“Hear that, Danny my boy? You had Jeremiah fooled, and Jeremiah is no fool, are you, Jeremiah?”

“No flies on me,” says Jeremiah.

Gant laughs. “Yes! Exactly! No flies on you, Jeremiah! And yet, you had us fooled, Danny my boy. That first day, we followed you right past this place, did we not? You must have seen us and, being the good guy that you are, the straight shooter, you didn’t want to lead us straight to the home of our quarry, so instead you led us to the house of some old-timer we wouldn’t be bothered with. That was some quick thinking, Danny. That was thinking on your feet. Aren’t you impressed, Jeremiah?”

“I’m impressed,” says Jeremiah.

“But only grudgingly,” Gant says with a chuckle. When the chuckle dies, Gant says, “Yet actions have consequences. They have repercussions. It is a sad fact of life. Jeremiah, I want you to take Danny into the house and tie him up. Then I want you to take the car to the old-timer’s place, and I want you to beat him to death with the iron bar in your hands.”

“No,” says Danny, still hissing in pain. “He didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“Sometimes the repercussions of our actions are not felt by us directly. Sometimes they’re inflicted upon the innocent and the ignorant. Bystanders, if you will.”

Danny tries to fight, tries to struggle, but Jeremiah Wallow is surprisingly strong for someone so flabby. He handcuffs Danny, and drags him into the house. When Danny tries to shove him back, he kicks Danny’s injured leg and Danny screams and falls back on to Stephanie’s sofa. Jeremiah gets two pieces of rope. One piece he ties round Danny’s neck, wraps the other end round a door handle behind him. That one keeps him upright. The other piece he ties round Danny’s ankles, then loops it round the chain of the handcuffs. That one keeps him sitting. Then he goes away to beat Eddie Sullivan to death, and leaves Danny in here with Gant.

Gant stands by the bookcase, fingernail scraping lightly from book to book, spine to spine. He slides an old paperback from the shelf, a book by an Irish horror writer Danny had once liked. Same last name as Stephanie. A small part of him wonders if they’re related. There couldn’t be too many Edgleys in Ireland. There couldn’t be too many Edgleys anywhere.

“How much do you know?” Gant asks, flicking through the pages.