Glibspet chuckled as he turned off his terminal and unhooked the red modem. It was hotter than usual, and sizzled softly as he grabbed it with a damp rag. He could read between the lines as well as anyone—better than most. The official report had been terse, but between that, the freshly posted infernal environmental hazard warning, and the news of four devils being repitted, he could tell what was what.
His employers had screwed up big-time. They must have had Averial right in their grasp, at Devil's Point of all places. Well, actually, he supposed, it was the last place anyone would look for her. He certainly hadn't been looking there. She'd just had the bad luck to run into the only devil there who was dull enough to read all the official traffic from down under, and sensitive enough to realize that she was shielded and not just vapid. He'd have to get in touch with the library devil soon—that one might make a valuable resource.
The Three Stooges figured they had her dead to rights, and they'd gotten cocky. They didn't hurry to the scene in person, didn't even alert the park guards until their cat's-paws had run into the first true holy water reported in the last who knew how many centuries. The Idiot Trio could trace her 'port to the lot, but after that, she was back in God's territory, and the fallen angels hadn't gained a single clue. Glibspet frowned. The only downside was that they would be even more frantic now than they'd been before, and their fear was sure to have a direct effect on their dealings with him.
Luckily, he thought he had a solid lead. He'd finally come across an insurance claim that had paid out, with someone willing to say she'd seen the decedent still alive. It was in the right time period, and the complainant had nothing to gain. Now what was the name the company had paid out for? He flipped through the notes Craig had made.
There it was: Rheabeth Samuels.