“You want to see me?” he said to Linda. “Bitch, you always knew.” He lowered his head and when he raised it, he was a brand-new Danny Buckhalter. Happier. A man comfortable with what was going to happen next.

I thought of Bundy and all those women. This was the last face Sean Pruitt ever saw. A trick. Actor’s stagecraft. This knowledge rendered Buckhalter’s affect no less terrifying.

Linda Flanagan didn’t scream. She didn’t protest. She didn’t appear to notice her overflowing tears. Her expression was blank.

“Now you see him for what he is,” I said. “He wasn’t Sean’s friend. He doesn’t love you.”

“Dan. What. What.”

“Linda, go.” My chest tightened. The fear was almost unbearable. “Get in that car and drive. Don’t look back.”

A suppressed inner light flickered and ignited in her gaze. Her expression animated with a cascade of dawning emotions—anger, disgust, and horror. Holy texts speak of scales falling from a person’s eyes. This was like that. She became instantly more recognizable as the person I’d come to know from a distance.

“Dan,” she said, but to me.

“If he moves, I’ll kill him. Get your ass gone.”

She walked slowly past him without a final glance. She picked up the pace, her body awakening, remembering. She ran out onto the porch.

Buckhalter and I had a stare-down. We listened to the car door clank shut; the engine whine and fail, whine and fail, then catch, then rev, tires on gravel, receding.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forever.

“Dan,” I said. “Admit it.”

“Well, dick, this is what Sean wanted. Until he didn’t.” He cracked his knuckles. He rolled his neck. “Are you happy?”

“We’re almost there.”

Yes, I’d gotten what I wanted. I no longer wanted it. How to put the worms back in the can? Headlights filled the window. The engine’s rumble vibrated glasses in the cupboard. A much bigger engine than the station wagon. Car doors opened and shut.

“Oops,” Buckhalter said.

Presently came a warbling flute trill that seemed to originate in my left ear and migrated to the right. Vampish cheerleaders Veronica and Betty waltzed in. One blonde, one brunette, flanking Tom Mandibole. Mandibole had chosen a natty black suit.

“Gettin’ tired of your shit, Dan.” Mandibole imitated a cornpone accent. “You and your granola-chewing druid chick. You and your schemes.” He’d discarded the accent and adopted a chiding tone. “You brought this creature to our doorstep.” He indicated me. “Where are the others?”

Buckhalter frowned.

“I didn’t, I haven’t—”

“Be quiet, Dan. They aren’t returning my calls. None of them. That’s impossible. They’re dead. Do you think they might be dead, Dan?”

“I’m sure they—”

“Shut up, Dan. Mr. Coleridge, hello.”

I considered going for my gun and decided to hold the thought.

“Evening, Tom.”

Mandibole stepped closer and eyed me with vicious mirth. He was a banty rooster. His spurs were honed steel.

“They really are gone. My children of the night. You scamp. You unmitigated fucker of mothers.” He smiled furiously. His hands opened and closed, opened and closed. “It was a good run. I have the girls and that’s not terrible.” He swept his arm toward Veronica and Betty. “I can rebuild. We’ll terrorize Hicksville again. Same as it ever was.”