I lurch back into the waiting arms of gravity, dust myself off, and start firing excuses at the Filipino man. He harasses me for all of ten seconds before it's clear I have absolutely no interest in sticking around for the police; I give him a goodbye wave like it'll prove I'm not crazy, and hope he doesn't get a good look at my license plate.

Driving is a tunnel of sounds and colors, obstacles between me and the part where I stop hurting. My whole face is throbbing, and my ribs are full of putty, but everything moves more or less as intended. My thoughts fog over on me, and I immediately fumble my hands-free set into my ear; my phone fires off the dulcet honk of Frank Zappa half a second later.¹

"Why are you using Paul's phone?" I ask.

"It was closest," Arabella snaps back, "now what the hell just happened to you?"

"Either three cement trucks or an old man's fist. I haven't quite decided."

"Old man?"

I put a witticism in the chamber, and remember I'm on a cell phone. "He's the one."

There's a bout of silence, a breath thick with adrenalin. "What?"

"He showed up at Tommy's, had his mask with him and everything. He tipped Tommy off to the girl, tried to drop us off the trail. Must've come by to finish covering his tracks."

"By attacking someone else?" she sneers.

"Sometimes life is written by the Coen Brothers."

I can feel her shake her head. "Okay. Are you alright?"

"See above comment re: cement trucks." I chuckle into the tightened silence. "I'll be able to get home safe."

"I'm glad." She tries to say it flat, but the big exhale is unmistakable. "We're at the house already. Dr. Barg says you need to make a report. And Paul says something designed to irritate you."

"Glad they haven't deviated from script. I'll see you back at the house."

"Bye," she whispers, with an audible smirk. I hang up, and focus on telling my facial muscles to stop screaming.

The house sneaks up on me through the haze of trauma; I spend a second or two wondering how I got to our street. Contemplation of all the weird little twists and turns between here and the highway gives way to my usual parking spot and the welcome din of the signs. I'm at the door before I consider that I'm lucky to be alive.

The living room feels like a funeral, and my arrival doesn't make it better. Arabella stuffs herself into the side of the couch, aura done up in barbed wire; Dr. Barg glances her direction before his eyes give me the third degree. I'm tired before I've even closed the door.

"Where's Paul?"

"Went to his room early," Dr. Barg replies. "He had to stay late and smooth over the little wrinkle you left with your exit." He's projecting all the warmth of a tombstone.

"More victims?" I ask.

"Just the Morrisons so far." He cocks his head at me, narrows his eyes. "The killer attacked you?"

I flash to the memory, and grit my teeth back into the present. "Affirmative. His mask is a crucifix, by the by. Because God feels we weren't jumpy enough." My voice is a new shade of gray.

Dr. Barg sighs, lets his eyelids droop shut. "You're sure?"

"There are suicide bombers less certain than I am."

Arabella's lips turn just a bit up at that one, but Dr. Barg doesn't seem to appreciate my humor.

"What was the killer doing at Tommy's?"

I flex my hand, feel the raw knuckles. "Tommy was a patsy. Anonymous phone call led him to the girl so we'd read the wrong thing off her; I'm guessing the guy wanted to take him out before Tommy set us on the right track." The fist in my stomach gets too tight to ignore. "Good thing I flew off the handle and did something stupid, huh?"

All I get is one raised eyebrow from Dr. Barg. Tough crowd. So I go on to my next trick.

"Oh, and..." I pull the knife out of my pocket, smack it down on the table. "I brought you a present."

Arabella's eyes pop. "Is that his?"

"Inasmuch as he tried to butcher me with it." I start to cross my arms, and add that to the list of things that hurt.

Dr. Barg gives the knife about half an instant of attention. "What exactly do you want to prove with that?"

"I've said it before, Doc: we call Boys. With the memories on that knife she should be able to zero in on this guy in no time flat, and then we can snag him and figure out why he wanted the Morrisons dead."

Dr. Barg lets out a sigh; he won't stop looking at the knife. "If he's got a crucifix with enough juice to block us, I'm guessing I already know the answer." The corner of his mouth twitches.

"But"—Arabella leans forward, licks her lips—"but then what? She can stir the guy up, but if he's that informed—if he's got somebody helping him pick targets—"

There's a pointed glance between the doc and Arabella, him objecting and her insisting. Whatever thought they're trading around is important, but I can only see enough of it to feel like the short kid in the game of Keep Away. I cock my head and let derision set up camp on my face.

"You really think today is the day to hide shit from me?"

Dr. Barg grunts; the sharp nod Arabella gives him doesn't do wonders for his mood. Her triumph crumbles into stress as soon as she looks at me.

"While we were waiting for you boys," she purrs, "We looked into that angle man from Denver, the one who hopped into town a couple days back. Turns out he's not from Colorado, he's from Washington D.C. Some political demon, folks around there call him the Pocket. The angle men made a huge stink when the Denver peacekeepers tried to keep him grounded."

"D.C.?" I thump into a chair as my nervous system turns into rubber. "Oh...fucking fantastic." I throw my hands up in the air. "Paul was saying some guy from Denver wasn't suspicious?"

"It could be nothing," Dr. Barg says. "Unrelated."

"Yeah," I spit. "Or, it could be a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy of demons would be nearly impossible to prove," says Dr. Barg.

We can prove it, say the helpful termites in my brain.

"A conspiracy of demons already exists," I shoot back, loud enough to drown out my thoughts. "Or are you forgetting who feeds us?"

"Randall."

Dr. Barg's tone could put rabid dogs back on their haunches; I shut up, but that doesn't mean my brain stops yelling.

"Randall," Arabella admonishes, "seriously, if this guy is that connected, if he's got someone with power in D.C. picking targets for him, I'm not sure if we can catch him."

A bolt of lightning; my brain finally turns over. "Then we arrange the next target for them."

I keep my mind open as I say it, let the subtext smack them right in the face. No-one moves; no-one breathes; the only noise is the bark and rutch of Paul shifting furniture around. He does this every week.

"Randy?" Arabella asks.

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure all that hit you was his fist?"

I can't help but snort. "I'm serious, guys. I'm going to be our best bet."

That nearly gets Arabella on her feet. "Randy, are you—"

"Arabella."

She freezes, half-turned toward Dr. Barg. The old man leans back, his canes crossed in his lap. He looks at me like I'm suggesting we trepan somebody, and lets out a whisper of a sigh.

"You really think Boysenberry is our best next step?" he asks.

"I really think Boysenberry is our only next step. That or we wait for this guy to ice someone else."

Dr. Barg stares at the ceiling. If I couldn't read his mind I'd think he'd forgotten about me. "Alright."

That was anticlimactic. "Alright." I close my eyes, and feel the first lurch of the flight reflex letting go of my brain. "So you work on that. Me, I'm going to go sleep off this violence."

Arabella flicks me a little smirk. "Hope you don't get a hangover."

My face gets warm, so I must be smirking back. "I'll be sure to drink a big cup of pacifism before bed. You know how fist-fights dereasonate you."

She flings a pillow into the balusters by my feet. "Go to bed."

"Yes, so I can go take some Maalox," Dr. Barg drawls, as he rolls back toward the table. "I'll see what else I can dig up, go get some sleep."

I pause halfway up the stairs. "And you'll call Boys?"

"And I'll call Boys, go get some sleep." His commanding voice isn't any better when warm.

I shoot him a salute, and Arabella a smile, and march upstairs to bed, trying not to coil from the tension leaking out of the two of them. The living room goes hot and greasy, a sense of gagged volume that makes you want to scream just for the noise. I march upstairs despite it, moths fluttering around behind my eyes, and make sure to gently, casually close my bedroom door.

The argument starts seconds later, the strangled lowness of people who aren't sure if their house has thick walls. I kick off my shoes, open my closet, try to sound like I'm getting ready for bed. Downstairs, the dance continues, the edges sharper, the voices more strained; and I hear two syllables that I'm pretty sure are "Randall".

"Don't stop," I growl, "don't stop." I grit my teeth, force myself to continue the trek over to my dresser. I take off my shirt, toss it to the floor, and pause again as they reach another crescendo in the argument. The part of my mind that's not trying to hold my skull together is thumping with curiosity. I look at the Van Gogh hung on my door, roll my eyes, and lay down on the floor; I end with my ear to the boards and my toes on the print, trying to block out the half-formed thoughts of a knife-fight in a brown medieval bar.

They're arguing alright, but it's an argument with only one and a half sides. Dr. Barg is far more strident, no surprise; Arabella's that strained tone you hear just before a breakdown. They're saying "he" a lot, which lights fires down my spine, and something that sounds like "should". I get "today" from Dr. Barg, and "tonight" from Arabella; my skull creaks as I jam my head closer to the boards.

It's not looking good for Arabella's side; she's gotten positively avian in tone, one of those high-strung birds with the awful neon plumage. Whatever temper is in her finally peaks, and she utters a rejoinder I can hear clear as day.

"I'm not doing this job without Randall."

And Dr. Barg's response, in his bark of finality: "You might have to."

I stay on the floor, afraid to even think about moving. They keep going, but it's the empty, sullen wrap-up; Dr. Barg, as always, won.

There's a long awkward silence, and a question from Dr. Barg that sends Arabella tramping up the stairs. I push to my knees while she's on the move, drag myself onto the bed right as she slams her door. I wait for her music to turn up, and for Paul to decide it's time to shuffle downstairs to bug Dr. Barg, before I let exhaustion push me down through the mattress.

I say goodbye to the sun, and my delirium, and the throbbing in my shoulders. As I fall asleep, what few tattered thoughts I have left keep finding the words "without Randall".

I don't sleep so well.