Only one way to find out, he thought. He knocked on her bedroom door.

"Ma? You awake?"

"I am now," she said, annoyed.

How easy it was to fall back into the old ways. Ma this and Ma that, like she'd said when she first saw him after twenty-something years apart. Back into the old pattern of hook and jab, as if the time spent away from each other had been days rather than years.

"Breakfast is ready. Sheila and I—we're leaving today."

"So I've heard."

"You heard?"

"I heard every word you said through the vent. I hear everything in this house, Martin."

He wondered how to process that. Was it a veiled threat? Had she heard something she shouldn't have?

"You want me to help you down the stairs or—?"

"I'll be fine. Let me get dressed and put on my face."

Put on my face. Was she taunting him now? Words he'd heard her say dozens of times had taken on sinister new meanings. Judging by the mess Clarabelle's rifle had made of Ethel and Mavis, it wasn't just a matter of putting on a mask. There was sinew and muscle and bone under her flesh. Brains and fluid.

Could the creature beneath be harmed at all?

"You don't need makeup, Ma. It's not a formal event, just—" He almost said family, and couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. "—just the four of us."

"Well, you never know when someone might pop by unannounced."

Again, he wondered: did she know?

She was coming down for breakfast. At least there was that.

"All right, we'll see you downstairs. Don't be long, it'll get cold."

"I'm not a child, Martin. You don't have to goad me."

"Okay, Ma."

He went back down. At the foot of the stairs, a hand shot out of the darkened living room and dragged him inside. He almost cried out but a second rough hand covered his mouth, reeking of cigarettes and Old Spice aftershave. He felt Barclay's hot breath on his neck as the killer whispered hoarsely, "Don't mess around, Marty. Play along and I'll let the other old broad live."

Martin shook his head free. The killer's bowie knife flickered in the dim glow of dawn. "I've got this under control, you didn't have to break in."

"Door was open. Heck, that's practically an invitation."

"Don't fuck this up," Martin said. "I'll get her in front of the window. But if you touch Norma I'll make damn sure to leave a permanent scar when you come for me."

Barclay winked. "I'm countin' on it, Killer."

Martin returned to the foyer. He heard Ruby's door open. When he peered back into the living room the killer had receded into the shadows.

Ruby seated herself in the chair lift and tucked her shillelagh into her lap. It had been years since he'd seen her use the black wood cane rather than her walker. Not since before the White Place, where it would likely have been considered a weapon. He'd always been afraid of the shillelagh, afraid she'd hit him with it, as he'd once seen her strike a mouse dead on the kitchen floor.