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Vic saw—already—that she didn’t really need to find Manx at all. It was as hopeless as trying to hit one flying arrow with another. He thought—she had let him think—that she was going to try to use the bridge to catch up to him. But she didn’t need to do that. She knew where he was going. Where he had to go. She could head there anytime she liked.

But that was jumping ahead of herself. Christmasland was down the road a ways, both figuratively and actually.

She had to be ready to fight when she saw Manx again. She thought it would come to killing him, and she needed to know how to do it. More than that: There was the question of Wayne. She had to know if Wayne would still be himself by the time he got to Christmasland, if what was happening to him was reversible.

Vic knew someone who could tell her about Wayne, and she knew someone else who could tell her how to fight. Someone who could even get her the weapons she’d need to threaten the only thing Manx obviously cared about. But both of those people were down the road, too. She would see each of them in turn. Soon.

First, though. There was a girl named Michelle Demeter who had lost her father and who needed to know what had happened to him. She had been wondering long enough.

Vic cast a measuring glance at the angle of the light out the kitchen window, judged it to be late afternoon. The sky was a deep blue dome; the storm that had been rolling in when she’d arrived must have blown through. If anyone had heard the tank of sevoflurane exploding and tearing Bing Partridge in two, they had likely thought it just a roll of thunder. She supposed she’d been unconscious for three, maybe four hours. She had a look at the stack of envelopes on the kitchen counter. The Gasmask Man’s mail was addressed to:

BING PARTRIDGE

25 BLOCH LANE

SUGARCREEK, PENNSYLVANIA 16323



That was going to be a hard one to explain. Four hours was not enough time to get to Pennsylvania from New Hampshire, not even with the hammer down all the way. Then it occurred to her that she didn’t need to explain it. Other people could worry about explanations.

She dialed. She knew the number by heart.

“Yes?” Lou said.

She had not been sure that Lou would answer—she had expected Hutter. Or possibly the other one, the ugly cop with the bushy white eyebrows, Daltry. She could tell him where to find his lighter.

The sound of Lou’s voice made her feel a little weak, robbed her momentarily of her certainty. She felt she had never loved him the way he deserved—and that he had always loved her more than she deserved.

“It’s me,” she said. “Are they listening?”

“Ah, shit, Vic,” Lou said. “What do you think?”

Tabitha Hutter said, “I’m here, Vic.” Jumping onto the line and into the conversation. “You’ve got a lot of people here pretty upset. Do you want to talk about why you ran away?”

“I went to go get my kid.”

“I know there are things you haven’t told me. Maybe things you were afraid to tell me. But I need to hear them, Vic. Whatever you’ve been doing for the last twenty-four hours, I’m sure you think you had to do it. I’m sure you thought it was right—”

“Twenty-four hours? What do you mean . . . twenty-four hours?”

“That’s how long we’ve been looking for you. You pulled one heck of a disappearing act. We’ll have to talk about how you did that sometime. Why don’t you tell me where—”

“It’s been twenty-four hours?” Vic cried again. The idea that she had lost a whole day seemed, in its own way, as incredible as a car that ran on human souls instead of unleaded.

Hutter said, quietly, patiently, “Vic, I want you to stay where you are.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to—”

“No. Shut up. Just listen. You need to locate a girl named Michelle Demeter. She lives in Brandenburg, Kentucky. Her father has been missing for a while. She’s probably out of her mind with worry. He’s here. Downstairs. In the basement. He’s dead. Been dead for a few days, I think. Do you have that?”

“Yes, I—”

“You treat him well, goddamn it. Don’t just stick him in a drawer in some f*cking morgue. Get someone to sit with him until his daughter shows up. He’s been alone long enough.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed by a man named Bing Partridge. Bing was the guy in the gasmask who shot at me. The man you didn’t think existed. He was working with Manx. I think they have a long history together.”

“Vic. Charlie Manx is dead.”

“No. He isn’t. I saw him, and so did Nathan Demeter. Demeter will back up my story.”

“Vic,” Tabitha said. “You just told me Nathan Demeter is dead. How is he going to back up your story? I want you to slow down. You’ve been through a lot. I think you’ve had a—”

“I have not had a f*cking break with reality. I have not been having imaginary conversations with a dead man. Demeter left a note, all right? A note naming Manx. Lou! Lou, are you still on the line?”

“Yeah, Vic. I’m here. Are you okay?”

“I talked to Wayne this morning, Lou. He’s alive. He’s still alive, and I’m going to get him back.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and his voice went rough with emotion, and she knew he was trying not to cry. “Oh, Jesus. What did he say?”