Reece secured Gibby to a second chair as Lonnie went to work. For a man so inherently slow and shambolic, he managed the equipment with impressive dexterity, connecting the camera to the tripod and VCR, and the VCR to the editing deck, all of it done with minimal movement and a snake’s nest of thin, black cable. There was, however, the matter of time and timing.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Bare minimum is fine.”

But the big man shook his head. “You’ve never asked me to do this before. I want it to be perfect.”

He unpacked lights, reflectors, and diffusers, so filled with enthusiasm and pride that Reece felt a twinge of regret. Lonnie did love a good snuff film. “Um, we’re not actually killing anyone.”

“What?”

“It’s like I told you. It’s complicated.”

The big man stood and glowered down, wheels turning as he processed the betrayal. “That one saw my face.” He pointed at Chance. “The other one will, too, no doubt, and I don’t take chances like that. You shouldn’t ask me to.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Seven years,” Reece said. “Have I ever let you down? All I’m asking for is a little faith.”

Weighing what he’d heard, the big man glared at Chance, who stared back like a ghost. “For now, then. Okay. Why don’t you show me what you have, and tell me what you need?”

Reece produced the camera he’d taken from Byrd and used to film his death. The big man turned it over in his hands. “Panasonic 3085. Not as good as mine, but not bad.” He ejected the tape, and inspected it. “Tell me what you need.”

Reece laid out what was on the tape, and what he wanted to add.

“Mind if I watch this first?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the tape into the VCR, speaking as he did. “This portable equipment can only run playback in black and white. On the right machine, you’ll have full color.”

“What about sound?” Reece asked.

“You tell me.”

He started the tape, and as the screaming began, both men agreed that the sound was fine.

For Chance, the nightmare wouldn’t end. It couldn’t. It was real. Gibby was actually unconscious in the chair beside him. That was a real man being butchered on tape, with real killers nodding along and commenting as it played. At one point, the big one seemed to realize that Chance was still in the room.

“You want to watch?”

He turned the machine so Chance could see what a man looked like with his stomach opened up and his intestines looped like a tie around his neck. The horror on that man’s face was like nothing Chance had ever seen, both eyes staring down as he screamed and screamed, and bloody hands dipped inside for another coil.