We watched as Mandibole strode to his car like a businessman late for a meeting. Betty opened a side door. Mandibole, hand over his heart, nodded at me before he climbed inside. The big engine fired up and the Bentley rumbled into the night. I hoped he’d expire on the way to the hospital. Probably too much to ask of the gods.

■■■

Once our enemies were gone, I sprawled on the steps, grateful they were there to keep me from sinking into the earth.

“Goddamn it, Coleridge. You fucking love the hospital, don’t you?”

“It’s a fetish. Blood transfusions and the sound of money flushing down a toilet turn me on.”

“Adeyemi’s money.” He blew a cloud of smoke. “Couldn’t wait half an hour.”

“I couldn’t resist the urge to get stomped by a dancing ventriloquist.”

“Anything broken?”

“My face,” I said.

“I mean, anything important?”

“I can’t tell if the camera is in one piece.” I passed him my belt so he could detach the surveillance camera. “I stashed the big one inside in a cabinet.” My real worry was that despite the cessation of weird electromagnetic effects (I could wear an electronic watch again), the recording might be spoiled.

He apologized for missing the fight—the van’s front tire went flat after the collision and the lugs had proven a real bitch to remove.

“Everything went off without a hitch, eh?” He handed me a rag to sop my bloody nose.

I breathed through my mouth.

“Flawless execution.”

“Of the dumbest idea we’ve ever had.”

■■■

On the way home, I caught my reflection. Now, there was a dude deserving of pity. My swollen face looked as if it had blocked a cast-iron pan in flight. The sleeve on my left arm was heavy with caked blood and required an effort to lift. The rest of me was an orchestra pit of pain getting in tune.

All in all, I felt pretty okay for a guy who’d gotten his ass kicked.

We drove into an abandoned quarry. Lionel transferred the equipment to the Monte Carlo’s trunk. We torched the van and pushed it over a cliff. The sunrise was bloody as it climbed out of the black masses of trees.

We’d briefly discussed the farmhouse showdown. The reappearance of the bone mystified me something fierce. I said as much.

Lionel lit a cigarette.

“Since you mention it. I thought it was a weird trophy, but whatever; you’re a weird dude. You’ve toted that thing around for months.”

My pains were momentarily upstaged by a chill.

“You saw me carrying that bone?”

“On several occasions. The other day, you fished it outta your pocket like car keys. You didn’t really acknowledge it. Held the thing for a few seconds, then dropped it back into your coat.”

“A long-term hypnotic suggestion,” I said.

“I’ll buy that explanation.”

“Holy shit. That creepy magician at Redlick Manor must’ve implanted an autonomic compulsion that I carry the bone, to use it as a weapon under the right circumstances.” Which sounded ludicrous as I said it.