Through the kitchen and out the back door, running blind. Feet hammering like mad on the wooden deck and from the sound of it you would think there were three of me. I still have Miller’s gun, with two real bullets in it, and I would love to shoot him with one. I swing myself over the handrail to the ground below and because I’m high and deprived of sleep and something of a fool, I come down on that fucked-up left ankle from last night. The pain is electric and I roll into a fetal position. But not for long. I don’t want to be found like this.

I pull myself together and come limping around the side of the house, gun in hand, listening for him, sniffing the air for Miller and automatically my eyes go to Daphne’s body. Twisted, unrecognizable, her body is contorted so that at first glance she appears to have one leg and two broken arms and no head. Her white dress is black with blood and now I see that the spear indeed stabbed though her just below the ribcage and came out the other side, and the words pig in a poke flash helplessly through my head. I stare at her for a long breathless moment, and then there is the crunch of gravel behind me and a baseball bat hits me in the right shoulder hard enough to break me.

Oh, the way the brain functions.

Because even while getting my ass kicked, my brain is happy to do some fast calculations and let me know exactly how Miller got the drop on me. He heard me coming. He knew I was watching, and killed Daphne for my benefit.

Or maybe not.

He has the bloodlust, no question, and maybe he killed her purely for the giggles but he probably heard me crashing through the kitchen and out onto the deck. He certainly heard me moaning and cursing over my fucked ankle, and so he went around the house to get behind me, stopping in the garage to grab his Louisville Slugger.

Meanwhile.

The right arm is crippled but somehow I’m still holding that gun and a kid could tell you I’m gonna shoot myself in the foot, any minute now. I try to transfer it to my left hand but Miller just shrugs and hits me with some kind of karate kick that spins me around like a toy soldier. The gun sails away and disappears into a yellow and brown carpet of fallen leaves.

Fucked. Phineas is fucked.

Miller is hellish pleased with himself. He dances away from me, bouncing on his toes. He sends another kick my way, this time at my head. I hobble sideways and manage to take it on the side of the head, instead of directly between the eyes. He seems annoyed that I haven’t fallen down yet, and frankly I’m surprised. He doesn’t say anything though, and I thank him for that. I hate guys who make a lot of wisecracks while they’re pounding on you.

I back away from him, breathing hard. My vision is screwy and everything is on a diagonal. Miller hops toward me, grinning. And I move to his left, his blind side. He is not used to the eye patch and this gives me an opening to hit him square in the face with a little jab that causes his nose to bleed and pisses him off something awful, and Miller promptly hits me in the chest with one of those karate punches that I understand conceptually but don’t know how to throw, the punch that aims for a spot somewhere beyond the point of initial impact so that the fist punches through you like a lead ball and reaches maximum density somewhere behind you, knocking you four maybe five feet backward and in the meantime sucking all of the air out of your body. Then he follows it up with another savage kick to the head and baby I am down.

The fight is over and I want to tell him to finish it. If your guy is down you don’t stick around for anger management. You snap his neck and move on. But Miller is just getting started. He has issues, and he wants to work them out. He kicks me mercilessly, again and again. I wish I could tell him that he’s wasting his time, that I can’t feel anything because I’m slipping into shock and one section of my brain is already experiencing a tasty in-flight movie in which Michelle Pfeiffer exposes some righteous flesh. And after a while, he just gets tired of kicking me. He picks up the baseball bat and takes a few swings, but his breathing is labored and apparently he doesn’t want to kill me just yet, because he suddenly loses interest and tosses the bat aside. Then he crouches down and sticks his vile tongue in my ear.

The indignity. I’m going to kill him for that, if I ever walk again.

I’m slipping down a black tunnel and the last thing I see is Miller, upside down and sideways and stuffing Daphne’s body into a red, white, and blue duffel bag and dragging her out of sight, presumably to deposit her in the grave dug by Huck and I reckon it’s handy to have a grave dug in advance.

I wake on hard, cold wood, a damp T-shirt wadded into a pillow under my head. Bright cruel needles of sunlight and now there is a face looming over me, Molly’s face.

Are you okay?

Uh. I don’t know.

Don’t try to move, yet.

I give her a feeble smile and run a fast systems check on the body. The fingers and toes are responding, which bodes well. The ankle is still sore but less noticeable now, what with all the other bruised and broken body parts howling for a little attention. The skull is a bit tender and I allow for the possibility of fluid on the brain. The right arm is numb and sore but unbroken. I can move the fucker, anyway. The face has that tight leather feel that I personally associate with dried blood. That would be from the previously mentioned head wound. I estimate maybe four broken ribs and that’s all for today.

I’m a peach.

Jude’s face heaves into view and she looks worried. For her, she looks very worried. Jude is biting her lip and her pupils are so dilated they swallow her eyes and I have a feeling she’s worried about more than just Phineas and his talent for getting the shit kicked out of him. Her nerves look to me to be utterly jangled. She holds up her finger and moves it back and forth and tells me to follow it with my eyes. After a minute she sighs, apparently satisfied.

What’s up? I say.

You have a concussion. Don’t go to sleep tonight.

Okay.

This is it, she says.

Huh?

She hisses at me, please. Please.

I’m here, baby.

When you get out, she says. Burn it down.

Burn it, I say.

Do you understand?

Yes.

Jude nods, and slips away.

Where am I?

Molly strokes my forehead. I need you to get up.

You look pretty, I say. How does it feel to be pretty?

Phineas, please.

I know. I need to get up.

Molly gives me her hand.

Don’t help me, please.

I pull myself upright and allow myself a fuzzy look around. This is a room I’ve not yet seen. High, vaulted ceilings with exposed rafters. The hardwood floor. Tall windows and bright morning sun. There is no furniture but a shitty-looking mattress on the floor, with no sheets. Miller sits naked on the mattress, grinning. Jude stands on the other side, unbuttoning her dress, the same sleeveless white dress. Dizzy and I wobble sideways into Molly, who holds me up.

Help me, I say.

I’m here, she says.

I have to talk to Jude, I say. I have to ask her something.

You can’t, says Molly. Not now.

Why not?

Hush…please.

Where am I?

This is John’s room, she whispers.

It’s…nice.

I’m a son of a bitch, says Miller. You’re a tough cookie, Poe.

Thanks. What are we doing?

He shrugs. Just getting ready to shoot a little sex scene.

The crew is dead, I say. You killed the crew.

I know, he says. Nasty business, isn’t it.

Jude is a shadow behind him.

Nasty, I say. Yes.

Anyway, he says. Looks like I need you behind the camera today, Poe.

Lucky, I say. Lucky thing you didn’t kill me.

Miller nods, staring at me. He touches himself. Behind him, Jude removes a knife from her boot and slips it under the mattress.