Falling Light (Game of Shadows #2)(65)

He was spending a king’s ransom on manpower and equipment, and the expenditures no longer came just from state and federal resources. Now they poured out of his own bank accounts, along with those of his wealthier drones.

He was, by far, the richest man in the world, because not only did he have his own wealth, but he also had access to all the wealth that his drones had amassed.

(He adored Swiss banks and electronic access to numbered accounts. It made life so convenient as he moved from host to host.)

But many of those assets were dispersed through various individual, business and government accounts, and those funds took time to access. Because the situation was developing so fast, he was forced to fund the more esoteric aspects of the manhunt for Mary and Michael out of his own pocket.

He was spending his own money.

That offended him mightily, but even then, he spared no expense. He was willing to squander every cent he had acquired over centuries of plundering. He would be willing to bankrupt several small nations as well—if only he found out where Michael and Mary were hiding.

He was also willing to destroy major cities if he could just be assured of their destruction too, but what ultimate use was nuclear or bioweapons when they could return—and return—and return? They were a plague maddening him to the point where he could howl like a dog, a fugitive pestilence he would gouge out of his own flesh if he could only get his fingers on it.

WHY COULDN’T THEY LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE? He only fought for the right that was every creature’s, to live his life on his own terms and do what was in his nature. He ground his teeth and growled in fury.

The worst of it was he didn’t dare call off any aspect of the manhunt—just in case.

So his drones drove along the coastal roads of Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin, just in case. Armed federal agents worked in coordination with the Coast Guard to comb the waters of the Lake. Just in case.

Authorities from all three states were canvassing every bed-and-breakfast establishment and every last squalid roadside motel. His creatures from the psychic realm had orders to fly over every inch of the landscape.

Early that evening, he took to the air in a private helicopter in order to travel quickly between Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. Every minute that trickled by was uselessly weighted in gold.

Because Mary and Michael had vanished, and they did it not once, but twice.

People didn’t just vanish, not even his people. If they were alive they were corporeal. Like all physical creatures they could be measured and weighed, captured, imprisoned, dissected, tortured and killed. Their spirits were damned slippery and infuriating, but while they were embodied, they were bound by certain physical properties and limitations.

Last night, he had actually wondered if Michael and Mary might have been killed by the storm that had roared along the Michigan coast.

But they weren’t at the bottom of the Lake. They were hiding really f**king well, which led him back to the need to squander his fortune.

They were either waiting for the search to die down before they moved again or—and this was the kicker, this was what had him suffering from indigestion and would have given him nightmares if he could have afforded the luxury of sleep—they had met up with Astra.

If they had united with Astra, they would have no need to travel anywhere, because they had already arrived at their destination. And if that happened, all of his frantically complicated efforts to tighten a search noose around Michael and Mary had failed.

Each puzzle piece had a name. He whispered them over and over again. Nicholas Crow. Jerry Crow. Michael and Mary. Astra.

How could Michael and Mary have known to come to Jerry Crow’s aid, except through Astra?

He had a bad feeling, and it wasn’t based on any conclusive evidence. It was purely based on the need to assume the worst-case scenario, because making that assumption was what had kept him alive for so long.

So he prowled through the air in his private helicopter, tracing and retracing the same pathways in gigantic loops, as he sniffed for the slightest sign of any of the three. The day passed into evening, and still, he gained nothing.

No scent of Astra.

No sign of Michael.

No hint of Mary.

That last clinched his bad feeling into a graveyard’s certainty. He should have picked up something from Mary by now, some kind of indication of what the little shit was up to. She didn’t have the skill to hide with complete efficacy from him. She hadn’t had the time to remember how, and Michael couldn’t have had time to teach her.

For the last several days, Mary had been trumpeting through the realms with all the finesse of a brain-damaged elephant, but ever since yesterday, she had grown very quiet, almost as if a powerful, dexterous hand had come down over her to muffle her noise.

The only time he had really sensed Mary was earlier in the afternoon, just after she and Michael had rescued the old Crow and the boy. Then her presence blazed powerful and bright, escalating in intensity until it reached some unknown conclusion. He wondered if that had something to do with all the blood they found in the old motorboat.

After that, again there was nothing.

Time drained away and silence told a tale. If the three of them had joined together, then Astra’s hiding place had to be accessible from the Petoskey and the Charlevoix marinas in Little Traverse Bay.

The old bitch was close, very close. He couldn’t smell her on the airwaves, but he could feel it in the bones of his current body. He knew she was there, like a spider, lurking right across the next hilltop, around the bend, down the road.