“Maybe,” Hodges says, “but if you hadn’t clobbered him, you and Jerome would be dead.”

“Along with a lot of other people,” Jerome says. “And the hit might not have had anything to do with it. Whatever Babineau was feeding him could have done more than bring him out of his coma. Experimental drugs sometimes have unexpected effects, you know.”

“Or it could have been a combination of the two,” Hodges says. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation, but not to have it would fly in the face of rule one in the detective biz: you go where the facts lead you.

“He hated you, Bill,” Jerome says. “Instead of killing yourself, which is what he wanted, you came after him.”

“And turned his own weapon against him,” Holly adds, still without turning and still hugging herself. “You used Debbie’s Blue Umbrella to force him into the open. It was him who sent you that message two nights ago, I know it was. Brady Hartsfield, calling himself Z-Boy.” Now she turns. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You stopped him at the Mingo—”

“No, I was downstairs having a heart attack. You were the one who stopped him, Holly.”

She shakes her head fiercely. “He doesn’t know that, because he never saw me. Do you think I could forget what happened that night? I’ll never forget it. Barbara was sitting across the aisle a few rows up, and it was her he was looking at, not me. I shouted something at him, and hit him as soon as he started to turn his head. Then I hit him again. Oh God, I hit him so hard.”

Jerome starts toward her, but she motions him back. Eye contact is hard for her, but now she’s looking straight at Hodges, and her eyes are blazing.

“You goaded him out into the open, you were the one who figured out his password so we could crack his computer and find out what he was going to do. You were the one he always blamed. I know that. And then you kept going to his room, sitting there and talking to him.”

“And you think that’s why he did this, whatever this is?”

“No!” She nearly shrieks it. “He did it because he was fracking crazy!” There’s a pause, and then in a meek voice she says she’s sorry for raising her voice.

“Don’t apologize, Hollyberry,” Jerome says. “You thrill me when you’re masterful.”

She makes a face at him. Jerome snorts a laugh and asks Hodges about Dinah Scott’s Zappit. “I’d like a look at it.”

“My coat pocket,” Hodges says, “but watch out for the Fishin’ Hole demo.”

Jerome rummages in Hodges’s coat, rejects a roll of Tums and the ever-present detective’s notebook, and brings out Dinah’s green Zappit. “Holy joe. I thought these things went out with VCRs and dial-up modems.”