This time the neatly trimmed driveway was empty. The driver wheeled the Lincoln in and drew even with the front walk. The Olds parked at the curb so that the view from the street of the walk was blocked. Everybody but Devlin and the guy sitting next to him got out of the cars. Three entered the house, one stayed at the curb, looking left and right. Devlin’s seatmate watched for a sign from the driver of the Lincoln, who was waiting for the guy at the curb. He turned to the driver and nodded. The driver tapped the window with his key. Devlin shuddered. The guy beside him smiled.

“You should be scared, shithead.” He got out. “Slide across. Don’t try that other door, it’s got a child lock.”

Devlin moved. He had never been so frightened in his life.

The front door was open, but the room inside was dark. The venetian blinds had not changed position since yesterday.

“Go,” the driver said.

An old man appeared in the doorway. He was short, squat, sturdy. He had no hair, not even eyebrows. He had no teeth, either, no teeth and no neck. Just a crisp, white shirt with a head on top. His lips worked, and drool appeared on his chin. A smile, Devlin realized. “Look at this fuckhead,” the old man mouthed to no one Devlin could see. “Smart. Piece of shit. Come in.”

Devlin climbed the stairs. A hand emerged from the darkness and grabbed him by the necktie. He was clubbed on the side of the head with something heavy and sharp. Devlin went with the direction of the blow, rolled with it, but the hand wrapped in his tie held, spun him around, and set him up for the gun butt flashing down on the bridge of his nose.

It was like peering over a pile of snow. For a moment he felt no pain, had no knowledge of where he was—and then he realized. His nose felt like a five-pound lump of lead. He could feel wetness under the snow cone in the middle of his face.

“Don’t get up,” a guy said. “There’s no point.”