Their mail. He’d noticed it was empty the day prior, and Anna had mentioned something about it as well. They’d assumed it was a new carrier, just a typical post office glitch. Now he understood. This man had been stalking them for days.

“What kind of a person can pay fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents at once?” A boot nudged him. Tom pulled away from it. The motion made the world spin, but at least the level of pain seemed to have stabilized. He found he could draw air. He gulped it, trying to clear his head.

“I’ll tell you, it would take a real asshole. We’re talking grade-A stupid here, the kind of person who had everything handed to them their whole life and thought they deserved it. The kind who could find four hundred grand and think he gets to keep it.”

Tom put a hand on floor, tested it. The shift spilled boiling oil down his spine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, half-expecting to get beat back down. But he couldn’t just lie there.

“You think that’s the way the world works?” The voice nearer, coffee breath in Tom’s face. He blinked until he could focus, see the man bending down, the gun still in his hand. It was a big chrome thing, heavy. “You think four hundred grand lands in your lap and you get to keep it? Do you?”

Tom coughed, straightened his back. Tried to imagine lunging into the man, throwing him against the door, wrestling the gun from his hand. Tried, but couldn’t make himself believe it.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you bedtime stories, for Christ’s sake? You find a chest of gold, you better know there’s a monster guarding it. That’s the way the world works. You want something, you have to take it from someone like me.” He swung the gun up fast, leveled the barrel so that Tom could stare down into the darkness. It looked enormous. His body throbbed and his head ached. The man said, “Do you think you can do that?”

Tom forced his gaze upward, away from the gun. The guy looked Polish, had that wide pork chop face and dark hair. The thought led to another, and he scrambled for it. A name. Jack Witkowski. The man in the suit had asked if Tom knew a Jack Witkowski.

“Well?”

Tom forced himself to look Jack in the eye. Slowly he shook his head.

The man smiled. “Good.” He holstered the pistol, then held out his right hand. Tom took it, clambered to his feet. Nausea swept through him, making his whole body tremble, but he forced himself to stand straight.

“Now,” Jack said, “where’s my money?”

An hour ago, he’d have answered differently. He’d have hedged or tried to lie. Pretended ignorance. Now, though, he was suddenlyand profoundly aware of two simple facts. First, he was in shit deeper than he’d ever imagined. Second, Anna would be home soon. “It’s in the basement.”

“Show me.”

Tom pictured it, concrete ceilings and walls, a solitary window at the far end, the dingy light of a single overhead bulb carving a slow attenuation to shadow. He imagined a body facedown on that dirty floor, a camera panning out on a slow tide of blood flowing from what was left of his head. An image borrowed from a Scorsese film, only it would be his body, his blood. Then he thought, again, of Anna. “This way.”

“You go first. Carefully.”

It took enormous effort, but Tom forced himself to turn his back on the man and the gun. His wounded kidney sang with pain. He took one step and then another, eyes darting. The pattern of the wood grain, the smell of his own sweat, the dings and cuts in the molding, every little thing seemed to hold enormous portent, and yet there were so many of them, the world so very present that he couldn’t possibly sort through it.

The back stairs smelled faintly of trash. He started down, the wood squeaking and groaning with every step. There were cobwebs in the corners, and scraps from where a garbage bag had split a year ago. His mind like it was watching from a distance. He watched himself fumble to turn on the light, dusty yellow like faded lace. Saw himself walk to the back, past the washer and dryer, past the furnace, to the plywood hatch that covered the crawl space. He turned to look back at the man following him.

Looking at Jack snatched away that comfortable distance. Put him back in his body. Tom stared at the broad shoulders and ready posture, the pistol out and steady. Jack looked like a man at ease, a man who did this for a living. Tom said, “My wife and I, we’re trying to have a-”

“Don’t.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s my money?”

Tom swallowed, acid ringing in his nostrils and the back of his throat. “In there.” Pointing to the crawl space. “In a duffel bag.”

“Get it.”

He took a breath. Maybe once he gave up the money, this would all be over. Jack Witkowski would take what was his and leave them alone. They could go back to their old life, to bills and work hassles and making dinner and watching reruns, all the silly moments that took up a day, took up a life. Every precious thing they had thought they wanted to get clear of.

Tom stepped forward, gripped the edges of the plywood panel, lifted it up and off, then set it against the wall. A musty smell rose from the darkness. He squatted and reached in. His hand fumbled for the strap of the bag. Nothing. He started patting around in the crawl space, hand clanging against the metal of pipes, triggering spills of dust. He leaned in to the shoulder, felt in both directions, thinking maybe they had just tucked it farther than he remembered. Nothing.

Tom ducked down to peer into the dim space. As his eyes adjusted, he saw chalky piles of dust, abandoned spiderwebs, the faint, slick darkness of the pipes. But no duffel bag. It simply wasn’t there. He stared, trying to understand.

The burglary, he thought. But then, no – after the cops had left, the first thing he and Anna had done was come down to the basement to check on the money.

Everything stood still. Tom crouched on the ground with his head in the crawl space like a child hiding. Some part of him praying that by not seeing the threat behind him, he would make it somehow go away.

Then Jack said, “Lay down and stretch your arm out.”

JACK WATCHED the man stiffen. Idiot civilian. Most guys, a solid kidney blow taught every needed lesson. But not this stupid son of a bitch. He still felt entitled.

The click of the hammer cocking back was loud in the confined space.

“No, wait, please!” Tom Reed spun on his knees, hands in front of his face. He looked desperate, had that animal panic, all darting eyes. “It was here. I swear, it was here.”

“Lay down,” Jack said, “and stretch out your arm.”

“We got robbed,” Tom blurted. “Earlier this week. They didn’t find the money then, but they must have come back. They must have realized they’d forgotten the basement. We didn’t notice because they didn’t go into either of the units, but they must have come here and-”

“Tom.” Jack spoke slowly. “Who do you think broke into your house?” He shook his head. “You want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Now lay the fuck down.”

For a long moment, the man just stared at him, the blood draining out of his face, a thousand horrors flowing in to replace it. Nothing was scarier than the monster you conjured in your own head. He started to argue, but Jack moved the pistol from his face to his stomach. “Now.”

Slowly Tom Reed lay down on the dirty floor. He unfolded his knees from beneath him, then eased himself back onto his elbows. Held the position for a second, then rocked onto his back. He extended his arm. His eyes were on the ceiling, but seemed like they saw through it.

Jack eased the hammer down on the 1911, but kept it on Tom Reed’s stomach. He put the ball of his size-twelves on the guy’s arm, just past the elbow. Leaned in hard. The guy’s lips were moving without sound, something rhythmic and steady, a prayer, maybe, or a promise. The old tightness came back, exhilaration and fear and a surge of power, of living on the thin edge of life, where the world was made minute by minute. He let the moment stretch, let the man’s fear thicken and curdle.