He left in my car, the Diabolical Death Nugget. I stayed, just like I told him I would, and I returned my attention to the information at hand.

If the government’s park service could be believed, Avery’s spot of land was somewhere in the gray area between swamp and forest. I guessed it would be just barely on the forest side; it’s hard to stake a claim in four feet of water. I pressed a finger against the map and traced out the swamp, mentally noting the spot where it joined terra firm enough to be technically called land. It looked like Harry was right, and that point was within a mile of the two-lane road that runs alongside the park. The map featured tiny numbers along the road’s green line—mile markers, according to the legend in the corner. There was one right next to the spot where I’d put my finger.

I squinted.

On the Plexiglas that covered the wall map, there were scratches and fuzz that made it opaque in places. I stared harder, sadly failing to focus on the tiny notes beneath. Was it mile marker II? Or was that a 17? I couldn’t quite make it out. I brought my face closer, until my nose was almost touching it. I could smell the plastic, and something tart, like bug spray.

Eleven. I was almost sure of it. I cocked my head. Yes, it was definitely an eleven.

A flicker of color flashed, a reflection in the shinier bits of the mostly clear covering.

I almost had time to turn my head before he hit me.

Something hard slammed into my skull, and my skull slammed against the shield, sending broad spiderweb cracks across the board. I ducked, or rather I conveniently fell to the ground, missing the next blow. I was stunned, but not unconscious yet. My ears were ringing and silver-white static flared before my eyes, but I could still see Malachi rearing above me.

I held out my hands to push him away but it wasn’t enough. He was using a nightstick again, or a flashlight, or something else black and extremely hard. He brought it down on my forearm and pain blasted up to my shoulder. I struggled to uncross my eyes and defend myself, but the bell chorus in my ears and distracting bolts of pain forbade it.

He swung again.

I tried to catch it, but I was too dazed to do more than deflect his next strike. I kicked at his legs, and missed the worst of his next wild plunge. It clocked me between my shoulder and neck, hurting me, but not putting me out.

It took one more solid swing to do that.