"Thanks, Annie," Apollo smiled.

Her face fell at the name, Annie. Augh-Nie.

Remind you of mom? Good.

She threw the keys at him. But handed them to Dion. Annie, what her step-mother had called her, what seemed to annoy her. And he didn't care, he actually enjoyed her tight face when he called the name A-nnie. Because annoying her, be honest, was the only fun thing about this detective work. The splitting-hair work, the constant-worrying work. So if he could be snide, he was.

And if he could get relax, he did.

The keys rattled and she pointed and said in a quick, low voice, the directions. He went to the main hall as directed and down the rightmost hall, as directed and went down the staircase (because elevators seemed to cause him anxiety, for some reason) to the lower floor below. He found a room, which creaked at a light tug, which had the giant six hundred and four written at the top. He looked back to Dion and began to open the door, slightly, just enough to stick his eye inside.

"Is it supposed to be open?" Dion asked.

Apollo, too tired, too annoyed. Did not care. He simply walked through and with arms braced on his hips looked around. There was no one. Maybe they bugged it? Who knew.

He didn't care. His eyes were drowsy. His brain, a little rattled.

"Are you sure we should stay here? Someone might be listening," Dion said.

"Let them listen, maybe they'll learn a thing or two." Apollo laid down. "It's not an issue, really."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but I want you to relax anyway."

"Relax? How? Nothing's got me more wired up than sleeping in this joint. Didn't you hear that psycho earlier? What was his name, Turst?"

"Turnus," Apollo sat on the bed and removed his shoes.

"Yeah, Turnus." Dion paced. "A family full of devil worshipers, he said it himself."

"They're Christians Protestants who carry the burden of a curse of a devil. Not actually devil worshipers,"

"That doesn't make it better." Dion inspected the room, looking in the drawers and shutting off the widescreen television that had buzzed with static since they came through. The air carried a dead-silent quality to itself. Not even the generator or the air conditioner seemed to function.

"Our job isn't to settle this curse or pact or whatever. That's their problem and one the Vatican doesn't care for. So I'm inclined to believe they have it under control," Apollo said. "No. We're here to figure out what happened to the man with the manhole on his god damn chest."

"Oh, you think the witches won't be a problem, huh? You're saying that now," Dion laid down, shoes on the bed which annoyed Apollo as the dirt and sand began to form a stain on the blankets. "You know our kind won't get along with theirs. Always killing each other. It's only a matter of time, let me tell you."

"You should be a more forgiving Catholic,"

"I am," Dion said. "When they can be forgiven."

"And what the hell are you going to do? Crucify the heathens?" Apollo said.

"No. But I'll defend myself if I have to."

"Can you even shoot? You can't move your arms without fumbling."

Dion stayed quiet. He idled, sitting down with a strained leaned over stance. Then, with a quick, nervous hand, worked on his clothes. Apollo could tell by the light sweat collecting on Dion's forehead that he had struck something. He almost felt bad about it.

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"Who do you thinks done it?" Apollo said, breaking silence.

"I don't know. It's not good to make accusations, you'll get caught in the imagination and start suffering confirmation bias."

"Oh, where'd you learn that?" Apollo asked.

"Your books. You leave them in the car and I get bored sometimes." He looked up, to Apollo. "But you're the one with the instinct. So who do you thinks done it?"

"I can't tell. There's a degree of scorn and respect most of them have for the man, some more than others." He said. "They all love and hate him and it's hard to tell who wanted him dead, or alive, the most."

Dion laid down. He closed his eyes and moved around in his bed. There were two, and opposite of them were the two ferns, and the two desks and the single television. An automatic curtain mosied along its pole and closed the dusk light. Apollo's stomach was nauseous. The taste of sour still hadn't left his mouth and laying down, it got worse. Almost came up, like acid hitting the back of his teeth. He went for the bathroom. To drink from the faucet, to look for a brush and toothpaste, somewhere behind the mirrored cabinet. He closed it on him after finding the brush and noticed the posh room. The sensitive light, the granite with texture below his soles, the parchment-colored walls and golden-silver lined porcelain. And somewhere, not hidden really, rather displayed on the glass panel of the shower box, was a note. His stomach grumbled worse. He brushed harder. He scraped the harsh taste of the day out of his mouth and walked, curious, to the note. Wet, old, probably placed in the morning of the day. He ripped it from its tape and came out of the bathroom holding it, still brushing.

"A warm welcome." He threw it at Dion, who read it, who sighed and closed his eyes and rolled on his side.

'Get the fuck away,' the note read, cut up with individual letters from magazines and books, like letter-soup, a scrapbook of calligraphy.

"Who do you think put this here?"

"Someone who knew they wouldn't get caught. Or doesn't care."

"That doesn't help."

Apollo threw his arms up.

"Maybe the killer left it here. Or maybe it's a person who knows the killer. Doesn't matter." He went back to the bathroom, to spit. "We're getting under their skin. That's what I'm reading from this note."

Dion rolled in his bed again, he balled the note and threw it. Both of them silent in the little, gaudy room. A modernist bedroom, with two (short) beds and the small expressionist paintings across the walls giving it a sense of pretentiousness. There was no comfort. Especially after, dimming the lights there was no comfort. Especially, when Apollo laid down and closed his eyes.

On separate beds they waited, both unable to sleep.

"Are you still having nightmares?" Apollo asked, in a quiet voice.

Nothing. A turn of the bed sheets. A dead silence, then a gasp.

"No. Not anymore, it just takes a while longer to fall asleep, is all."

"That's an improvement."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Apollo asked, surprised even.

"You talk in your sleep a lot. I'm guessing you're having bad dreams?" He said. "Or great conversations, I can't tell. You mumble."

"Really? With who?"

"Shouldn't you know that?" Dion asked.

"No." He looked up at the blank ceiling. There was a fan, spinning slowly. "I don't remember a thing." He didn't know why but his heart was beating as if it knew something the brain didn't. Who was he talking to? Why did it even matter?

You know it matters. Having a stranger in here is putting you on edge, isn't it?

He shook his head.

No, It doesn't matter.

At least he told himself, over and over. Unnoticing of the clock or the ticking or of the snoring his partner made, unnoticing of the dreadful slowness of the night. His neck turned, to Dion who slept soundly after an hour of waiting his turn in line for sleep. And he felt stupid, asking about Dion's nightmares. Stupid for being worried about him. Stupid, for ignoring his own symptoms. Stupid and scared and trembling. He had to press his hands down to keep them still and make an effort to close his eyelids, for they kept jumping up at every modest sound.

Talking in his sleep? Of what? He didn't want to admit it mattered. Or that he worried. And struggled in his bed. His feet hung by the edge, like a cliff drop, the air touching his toes. He turned. Hoping to forget tonight.

And Apollo spoke, to himself, breathing heavily. Letting the droning snoring of Dion help him go under.

"It's alright, just go to bed."

It came like a mumble, his words. Like the train of thought was finally losing friction on the track, into the hissing halt, and the noise finally dissipating into the tunnel of his dream-consciousness.

"It'll be alright." His eyes were heavy, like two brown curtains. The call. Then another voice, came to him. Something he felt he said (at least it came out of his mouth, with his voice) but something he felt was foreign. "It's alright, we'll be there soon."

His heart - beating. His eyes - falling. A strange tired-anxiety.

Apollo slept like that. Eye twitching, half-awake, half-asleep. The clock with its steady tick, counting down the steps to the astral plane. And he hoped, wherever he went, as his body sunk and fell deep and his spirit left him, he hoped that he would have the sense enough to forget whatever - wherever, he was going.