Dr. Dolittle and Kieran the techie were having a wonderful time—insanity always seems like a great big adventure when all you have to do is dabble a fingertip here and there, gawk at the mess, wash off the residue in your nice safe sane home and then go to the pub and tell your friends the cool story. I was having a lot less fun than they were. It slid into my mind, with a quick pinch of unease, that Dina might have had something almost like a point about this case, even if it wasn’t in the way she thought.

Most of the hunters had given up on Pat and his saga—more head-tapping smileys, someone wanting to know whether it was a full moon over in Ireland. A few of them started taking the piss: Oh shit man I think u have 1 of these!!!! Whatever u do don’t let it near water!!! The link went to a picture of a snarling gremlin.

Trap Guy was still trying to be reassuring. Hang in there, Pat-the-lad. You just think about the upside. At least now you know what kind of bait it goes for. Next time just stick it down harder. You’re getting there.

One more thing to think about. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, just thinking here—how old are your kids? Are they old enough to think that messing with their daddy could be a funny joke?

At 4:45 the next morning Pat said, Never mind. Thanks man I know youre’ trying to help but this trap thing isnt working. Got no clue what to try next. Basically I’m fucked.

And that was the end of that. The regulars played “What’s in Pat-the-lad’s attic?” for a while—pictures of Sasquatch, leprechauns, Ashton Kutcher, the inevitable Rickroll. When they got bored, the thread sank.

Richie leaned back from the computer, rubbing a crick out of his neck, and glanced at me sideways. I said, “So.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you make of that?”

He chewed his knuckle and stared at the screen, but he wasn’t reading; he was thinking hard. After a moment he took a long breath. “What I make of that,” he said, “is that Pat had lost it. Doesn’t even matter any more whether there actually was something in his gaff or not. Either way, he was well off the rails.”

His voice was simple and grave, almost sad. I said, “He was under a lot of stress. That’s not necessarily the same thing.”

I was playing devil’s advocate; underneath, I knew. Richie shook his head. “No, man. No. That there”—he flicked the edge of my monitor with a fingernail—“that’s not the same guy from this summer. Back in July, on that home-and-garden board, Pat’s all about protecting Jenny and the kids. By the time he gets to this stuff here, he doesn’t give a damn if Jenny’s scared, doesn’t give a damn if this yoke can get at the kids, as long as he gets his hands on it. And then he’s going to leave it in a trap—a trap he picked specifically to hurt it as much as possible—and he’s going to watch it take its time dying. I don’t know what the doctors would call it, but he’s not OK, man. He’s not.”