Still red from oxygen buildup, Donatti could only stare at him. He panted like an overworked bulldog, then abruptly broke out in a ripe, rich sweat, drenching his face, shirt, and pants. His mouth began to spew froth, and for a brief moment, Decker thought he was going to have a seizure. Instead, Donatti got wide-eyed, stood up, and kicked the underside of a conference table so hard that the pictures flew up, wafted in the air, then rained down. Another kick and the table fell over.

From that moment on, every item in the room became a projectile—articles from his prop box, his tripod, stands, chairs, lamps, the coffeemaker, the mugs, his booze, his glasses, whatever Chris could lay his hands on—except his cello. Objects whizzed by at Mach speed—the kid had an arm—and although nothing was deliberately directed toward Decker, it didn’t matter. So many things were flying rapidly and with such force. Solid objects hurtled across the room, crashing and smashing, splattering shards and blades of ceramic and glass. Decker couldn’t step or move anywhere. He balled himself up in a corner.

“Donatti, stop!” he ordered.

But Donatti didn’t stop. A decanter was pitched in Decker’s direction, missing his head by inches. A quick sidestep had saved his skull from massive injury.

“Donatti—”

CRASH!

“Chris…” Decker inched his way over to him, using his arms and jacket for protection. “Stop it, dammit! Chris!”

He touched Donatti’s shoulder. He should have known better. Even so, he would have successfully evaded the blow.

Except he had forgotten that Chris was left-handed.

Decker took the clip full-faced, staggering three steps backward before he hit the wall and collapsed. His vision was starry; his head felt as if broken into a million pieces. When he could see again, he real-ized—with some minor satisfaction—that his jaw was whole. His nose might be another story. It was bleeding profusely, as was his lip. He could see and hear, at least well enough to realize that Donatti had moved on—from throwing to ranting.

“… know what this is going to do to my reputation? Do you know what this is going to do to my bitches? If I don’t find this mother-fucker and fast, you might as well put a fucking bullet through my fucking head because I’m as good as fucking dead!”

Donatti was frothing at the mouth. He was shaking so hard his teeth were clattering. His face was dripping like a window in a rainstorm, sweat just pouring off his forehead. He was stomping back and forth, the heels of his boots stamping dents into the floor. Muttering, swearing, sweating, spewing. Then he punched the wall, knocking a hole in the drywall.

Still winded from the slam in the face, Decker continued to sit, hunched up on the floor. He wiped his nose on his shirt. “Help me up.”

Donatti whipped around and glowered in the direction of the voice, his eyes searching the room. When they found Decker, they regarded him as if he were a stranger.