—screamed “LEAVE HIM BE!” once and once only—

—and when Mr. Hands didn’t heed her warning, she fired once, twice, the recoil knocking her backward but not before she saw both shots hit him squarely in the neck—

—but when he screamed it wasn’t the scream of a monster, it was the agonized wails of tortured children and Lucy thought she’d rather be rendered deaf than endure another moment of that hideous sound—

—but he wasn’t stopping, didn’t seem to be hurt at all, and with a hard yank he ripped out the section of ceiling beams he’d been working on—

—Lucy scrambled to her feet, slipped in the slick snow and twisted her ankle and went down again, crying out from the pain—

—and this time Mr. Hands screamed his own sound, an ancient, dark, furious sound, full of death and dirt, as he dropped the ceiling beams and teetered on the verge of falling and Lucy wondered if Randy had found one of the guns and fired it at the monster that had come to punish him for Kylie—

—but as she struggled onto her feet again and the pain of her ankle shot up her leg, Lucy saw Mr. Hands shudder—

—and she stood still for a moment, as did he—

—and then, slowly, with as much pressure as she could stand, Lucy pressed the business end of the shotgun down against her injured ankle.

The pain registered with Mr. Hands at the same time Lucy forced back a shriek.

And then she knew.

Dropping the shotgun, she pulled out the .45 and aimed at the ground, placing the palm of her left hand alongside the front of the weapon.

Mr. Hands stared down at her.

Lucy fired, and the muzzle-flash from the gun seared a second-degree burn into the palm of her left hand.

Mr. Hands screamed again as he threw his left hand into the air.

Lucy shoved her injured hand into the snow and felt immediate relief as the cold, wet snow sucked away the pain.

Mr. Hands’ screams began to fade.

Lucy rose to her feet and walked toward the cabin. When it looked as if Mr. Hands was going to start after Randy again, Lucy didn’t fire another shot but instead shoved the business end of the gun directly under her chin.

Mr. Hands stood very, very still.

Lucy said, “Try anything and I’ll kill us both, Mr. H. I’m serious.”

He moved slowly away from the cabin.

“Farther!” shouted Lucy.

He did as she said.

“Remember what I said.” And with that she went into the cabin.

After climbing over several mounds of debris, she found Randy in the kitchen, huddled between the pantry door and the refrigerator. He was shaking and crying, but he’d been composed enough to remember his backpack, winter coat (another present from Lucy), new boots, and the two-way radio.

“I…I g-g-got my phone in m-my pocket,” he said.

“Good boy.”

“Is he gone?”

“No, but he’s not going to try to hurt you now.”