And the thoughts sparking out were every bit as mad and murderous.

Fox did the only thing left to him. He fought dirty. He clawed, going for those mad eyes. At Block’s howl, he rammed his fist into the exposed throat. Block gagged, choked, and Fox had room to maneuver, to jam his knee between Block’s legs. He got in a few punches, aiming for the face and throat.

Run. That single thought bloomed like blood in Fox’s mind. But when he tried to roll, crawl, fight his way clear and gain his feet, Block slammed Fox’s head against the sidewalk. He felt something inside him break as the steel-toed boot kicked viciously at his side. Then he fought for air as meaty hands closed around his throat.

Die here.

He didn’t know if it was Block’s thoughts or his own circling in his screaming head. But he knew he was slipping away. His burning lungs couldn’t draw air, and his vision was dimmed and doubled. He struggled to push what he had into this man he knew, a man who loved the Red-skins and NASCAR, who was always good for a bad, dirty joke and was a genius with engines. A man stupid enough to cheat on his wife with her sister.

But he couldn’t find it. He couldn’t find himself or the man who was killing him on the sidewalk a few steps from the Town Square on a rainy Sunday morning.

Then all he could see was red, like a field of blood. All he could see was his own death.

The pressure on his throat released, and the horrible weight on his chest lifted. As he rolled, retching, he thought he heard shouting. But his ears rang like Klaxons, and he spat blood.

“Fox! Fox! O’Dell!”

A face swam in front of his. Fox lay across the sidewalk, the rain blessedly cool on his battered face. He saw a blurred triple image of Chief of Police Wayne Hawbaker.

“Better not move,” Wayne told him. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

Not dead, Fox thought, though the red still swam at the edges of his vision. “No, wait.” It croaked out of him, but he managed to sit up. “No ambulance.”

“You’re hurt pretty bad.”

He knew his one eye was swollen shut, but he managed to focus the other on Wayne. “I’ll be okay. Where the fuck is Block?”

“Cuffed and locked in the back of my car. Christ, Fox, I had to damn near knock him cold to get him off you. What the hell was going on here?”

Fox wiped blood from his mouth. “Ask Napper.”

“What does he have to do with it?”

“He’d be the one who got Block worked up, making him think I’d been screwing around with Shelley.” Fox wheezed in another breath that felt like broken glass inside his throat. “Never mind, doesn’t matter. No law against lying to an idiot, is there?”

Wayne said nothing for a moment. “I’ll call down to the firehouse, get the paramedics here to look you over at least.”

“I don’t need them.” As helpless anger, helpless pain churned inside him, Fox braced a bleeding hand on the sidewalk. “I don’t want them.”

“I’ll be taking Block in. I’ll need you to come in when you’re able, file formal assault charges.”

Fox nodded. Attempted murder was closer to the mark, but assault would do.

“Let me help you into the front of the car. I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“Just go on. I can get where I’m going.”

Wayne dragged a hand through his wet, graying hair. “Chrissakes, Fox, you want me to leave you on the sidewalk, bleeding?”

Once again, Fox focused his good eye. “You know me, Chief. I heal quick.”

Acknowledgment and worry clouded Wayne’s eyes. “Let me see you get to your feet. I’m not driving off until I know you can stand and walk.”

He managed it, every inch of him screaming. Three broken ribs, Fox thought. He could already feel them trying to heal, and the pain was hideous. “Lock him up. I’ll be in when I can.”

He limped off, didn’t stop until he heard Hawbaker drive away. Then he turned, and stared at the grinning boy standing across the street.

“I’ll heal, you fucker, and when the time comes, I’ll do a lot worse to you.”

The demon in a child’s form laughed. Then it opened its mouth, wide as a cave, and swallowed itself.

By the time Fox made it to the rental house, one of his ribs had healed, and the second was working on it. His loosened teeth were solid again; the most minor of the scrapes and cuts had closed.

Should’ve gone home to finish this up, he realized. But the beating and the agony of the healing left him exhausted and fuzzy-headed. The women would just have to deal with it, he told himself. They’d probably have to deal with worse before it was over.

“We’re up here!” Quinn called down at the sound of the door opening, closing again. “Be down in a minute. Coffee’s on the stove, Coke’s in the fridge, depending on who you are.”

The bruising on his windpipe was still too severe. He didn’t have it in him to call back, so he made his way painfully to the kitchen.

He started to reach for the refrigerator, frowned at his broken wrist. “Come on, you bastard, finish it up.” While the bones knit, he used his left hand to get out a Coke, then fought bitterly with the tab of the can.

“We’re getting a late start. I guess we were- Oh my God.” Layla rushed forward. “Fox! God. Quinn, Cybil, Cal! Get down here. Fox is hurt!”

She tried to get an arm around him, take his weight. “Just open this, will you? Open the stupid can.”

“Sit down. You need to sit down. Your face. Your poor face. Here, sit down here.”

“Just open the goddamn can.” He snapped it out, but she only pulled out a chair. The fact that she could ease him down on it with little effort told him he was still in bad shape.

She opened the can, started to cup his hands around it. Her voice was thin, but steady when she spoke. “Your wrist is broken.”

“Not for long.”

He took his first long, desperate sip as Cal ran in. One look had Cal cursing. “Layla, get some water, some towels to clean him up some.” He crouched, put a hand on Fox’s thigh. “How bad?”

“Worst in a long time.”

“Napper?”

“Indirectly.”

“Quinn,” Cal said with his eyes still on Fox. “Call Gage. If he isn’t on his way, tell him to get here.”

“I’m getting ice.” She dragged the ice bin out of the freezer. “Cybil.”

“I’ll call.” But first she bent over, laid her lips gently on Fox’s bloody cheek. “We’ll take care of you, baby.”

Layla brought a basin and cloth. “It hurts. Can we give him anything for the pain?”

“You have to go through it, even use it. It helps if the three of us are together.” Cal’s eyes never left Fox’s face. “Give me something.”

“Ribs, left side. He got three, one’s finished, one’s working.”

“Okay.”

“They should go.” He hissed on a fresh flood of pain. “Tell them to go.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” Gently, efficiently, Layla began to stroke the cold damp cloth over Fox’s face.

“Here, honey.” Quinn held the ice bag to Fox’s swollen eye.

“I got him on his cell.” Cybil hurried back in. “He was already in town. He’ll be here any second.” She stopped, and despite her horror at Fox’s condition, watched in fascination as the raw bruises on his throat began to fade.

“He messed me up inside,” Fox managed. “Can’t focus, can’t find it, but something’s bleeding. Concussion. Can’t think clear through it.”

Cal kept his gaze steady on Fox’s face. “Focus on that first, the concussion. You have to push the rest of it back.”

“Trying.”

“Let me.” Layla shoved the bloodied cloths at Cybil before kneeling at Fox’s feet. “I can see if you let me in. But I need you to let me. Let me see the pain, Fox, so I can help you focus on it, heal it. We’re connected. I can help.”

“You can’t help if you freak. Remember that.” He closed his eyes, and opened for her. “Just the head. I can handle the rest once I clear that.”

He felt her shock, her horror, then her compassion. That was warm, soft. She guided him to where he needed to go just as she’d guided him to the chair.