He was early so he pulled off the road within a mile of Rabun’s: Diana’s map was precise though her sole visit had been at night. Now he breathed deeply and closed his eyes in order to manufacture some quick composure. At least a dollop. A soupçon would do, or a mite, a mote. Nothing there but whirling and rehearsals, the raw material of nightmares. All this thinking ahead wasn’t doing him much good. Diana teased him about his penchant for sitting in a corner and “thinking things over.” She insisted that he was rehearsing his life so much that he had no time to live it. There were even postrehearsals after marital arguments when he would restructure the scenario until he was either right, or his retreat was dignified. Now there was the vertigo of dreams sitting on a country road and everyone knows that dreams and nightmares are bottomless: no earth beneath the feet, no floors. He grabbed at the inside rearview mirror to look at himself but his hand trembled and it was difficult to find himself for a few moments. His father was right. He didn’t know shit about being a detective. He rarely read mysteries. Carolyn Keene’s Clue of the Dancing Puppet came to mind. When he was twelve or so his aunt had given him a box of Nancy Drew mysteries. Nancy was smart as a whip. Dancing puppet, indeed; amateur puppeteers and public whistlers were high on his shit list.

Rabun’s house was impressive on the outside though a bit too Bauhaus for his own taste. There was the additional oddity that the house simply appeared in the forest at the end of a long driveway; there was no lawn and a large tree grew precipitously close to the roof. Two huge dogs Warlock recognized as Rottweilers were romping on the lawn. They were immediately not interested in his getting out of the car. He rolled up the window in alarm. Other people’s big dogs were on the fear list. Rabun walked around the corner in his balloon boots and blew a silent, high frequency dog whistle and the Rottweilers scooted to his side. Warlock approached gingerly with his eyes averted. Rabun mumbled in German and offered him two dog biscuits that he nearly ate in his confusion.

“Say mein liebchen, mein edelweiss and give them the biscuits.”

Warlock did so and the curs jumped him lovingly, licking his sport coat and hands. One ran off and brought him a putrid muskrat head to toss.

“They’re true Schutz hounds from the Cologne area,” Rabun said with pride.

“I thought they were Rottweilers.”