At first, he thought someone had fallen. Or fainted. A pair of legs were visible in the overpowering brilliance of the stage lights. A pair of boots. And then realizations began to tick down. Red Wing boots. North’s boots. North was here. North had come here. North was . . . North was lying down. That was ridiculous because North would never do something like that, never come here and . . . lie down. That was as far as Shaw’s brain could go. There were other words just beyond the pale, but he couldn’t think them. All he could think was lie down.

A tall, balding black man shuffled into view. He bent, hooked his arms under North’s knees, and dragged him across the stage. North’s arms flopped. North’s head dragged and bounced. Blood matted the messy thatch of blond hair.

“No.” Shaw whispered. Then he pounded on the glass and screamed, “No!”

The man shot upright, staring at the control booth, and Shaw froze. Blood boiled in Shaw’s ears. His thoughts crackled in like bad aerial reception—the realization that he was staring at Tony Montgomery, the man who transformed into Regina Rex, the realization that the next few minutes would decide whether or not Shaw lived, and more importantly, whether or not North did too—and then fuzzed out again. The raised edge of the sound board cut into Shaw’s hand, the sharp corner of the metal biting deep enough to draw blood, and he felt it bead and slide along the metal and drop into the hollow space beneath the board.

“Shaw?” It was Regina’s voice, but without the affectation. Tony shaded his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Shaw, is that you?”

Shaw’s thoughts crackled into another snapshot: the blood from his hand dripping into the hollow space beneath the board.

The hollow space.

He worked his thumb under the board, popping a tiny screw free, and then another, and another, until he could worm his hand beneath the board. Wires. Dust. Something hard that crumbled—an ancient cracker, Shaw imagined. And then the smooth, clean lines of plastic. Shaw gripped the object, worked his hand free, and stared down at the flash drive in his hand. Blood ran down his fingers, sliding along the drive’s plastic case.

“Shaw, baby, I’m going to count to three.” Tony’s voice carried easily through the abandoned theater. Of course it did; this was Tony’s domain, and he knew the acoustics, knew how to project his voice. This was where the illusion of Regina Rex was best and brightest. “You’ve got something that belongs to me. And I’ve got something that I know you want.” A hint of Regina’s cooing crept back into Tony’s voice. “I’ve got a video, Shaw. Of the Slasher. All I want is what’s mine.”

Shaw stretched across the window, fumbled open the booth’s small window, and shouted, “What’s yours?”

“My videos, Shaw. I’ve spent a lot of time collecting those. A lot of effort. I know you and North know where they are. I was planning on spending some quality time with your friend.” Tony bumped North’s big boot with his foot. “He looks tough, but I think I can get him to talk. But you’re here, and that changes things. We can make a deal: my videos for what you want. Proof, Shaw. Proof they don’t have the real Slasher down at Potosi.”