“I beg your pardon?” I asked with an effort.

“That’s all right — it works anyway. But if I’d known you were one of hers, I wouldn’t have had shit to do with this. That was another thing Dusty wasn’t too bright about. ’Course, neither was Tom. I wonder what would have happened if I’d let Dusty pull that trigger.”

I understood, at last. I was alive, and Tom was dead; so I must have killed him. If I could do that, I was too dangerous to challenge. Myra had given me her brother in exchange for her life, and was impressed by my mercy. I had a strong desire to go away and be sick. “You’d better leave now,” I said.

She nodded and dropped the gun in a pocket of the raincoat. For a moment she froze, her hand in the pocket. Then she lifted her head. Her face seemed harder and older, and her lips were twisted and pouting, even as they smiled. Her eyes were rolled back and showed nothing but white.

“Tell my fierce and virtuous sister,” said a dense, caressing contralto through Myra’s mouth, “that Pombagira sends her congratulations. And reminds her that she could not have done it without me.”

Myra Kincaid and the spirit that rode her walked to the door, stepped over her dead brother’s legs, and was gone.

“Sparrow?” said Theo shakily from his place on the floor. “If anything like this comes up again, let’s split town, okay?”

“That’s a great idea. I wish you’d had it sooner.”

“It wouldn’t have worked this time.”

“You’re right.” I stumbled back against the bed and slid to the floor beside Theo. “Go tell Josh that as soon as he can spare the time from Frances, your father needs him. Hurry.”

My eyes were closed, but I could feel him crouched beside me, looking into my face. “What about you?”

“And when he’s done with everybody else, I could probably use a little help, too.”

I heard him run down the hall. Good. The rush was for Albrecht, though; I could have told Theo that I was in no danger. The fierce and virtuous sister still had a use for me.

Tom Worecski has his revenge, and a kind of temporary immortality. It might have been different if there had been a body to stand over, dispose of, remember. And it might have been different if I hadn’t seen the endings of too many horror movies.

But in my sleep I wait for the sequel. In my dreams my loved ones come close and I touch them, and his smile stretches their mouths, his voice comes out. Over and over. And when, awake, I see my loved ones, try as I will, I can’t seem to separate love from terror. It’s the perfect revenge. He would have been delighted.

I don’t dream about flat white spaces and pictographic dancers. I don’t hear the voices of spirits. I don’t miss them. And I don’t fool myself into thinking they’re gone. I just haven’t fouled anything up badly enough to require their intervention, that’s all.