I'm still mad, though," Alcee said, sounding more grumpy than enraged. "And I still hate Sookie, and I still think she's a murderess."

"Let's see how you feel once we destroy this thing," Mr. Cataliades said. "Detective Bellefleur, do you have a lighter?"

Andy, who smoked the occasional cigar, slid a Bic out of his pocket and handed it over. Diantha squatted to the ground and laid the charm on some dry grass blown out by the Beck lawn mower. She flicked the Bic, smiling happily, and the charm caught fire immediately. The blaze flared up much higher than Andy would have guessed, since the charm itself had been small.

Alcee Beck staggered back when the flame began to catch hold, and by the time the charm had burned away, he'd sunk to his knees in the doorway, clutching his head. Barbara called for help, but by the time Andy hustled over to him, Alcee was already trying to get to his feet.

"Oh, my Lord," he said. "Oh, my Lord. Help me to the bed, please." Andy and Barbara steered him back inside the house while Mr. Cataliades and Diantha waited outside.

"Good work," said Mr. Cataliades.

Diantha laughed. "Kid'swork," she said. "Iknewwhereitwasafterasecond. Ijustwantedtomakeitlookgood."

Mr. Cataliades's pocket buzzed. "Oh, bother," he said quietly. "I've ignored it as long as I can." He took out his phone. "I've got a text message," he told Diantha, in the same way another man might have said, "I've got herpes."

"Who from?"

"Sookie." He studied the screen. "She wants to know if we know who tied up Copley Carmichael and left him in her hidey-hole," he told Diantha.

"What'sahidey-hole?" she asked.

"I have no idea. You would have told me if you'd captured Carmichael?"

"Sure," she said, nodding vigorously. She added proudly, "InaNewYorkminute."

Her uncle ignored the expression. "My goodness. I wonder who put him there."

"Maybewe'dbettergosee," Diantha suggested.

Without further ado, the two part-demons got into their van and drove back to Hummingbird Road.

SOOKIE'S HOUSE

I was glad to see Diantha and Mr. C.

"We un-bewitched Alcee Beck," Diantha said slowly, by way of hello.

"There really was a voodoo doll in his car? Dang, it's good to be right."

Enunciating carefully, Diantha said, "Not a voodoo doll. A complex charm. I found it. I burned it. He's in bed. Okay tomorrow."

"Does he not hate me anymore?"

"I wouldn't go that far," said Mr. Cataliades. "But I'm sure he'll admit you couldn't have killed Arlene Fowler and that he was wrong to drive the investigation in a false direction. The district attorney is going to be embarrassed, too."

"As long as they know I couldn't and didn't kill Arlene, they can dance naked on the courthouse lawn and I'll show up to clap," I said, and Diantha laughed.

"To get back to your query via text message," Mr. Cataliades said. "We don't know who is responsible for capturing Amelia's father or for placing him in . . . whatever you've found him in."

"My vampire hole," I explained. "See? In here." I led the way into the bedroom and opened the closet. I knelt with some difficulty and reached in for the hidden lever Eric had had installed. It hitched up the edge of the false floor. Then it was easy to work my fingers under the edge and hoist it up, especially when Mr. Cataliades knelt beside me to help. The lid came up easily and we swung it out of the closet. We looked down into Copley Carmichael's face. He wasn't as angry as before, but that might have been because he'd spent some more hours in there. The hole had been made for a night's shelter for a vampire, not for a permanent resting place. An adult could lie down in it in a fetal position, without curling up tightly. At least it was deep enough that he could sit up with his back against the wall.

"Luckily for him, he is not a tall man," said Mr. Cataliades.

"Small in stature, large in venom," I said. Mr. C chuckled.

"He'sasnakeallright," Diantha said. "He'sinprettybadshape."

"Shall we hoist him out?" Mr. Cataliades suggested.

I moved out of the way so Diantha could take my place. "I'm not much up to hoisting," I explained. "Shot."

"Yes, we heard," Mr. C said. "Glad you're better. We've been tracking various people."

"Okay, you'll have to fill me in," I said. For two creatures who'd come to help me, they were certainly matter-of-fact about my getting shot. And who'd they been tracking? Had they been successful? Where had they spent the night before?

And where was Barry?

With no apparent effort, the two pulled Copley Carmichael up out of the hole and propped him against the wall.

"Excuse me," I said to Mr. Cataliades, who was looking at Amelia's father with a speculative gleam in his eye. "Where is Barry Bellboy?"

"He detected a familiar brain signature," Mr. Cataliades said absently. He checked Copley's pulse with a large finger. Diantha squatted to peer into the captive's eyes curiously. "He told us he'd catch up with us later."

"How did he tell you this?"

"Via text messaging," Mr. Cataliades said distastefully. "While we were following a false trail for Glassport."

My teeth were on edge. "Should we be worried about him?"

"He's got his car and a cell phone," Diantha said slowly and carefully. "And he has our numbers. Uncle, did you check your other messages?"

Mr. Cataliades made a face. "No, Sookie's news startled me so much I gave up on doing so." He brought out his phone and began looking at it and pressing things on the screen. "This man is dehydrated and bruised, but he doesn't have internal injuries," he told me, nodding toward our captive.

"What am I supposed to do with him?"

"Whateveryouwant," Diantha said, with a certain amount of glee.

Copley Carmichael's eyes widened with fear.

"Of course, he did try to have me killed," I said thoughtfully. "And he didn't care who got caught up in his vendetta against me. Hey, Mr. Carmichael, you see this big bandage on my shoulder? That's courtesy of your man Tyrese. He almost got your daughter, too." The man's color wasn't good, but it got worse. "And you know what happened to Tyrese? He got shot dead," I said.

But this wasn't a pastime I could really call fun. Even though Carmichael deserved a lot of bad things, taunting him would not make me feel better about myself or anything else.

"I wonder if he's responsible for the voodoo doll, or whatever it was, in Alcee's car," I said.

I watched his face carefully as I said this, and all I got was a blank stare. I did not believe Copley had put a hex or curse on the detective.

Mr. Cataliades said, "Yes, I do have a message from Barry. Voice mail." He held the phone to his ear.

I waited impatiently.

Finally, Mr. Cataliades lowered the phone. He looked serious. "Barry says he is following Johan Glassport," he said. "That is not a safe thing to do."

"Barry knows Glassport killed Arlene," I said. "He shouldn't take the chance."

"He wants to identify Glassport's companion."

"Where was he when he left the message?" I asked.

"He doesn't say. But he left the message at nine last night."

"That's bad," I said. "Really bad." The problem was, I couldn't think of anything to do about it, and I couldn't imagine what to do with Copley Carmichael.

A knock at my door startled us all. I was definitely distracted. I hadn't even heard a car come up the driveway. My neighbor from up the road, Lorinda Prescott, was at the front door with her fabulous supper dish that was supposed to be scooped up with tortilla chips. And she'd brought Tostitos, too. "I just wanted to thank you for the delicious tomatoes," she said. "I've never tasted any as good. What brand were they?"

"I just bought 'em at the lawn and garden center," I said. "Please come have a seat." Lorinda said she wouldn't stay long, but I had to introduce her to my company. While Lorinda was being charmed by Mr. Cataliades, I raised an eyebrow at Diantha, who slipped back down the hall to shut the door to the guest bedroom, where Copley Carmichael was still propped against the wall. After that, Diantha and Mr. Cataliades went upstairs, having said polite things to Lorinda, who seemed a bit stunned at Diantha's ensemble.

"I'm so glad you've got someone staying with you while you're getting better," she said. She paused, and her brow wrinkled. "My goodness, what's that noise?"

A dull thumping sound was issuing from the guest bedroom. Damn. "That's probably . . . gosh, I guess they shut their dog in that room!" I said. I called up the stairs, "Mr. C! The dog's acting up! Can you get Coco to calm down?"

"I do beg your pardon," Mr. Cataliades said, gliding down the stairs. "I will make the animal keep silent."

"Thanks," I said, and tried not to notice that Lorinda was looking a little shocked to hear Mr. C call his dog "the animal." He went down the hall, and I heard the door to the guest room open and close. The thumping ceased abruptly.

Mr. Cataliades reappeared, bowing to Lorinda on his way through the living room to the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Prescott," he said, and vanished into one of the upstairs rooms.

"Gosh," said Lorinda. "He's mighty formal."

"Comes from an old New Orleans family," I explained. A couple of minutes later, Lorinda decided she needed to get home to start supper, and I bowed her out of the house with lots of pleasantries.

When she was gone, I breathed out a deep sigh of relief. I was hurrying to the guest bedroom . . . and the phone rang. It was Michele, checking up on me, which was a nice thing for her to do, but real bad timing.

"Hi, Michele!" I said, trying to sound perky and healthy.

"Hey, nearly-sister-in-law," she said. "How are you today?"