Babineau stares at him, trying to gather his thoughts, but they elude him. His mind, once so sharp, has been blunted. And it’s this man’s fault.

“Look at the fish,” Brady says. “You look at yours and I’ll look at mine. We’ll both feel better.”

“No,” Babineau says. He wants to look at the fish, he always wants to look at them now, but he’s afraid to. Brady wants to pour his mind into Babineau’s head like some strange water, and each time that happens, less of his essential self remains afterward.

“Yes,” Brady says. “Tonight you need to be Dr. Z.”

“I refuse!”

“You’re in no position to refuse. This is coming unraveled. Soon the police will be at your door. Or Hodges, and that would be even worse. He won’t read you your rights, he’ll just hit you with that homemade sap of his. Because he’s a mean motherfucker. And because you were right. He knows.”

“I won’t . . . I can’t . . .” Babineau looks down at his wife. Ah God, her eyes. Her bulging eyes. “The police would never believe . . . I’m a respected doctor! We’ve been married for thirty-five years!”

“Hodges will. And when Hodges gets the bit in his teeth, he turns into Wyatt fucking Earp. He’ll show the Robinson girl your picture. She’ll look at it and say oh wow, yes, that’s the man who gave me the Zappit at the mall. And if you gave her a Zappit, you probably gave one to Janice Ellerton. Oops! And there’s Scapelli.”

Babineau stares, trying to comprehend this disaster.

“Then there’s the drugs you fed me. Hodges may know about them already, because he’s a fast man with a bribe and most of the nurses in the Bucket know. It’s an open secret, because you never tried to hide it.” Brady gives Library Al’s head a sad shake. “Your arrogance.”

“Vitamins!” It’s all Babineau can manage.

“Even the cops won’t believe that if they subpoena your files and search your computers.” Brady glances down at Cora Babineau’s sprawled body. “And there’s your wife, of course. How are you going to explain her?”

“I wish you’d died before they brought you in,” Babineau says. His voice is rising, becoming a whine. “Or on the operating table. You’re a Frankenstein!”

“Don’t confuse the monster with the creator,” Brady says, although he doesn’t actually give Babineau much credit in the creation department. Dr. B.’s experimental drug may have something to do with his new abilities, but it had little or nothing to do with his recovery. He’s positive that was his own doing. An act of sheer willpower. “Meanwhile, we have a visit to make, and we don’t want to be late.”