WORKING, the laptop’s screen says, and below this: 3 FOUND.

Three found! Three already!

Brady is delighted but not really surprised, even though it’s the graveyard of the morning. There are a few insomniacs in every crowd, and that includes the crowd that has received free Zappits from badconcert.com. What better way to while away the sleepless hours before dawn than with a handy game console? And before playing solitaire or Angry Birds, why not check those pink fish on the Fishin’ Hole demo screen, and see if they’ve finally been programmed to turn into numbers when tapped? A combination of the right ones will win prizes, but at four in the morning, that may not be the prime motivator. Four in the morning is usually an unhappy time to be awake. It’s when unpleasant thoughts and pessimistic ideas come to the fore, and the demo screen is soothing. It’s also addictive. Al Brooks knew that before he became Z-Boy; Brady knew from the moment he saw it. Just a lucky coincidence, but what Brady has done since—what he has prepared—is no coincidence. It’s the result of long and careful planning in the prison of his hospital room and his wasted body.

He shuts down the laptop, tucks it under his arm, and starts to leave the study. At the doorway he has an idea and goes back to Babineau’s desk. He opens the center drawer and finds exactly what he wants—he doesn’t even have to rummage. When your luck is running, it’s running.

Brady returns to the living room. Z-Boy is sitting on the sofa, head lowered, shoulders slumped, hands dangling between his thighs. He looks unutterably weary.

“I have to go now,” Brady says.

“Where?”

“Not your business.”

“Not my business.”

“Exactly right. You should go back to sleep.”

“Here on the couch?”

“Or in one of the bedrooms upstairs. But you need to do something first.” He hands Z-Boy the felt-tip pen he found in Babineau’s desk. “Make your mark, Z-Boy, just like when you were in Mrs. Ellerton’s house.”

“They were alive when I was watching from the g’rage, I know that much, but they might be dead now.”

“They probably are, yes.”

“I didn’t kill them, too, did I? Because it seems like I was in the bathroom, at least. And drawed a Z there.”

“No, no, nothing like th—”

“I looked for the Zappit like you asked me to, I’m sure of that. I looked hard, but I didn’t find it anywhere. I think maybe she throwed it away.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore. Just make your mark here, okay? Make it in at least ten places.” A thought occurs. “Can you still count to ten?”

“One . . . two . . . three . . .”

Brady glances at Babineau’s Rolex. Quarter past four. Morning rounds in the Bucket begin at five. Time is fleeting on ­wingèd feet. “That’s great. Make your mark in at least ten places. Then you can go back to sleep.”