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Gisco guns the convertible. I kick the bike to life and take off. Hit the throttle and take point.

I look cool and keep my eyes peeled for the right town, but inside all I’m thinking is Give me one damn box of Tootsie Pops.

A half hour later I spot the shop. An hour after that, we pop the trunk on Gisco’s convertible and it’s goddamn Christmas day in camp. You’d be surprised how much handfuls of stale chocolate, bubble solution, stupid hats, and cotton candy can improve the moods of even the most psychotic killers. I’m not saying it’s a party in camp that night, but it’s the most relaxed night in the havoc since we looted the casinos.

I find a couple of dried-out fortune cookies in plastic wrappers. As Traven walks up, I hand him one. We crack them open.

He says, “You go first.”

I hold the fortune up so it catches light from the fire.

“‘Your smile will tell you what warms your heart.’”

“Dear God,” says Traven. “I’m an optimist and even I think that’s awful.”

I agree. “What’s yours?”

“‘With a cheerful demeanor, career opportunities abound,’” he says.

“Aren’t we the luckiest assholes in Hell?”

“Without a doubt.”

I take a bite of my cookie.

“Thank you for not saying ‘in bed’ at the end. I always thought that was a stupid joke.”

“Me too,” says Traven.

The cookie is terrible. It tastes like sugary dust. I eat every bite.

Instead of waiting to sneak Traven out to the obelisk, we move camp the next day while people are still on a sugar high . . . and of course the chains on the flatbeds break just a few miles down the road. Later in the day, a semi boils over and needs to have its radiator replaced.

Just like that, everybody’s mood goes black again. The evil gremlins are back at work. A cut here. A slice there. And the whole crusade dies in its tracks. At least no one is looking at me anymore. Especially Daja and Wanuri. I’m still not sure what would have happened the other day if Doris hadn’t called Wanuri out. I doubt I’d be around to worry about it. That leaves the sixty-four-dollar question: If I’m not the rat, who is?

And why?

After we make camp for the night, the Magistrate, Traven, and the rest of the dog pack pile into Gisco’s car and drive to the obelisk. Traven moons over it almost as much as the Magistrate.

“It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says.

The Magistrate stands next to him.

“But do you recognize it, Father?”

Traven nods, not taking his eyes off the marble.

“It’s a proto-Hellion script. Pre-Pandemonium, I’d guess.”

“Guessing is not good enough, I am afraid. Can you translate it?”

“Yes,” says Traven. “But I’ll need my books and a day or two. Some of the figures are worn and I’ll have to work out what they are by trial and error.”

“But you can do it?”

“I can.”

The Magistrate claps his hands, and for the first time in days, you can feel the pack relax. Doris hugs Barbora and Wanuri.