He stayed close to the wall, feeling it at his back, and moved towards the gazebo. The guard was sitting facing the water, his back to Reeve. Reeve moved quickly and quietly across the muffling lawn. He held the dagger by its scabbard, the handle showing, and swung it, clubbing the guard across the side of his head. The man was dazed, but not quite out. He was half-turning, opening his mouth, when Reeve’s fist caught him full in the face. The second blow knocked him cold. Reeve got out tape and did the man’s ankles, wrists, and mouth, making sure the nose wasn’t broken or blocked, making sure the guard wouldn’t suffocate. He felt in the pockets for a gun, but there wasn’t one, just loose change and cigarettes. He didn’t recognize the face; it figured-there had to be two shifts, maybe three.

He looked around. There were French windows to the back of the house. He wondered if they were locked. He also wondered where the second guard was. Indoors? He ran in a crouch towards the French windows. Lights shone inside. He was looking through the glass when he heard a growl behind him. One of the dogs. It looked very alert. Too alert. So only one of them had found the meat. The dog galloped towards him, and he pointed an arm at it.

“Be still!”

The dog stopped short, a little confused. It recognized the words but not the person uttering them, but then it was used to obeying more than one master… Reeve plunged the dagger two-handed into the top of its head, just behind the skull. The dog’s legs buckled and it went down, Reeve maintaining the pressure. He glanced through the window to see if anyone had been roused. All he saw was the reflection of a man blackened up so that the brightest things about him were the whites of his eyes, his gritted teeth, and the blade in his hands.

He pulled the knife out and wiped it on the dog’s coat. The French windows were unlocked. He took off his boots, left them hidden below the level of the porch, and let himself into the house.

His socks left no marks on the carpet, and the floor was solid, so his weight did not cause it to creak. The room was a dining room. He noticed that the small table had only one place setting, and there was only one chair. He was surer than ever that this was the right house.

He opened the door to a large octagonal hall with several doors off of it. A staircase led up to a landing, similarly octagonal, with more doors. Music was playing somewhere, behind one of the doors on the ground floor. Reeve walked over to the door, all too aware that if anyone stepped out of a room upstairs they would see him immediately. He had to be quick. He peered through the keyhole and saw a man sitting on a sofa, reading a magazine and nodding to the music. It was on a personal stereo, and must have been turned up all the way; even from here Reeve could recognize it: “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” The man was short and wiry: he didn’t look like prime bodyguard material.

Reeve knew his best bet was to rush him. His hand tightened on the door handle. A clock in the room started to chime. Reeve burst in.

In a mirror above the fireplace, Reeve saw what the man could see: a massive snarling intruder with a bloodied knife so big you could quarter a buffalo with it. The man stood up, mouth gaping, the stereo dropping to the floor, the headphones falling from his ears.

“No noise,” Reeve said quietly over the chimes. “Just lie down on the floor with your hands-”

Half a second before the man sprang into action, Reeve saw the change in his face-saw that the surprise had worn off already and he wasn’t ready just to lie down. The man’s body twisted, sending a powerful leg towards Reeve’s groin. Reeve twisted too, the blow landing on his thigh, almost dead-legging him.

Small: yes; wiry: yes-but this guy had some martial arts training. The second blow, a fist this time, was already coming, aiming to disable the dagger. Blue Öyster Cult was still erupting from the headphones. All that was left of the chimes was an echo. Reeve dodged the fist and lashed out a roundhouse of his own. He wished he’d kept his shoes on. The blow glanced off the man’s chest. The heel of a shoe slammed down onto Reeve’s un-protected foot. His opponent was fast and smart. Reeve dum-mied with the dagger and swung his free hand into the man’s throat. That felt better. The man’s face and neck reddened as the oxygen tried to get through. Reeve followed up with a kick to the right knee and was readying to use an elbow, but the man hurled himself over the sofa and got to his feet again quickly. They hadn’t made much noise yet; you didn’t when you were concentrating. You hadn’t time to think about screaming. Reeve hoped Allerdyce wasn’t pushing some panic button somewhere. He had to make this quick.

His opponent had other plans. He tipped the sofa over so that Reeve had to dodge it: he was hemming Reeve in, making it awkward for him to move. Reeve launched himself over the sofa and hit the man full in the stomach, knocking him backwards onto the carpet. Reeve stuck the tip of the dagger to the man’s stomach, just below the rib cage.

“I’ll gut you like a fish,” he snarled. He was kneeling on the man’s legs. “Ask yourself, is he paying you enough?”

The small man considered this. He shook his head.

“Lie on your front,” Reeve ordered. “I’m only going to tie you up.”

The man obeyed, and Reeve got out the tape. He was breathing hard, his hands shaking slightly. And he had eyes only for the man on the floor; he didn’t want the bastard trying anything else. After he’d taped wrists, ankles, and mouth-using double runs on the wrists and feet-he pulled the sofa upright and lifted the man’s stereo by its headphones, bringing it over and clamping the ‘phones to the man’s head. He checked the pockets again. No gun.

But the man standing in the doorway had a gun.

“Who are you?” the man said. He was wearing a paisley dressing gown with frilled tassels hanging from the cord, pale pink pajamas, and burgundy slippers. He fitted the description Duhart had given.

“Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, like they were meeting over canapés.

“Yes.” It was a small-caliber revolver, the kind molls kept in purses in the books Duhart read. But Allerdyce was holding it steadily enough.

“My name’s-”

“Let’s get rid of the dagger first.”

Reeve threw the dagger onto the sofa. He didn’t have his hands up yet, but Allerdyce gestured with the gun, so he raised them.

“My name’s Reeve, Gordon Reeve. I wanted a word with you.”

“You could have come to my office, Mr. Reeve.”

“Maybe. But this was personal, not business.”

“Personal? I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. Men hired by your organization have been following me.” Reeve paused. “Are you sure you want to talk about this in front of witnesses?”

Allerdyce seemed to see the guard for the first time. The music was still blaring, but there was no telling what else he could hear.

“I should telephone for the police.”

“Yes, sir, you should,” Reeve agreed.

Allerdyce thought about this. Reeve stared at him levelly throughout.

“Upstairs,” Allerdyce said at last.

Reeve preceded him up the staircase.

They went to a small sitting room. Allerdyce motioned for Reeve to sit down.

“Is it okay if I take my sock off?”

“What?”

“The guy downstairs stomped me pretty hard; I want to check the damage.” Allerdyce nodded, keeping his distance. Reeve rolled down the sock. The foot wasn’t that bad, some swelling, and there’d be a good bruise, but nothing was damaged. He made it look worse than it was, easing the sock off with infinite slowness, grimacing as he manipulated his toes.

“Looks sore,” Allerdyce agreed.

“That bastard knew his stuff.” Reeve put the sock back on. He saw bottles and glasses on top of a walnut-veneered cabinet. “Can I have a drink?”