Hodges is making his way toward the two of them at a slow stagger, but he’s close enough to overhear this, and remembers that Barbara told Holly some of that suicide-voice was still inside her. Like a trail of slime, she said. Hodges knows what she was talking about, because he’s got some of that disgusting thought-snot in his own head, at least for the time being. Maybe Barbara had just enough of a connection to know that Brady was lying in wait.

Or hell, maybe it was pure woman’s intuition. Hodges actually believes in such a thing. He’s old-school.

“Jerome,” he says. The word comes out in a dusty croak. “My man.” His knees unlock. He’s going down.

Jerome frees himself from Holly’s deathgrip and puts an arm around Hodges before he can. “Are you all right? I mean . . . I know you’re not all right, but are you shot?”

“No.” Hodges puts his own arm around Holly. “And I should have known you’d come. Neither one of you minds worth a tinker’s damn.”

“Couldn’t break up the band before the final reunion concert, could we?” Jerome says. “Let’s get you in the—”

There comes an animal sound from their left, a guttural groan that struggles to be words and can’t make it.

Hodges is more exhausted than ever in his life, but he walks toward that groan anyway. Because . . .

Well, because.

What was the word he used with Holly, on their way out here? Closure, wasn’t it?

Brady’s hijacked body has been laid open to the backbone. His guts are spread out around him like the wings of a red dragon. Pools of steaming blood are sinking into the snow. But his eyes are open and aware, and all at once Hodges can feel those fingers again. This time they’re not just probing lazily. This time they’re frantic, scrabbling for purchase. Hodges ejects them as easily as that floor-mopping orderly once pushed this man’s presence out of his mind.

He spits Brady out like a watermelon seed.

“Help me,” Brady whispers. “You have to help me.”

“I think you’re way beyond help,” Hodges says. “You were run down, Brady. Run down by an extremely heavy vehicle. Now you know what that feels like. Don’t you?”

“Hurts,” Brady whispers.

“Yes,” Hodges says. “I imagine it does.”

“If you can’t help me, shoot me.”

Hodges holds out his hand, and Holly puts the Victory .38 into it like a nurse handing a doctor a scalpel. He rolls the cylinder and dumps out one of the two remaining bullets. Then he closes the gun up again. Although he hurts everywhere now, hurts like hell, Hodges kneels down and puts his father’s gun in Brady’s hand.

“You do it,” he says. “It’s what you always wanted.”