One of the Big Hoods produced a knife about the size of a cafeteria tray and drew back to hack awkwardly at Will’s back with it. Murphy stomped the weapon down flat against the stairs and jabbed the arm holding it with a stunner. A cry of pain rose sharply, and the weapon fell.

Then it was about momentum and snarling wolves. The Big Hoods were driven down the stairs, stunned, bruised, and bleeding. Once at the bottom, the wolves started attacking with even more savage growls—herding the Big Hoods like so many dazed and overmuscled sheep. They drove the guards down the length of the electrical-junction room and out of my direct line of sight. I had to imagine them all piled up in a corner. I heard growls rolling up out of the wolves’ throats in a low, continual thunder.

Murphy went down the rest of the stairs, hands on her gun again, but not actually pointing it at anyone. “You,” she said, nodding toward the presumed position of the Big Hoods. “Knife Boy. What’s your name?”

“I…” stammered a voice. “I can’t… I don’t…”

“Murph,” I called. “Corpsetaker’s been messing with these guys’ heads for a while now, ever since that thing with Sue. They are not operating at one hundred percent.”

Murphy glanced at the radio in her pocket and then back at whoever she was talking to. Her expression had changed, from potential executioner to something more like a schoolteacher you don’t want to cross. Murphy had been damaged in the same way before. “That’s a wallet in your pocket, son?”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbled the voice.

She nodded. “Take it out with just two fingers. Toss it over here to me. Nice and easy.”

“I don’t want you to hurt me,” said the voice.

Murphy tilted her head and I saw pain in her eyes. She lowered the gun and her voice became gentler yet. “Just toss me the wallet. I’m going to set things right.”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbled the voice again. A ratty old nylon wallet hit the floor near Murphy’s feet.

Murphy picked it up, never taking her eyes off the group. I saw her go through the wallet.

“I like dogs,” ventured the voice. There was a disconnected tone to it.

“They won’t hurt you if you stay there,” Murphy said. “Joshua? Is that your name?”

“I… Yes, ma’am. It was. I mean, it is. Josh.”

“Josh. Age nineteen,” Murphy said. A flicker of anger entered her blue eyes. “Jesus, these game-playing bastards.”

“Bitch, technically,” I said.

Murphy snorted. “Come here, Josh.”

Molly approached the top of the stairway and stood next to me, where she usually did, a little behind me and to my left. She must have gotten a look at my position through her little tuning fork.

A Big Hood appeared in front of Murphy. He was about five hundred times bigger than she was. He had hands like shovels. One of his hands was bleeding.

“Take the hood off, please,” Murphy said.