They were terrified, he realized. They were agents, and they were terrified. In his mind's eye, he saw Sam coughing blood in his arms, accusation like a fading light in her eyes.

Nothing matters!

Thomas pushed open his door, stood and straightened. The evening air was surprisingly cool—hard, even. The smell of charcoal tinctured the bitter of pinched leaves. For several moments he simply scanned the cottage and its damp environs, as though looking for a pet or a real estate agent. Gerard, who had climbed onto the porch and now edged his way to the front door, was hissing something. Even though Thomas couldn't hear him, his expression was clear enough.

Are you fucking crazy?

Blinking, Thomas looked down to his shoes, tried to shake the styrofoam out of his legs. Then he simply walked up the steps.

'He won't shoot me,' he murmured to Gerard oh his way to the entrance. 'He's my best friend.'

'And he's my favorite uncle,' the agent hissed. 'Now get back in the fucking car!'

'He won't shoot me.'

Thomas came to a stop before the screen door, breathed deeply. He rapped his knuckles against the ratty wood frame.

'Neil!' he shouted. 'I know you're in there! It's me…' He swallowed against his racing heart. 'Tom.'

Silence.

Flat against the wall, Gerard stood poised with his automatic, waiting for the door to open.

'Neil! It's me! Goodbook. I've come alone. I've come to talk!'

Thomas peered into the murky interior beyond the picture window, probed the shadowy depths, did everything but lean his head against the glass. 'C'mon, Neil. For fuck's sake, man. It's me.'

The porch light flashed on, rendering the panes opaque. Thomas saw his own reflection stumble backward, saw his face float pale against watercolor-black, bent and pinched in the glass.

What are you doing?

The inner door swung into darkness, and Neil leaned out to push open the screen door. He wore cargo shorts and a skin-tight T-shirt. His feet were bare, his toes dirty. For an instant, everything seemed horrifically normal.

'Hey,' Thomas heard himself say. His smile felt both natural and genuine, even as he watched Gerard raise his gun in the shadows. Oblivious, Neil scowled with you-idiot good humor.

'Goodbook? How th—'

'Freeze!' Gerard hissed, pressing his gun-muzzle to Neil's temple.

'Noo?' Thomas cried, expecting a shot.

Gerard glanced at him, and Neil grabbed his wrist, thrust the gun away. There was a crack and a flash, and the upper screen-door window shattered. The two men grappled. For an instant, they looked like drunken dance partners, then they fell backward into blackness. Thomas heard grunts and blows, took an unsteady step toward the doorway. The blackness had transformed them into warring animals. Wood-scoring claws. Growls. Frenzied exertions. Spittle whistling through clenched teeth.

Shaking, Thomas edged into the room. Oh-my-god-oh-my-god…