Will he have the nigger lawnboy with him? Brady wonders. Wouldn’t that be sweet! Two for the price of—

And there he is.

He was afraid the Det.-Ret.’s vehicle might get by him in the thickening snow, but that was a needless worry. The snow is white; the SUV is a solid black rectangle sliding through it. Brady leans forward, squinting, but can’t tell if there’s only one person in the cabin, or two, or half a fucking dozen. He’s got the Scar, and with it he could wipe out an entire squad if he had to, but that would spoil the fun. He’d like Hodges alive.

To start with, at least.

Only one more question needs to be answered—will he turn left, and bore straight in, or right? Brady is betting K. William Hodges will choose the fork that leads to Big Bob’s, and he’s right. As the SUV disappears into the snow (with a brief flash of the taillights as Hodges negotiates the first turn), Brady puts the skull penholder down next to the TV remote and picks up an item that has been waiting on the end table. A perfectly legal item when used the right way . . . which it never was by Babineau and his cohorts. They may have been good doctors, but out here in the woods, they were often bad boys. He pulls this valuable piece of equipment over his head, and lets it hang against the front of his coat by the elastic strap. Then he pulls on the balaclava, grabs the Scar, and heads out. His heart is beating fast and hard, and for the time being, at least, the arthritis in Babineau’s fingers seems to be completely gone.

Payback is a bitch, and the bitch is back.

29

Holly doesn’t ask Hodges why he took the right-hand fork. She’s neurotic, but not stupid. He drives at a walking pace, looking to his left, measuring the lights to his left. When he’s even with them, he stops the SUV and switches off the engine. It’s full dark now, and when he turns to look at Holly, she has the fleeting impression that his head has been replaced by a skull.

“Stay here,” he says in a low voice. “Text Jerome, tell him we’re okay. I’m going to cut through those woods and take him.”

“You don’t mean alive, do you?”

“Not if I see him with one of those Zappits.” And probably even if I don’t, he thinks. “We can’t take the risk.”

“Then you believe it’s him. Brady.”

“Even if it’s Babineau, he’s part of this. Neck-deep in it.” But yes, at some point he has become convinced that Brady Hartsfield’s mind is now running Babineau’s body. The intuition is too strong to deny, and has gained the weight of fact.

God help me if I kill him and I’m wrong, he thinks. Only how would I know? How could I ever be sure?