I can’t let him inside me, Hodges thinks, but I can’t keep him out.

He taps a pink fish, it turns into a 9, and it isn’t just fingers he feels now but another consciousness spilling into his mind. It’s spreading like ink in water. Hodges tries to fight and knows he will lose. The strength of that invading personality is incredible.

I’m going to drown. Drown in the Fishin’ Hole. Drown in Brady Hartsfield.

By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful s—

A pane of glass shatters close by. It’s followed by a jubilant chorus of boys shouting, “That’s a HOME RUN!”

The bond binding Hodges to Hartsfield is broken by the pure, unexpected surprise of the thing. Hodges jerks back in the chair and looks up as Brady wheels toward the couch, eyes wide and mouth open in startlement. The Victory .38, held against the small of his back only by its short barrel (the cylinder won’t allow it to go deeper), falls out of his belt and thumps to the bearskin rug.

Hodges doesn’t hesitate. He throws the Zappit into the fireplace.

“Don’t you do that!” Brady bellows, turning back. He raises the Scar. “Don’t you fucking da—”

Hodges grasps the nearest thing to hand, not the .38 but the ceramic penholder. There’s nothing wrong with his left wrist, and the range is short. He throws it at the face Brady has stolen, he throws it hard, and connects dead center. The ceramic skull shatters. Brady screams—pain, yes, but mostly shock—and his nose begins to gush blood. When he tries to bring up the Scar, Hodges pistons out his feet, enduring another deep gore of that bull’s horn, and smashes them into Brady’s chest. Brady backpedals, almost catches his balance, then trips over a hassock and sprawls on the bearskin rug.

Hodges tries to launch himself out of the chair and only succeeds in overturning the end table. He goes to his knees as Brady sits up, bringing the Scar around. There’s a gunshot before he can level it on Hodges, and Brady screams again. This time it’s all pain. He looks unbelievingly at his shoulder, where blood is pouring through a hole in his shirt.

Holly is sitting up. There’s a grotesque bruise over her left eye, in almost the same place as the one on Freddi’s forehead. That left eye is red, filled with blood, but the other is bright and aware. She’s holding the Victory .38 in both hands.

“Shoot him again!” Hodges roars. “Shoot him again, Holly!”

As Brady lurches to his feet—one hand clapped to the wound in his shoulder, the other holding the Scar, face slack with ­disbelief—Holly fires again. This bullet goes way high, ricocheting off the fieldstone chimney above the roaring fire.