“You can’t go in there,” the officer said. “It’s a crime scene.”
“Open,” Ondego said, in a soft whisper, and the woman lifted the barricade.
Mind control, Jamwa though, frowning at Ondego. Was that how he stopped the doctor from unplugging him? Ondego did not respond.
There were five staff cars and two police vans in the parking lot. At the far end, yellow tape encircled Jamwa’s Jeep. The driver’s door was crumpled. Glass scintillated on the ground amid pools of blood. A wrecked motorcycle lay beside the car. It had rammed him against the Jeep. Crime scene detectives went through the debris. Was the charm still in the car? Would they find it?
“No,” Ondego said. “It’s an evolved charm as well. It looks like fast food trash. Chicken feet wrapped in napkins instead of banana leaves; a chi
