“Hurry up,” said the guard. “You old fucks.” He prodded Henry with the pistol. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? You bust out of an asylum or something?”

Henry stopped and turned, which forced Sleepy and the guard to stop as well. “I’m going as fast as I can,” he said. “They’ve got me on strong medicine.”

Sleepy, hands jammed in his coat pockets, turned to face the guard. “Can’t you see the man’s hurt? What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem, asshole.”

As the guard reached out to prod Henry forward, Sleepy’s right hand rose from his pocket in a fluid motion, and a bright blade flicked in the moonlight. Before the guard could jerk back, Sleepy had buried his knife in the man’s neck with one hand and swatted his gun away with the other.

The guard staggered, both hands gripping the wound in his throat. Henry watched black blood pump through the man’s hands. As the guard fell backward, Sleepy quickly closed the distance between them and pressed a boot onto his chest.

Henry tried to recover his composure, but something kept causing breaks in his train of thought. “See if he has a phone!”

The guard had stopped moving. His eyes were open, but they looked sightless to Henry. Sleepy knelt over him, rummaged through his clothes, then stood. “Nothing but a walkie-talkie and some keys.”

Henry tried to think clearly. “Do you think we should call inside? Tell Brody we know who he’s got in there? Tell him the FBI is coming?”

Sleepy considered this suggestion, then shook his head. “We can either drive back to town and call the cops, or go in there and do what we can. But we ain’t calling and letting them know we’re out here. Mr. Royal don’t react like other men would. You radio that we’re out here, he’ll kill your friends and us, too.”

Henry nodded slowly. “If the guard has a house key … we could call 911 from inside the house as soon as we get in.”

Sleepy nodded. “I guess we could. Especially if they’re still in the basement.”

The guard suddenly groaned in pain, startling Henry so badly that he almost fell over.

“Wait here,” Henry said. “Let me get my gun.”

He turned and trudged back to his mother’s Impala. The altercation with the guard had apparently spurred his metabolism. Or maybe it was just the exercise, loosening unused muscles. He was moving much faster than before.