"Okay, Doc's turn." Barclay took two steps toward Sheila. She leaned back as far as she could, trying to get away from him.

"Stop," Martin said. "Why don't you let me do that?"

Barclay grinned back at him. "You want me to just hand over my knife?"

"My knife," Clarabelle said.

The killer's face flashed with annoyance, then sweetened. "Excuse me. You want me to hand over this lovely lady's knife? So you can stab me with it, like you did to the Mirror Mask guy."

"She doesn't trust you. You've got a bad history with women, in case you've forgotten. Especially women close to me."

"Aw." Barclay pooched out his lower lip. "I ain't hurt a hair on Clarabelle's head, have I, hotlips?"

The woman shrugged, studying the long, sleek barrel of the gun. "Not without consent."

Barclay flashed a grin at Martin. "You see there? I ain't gonna hurt your little lady, Marty. Don't you worry that perty li'l head a yours."

As Barclay reached for the rope looped over her breasts, Sheila spat in his face. The killer grinned, wiped the spit from his face with the back of his hand and licked it like salt before a tequila shot. He smacked his lips and gave her a quizzical look. "You been foolin around with Marty's heart, Doc?"

Sheila stretched her neck as far as the rope would allow, getting right in his face. "Fuck you. You think we'll help you after what you put us through? You're the bad guy, Barclay. Not Martin. Not me. You understand that, right? You got that through your thick fucking skull?"

The killer grinned at Martin over his shoulder. "She's a wild mare, this one. Now, may I please cut these ropes for you, my dear, so we can get on with this?"

Sheila slackened against the ropes. Barclay moved around behind the statue and worked at them with the blade. In a moment she was free, rubbing her wrists to get the life back in them.

"Thank you," she said, not to Barclay but to Clarabelle. "I'm sorry we almost killed you back at your house."

Clarabelle shrugged and grunted. "I prolly woulda done the same, to be honest. C'mon." She nodded toward the bookstore. "Truck's in the lot back there."

The four of them walked to the alley between the bookstore and the café next door. As they passed the shrine of Martin's books in the window Barclay peered in and chuckled. "That musta got you all soppy wet, huh, Marty?"

The killer chuckled again and stepped into the dark alley. Martin hesitated. Clarabelle gestured ahead with the rifle, though the move held no threat.

"Go on. I won't let no harm come to ya, not so long as I'm around."

"You know you can't trust him," Sheila said.

A grin spread across Clarabelle's weathered face. "He ain't the first broken man to show me kindness. I can handle m'self, believe me."

Barclay turned back from the opposite end of the alley. "My ears're burnin," he said.