PROLOGUE

Before the blood, before the screaming, the only sound that reached the parking lot of the Black Mutt Inn was the murmur of the jukebox inside. It was set on autoplay, tumbling out the cheerful lineup of greatest hits, but there were none of the sing-alongs of usual pubs, no thrusting of glasses, no stomping of heels on the reeking carpet. The jukebox played in the stale emptiness of the building, and by the time the music reached the parking lot it was no more than a ghoulish moan. It was windy out there, and the stars were gone.

The Black Mutt Inn attracted bad men and had been doing so for as long as anyone could remember. Nightly, a bone was broken on its shadowy back porch over some insult, or a promise was made beneath the moth-crowded lamps for some violence that would come on another night. Sometimes a plot was hatched; the corners of the bar's undecorated interior were good for whispering, and the walls seemed to grow poisonous ideas like vines, spreading and creeping around minds and down necks and along legs, to the rotting floorboards.

On this night, Sunny Burke and Clara McKinnie entered the Black Mutt with their laptops and bags of chili jerky and bright suntanned smiles. The man behind the counter said nothing, saw nothing — he just served the drinks.

Sunny and Clara walked to the counter and set up shop under the mirrors. Against the wall, three men sat whispering. At the pool tables, another two stood looking through the shadows at the two travelers fresh from Byron, stamped with its optimism and cheap weed stink. Clara ordered a champagne and orange juice, and downed it quickly. Sunny sat nursing a James Squire.

Into the dim halo of light stepped a man from the pool tables.

"G'day, mate," the man said, thumping Sunny between the shoulder blades. The man was tall and square and roped with veins, and the two hands hanging from his extra-long arms looked all-encompassing. Sunny looked up, appreciated the density of the man's beard, and smiled.

"Hey."

"Just down from Byron, are we?"

"We've been there a week," Clara said, beaming.

"I can see." The man brushed the backs of his fingers against the top of Clara's shoulder, a brief brotherly pat. "Sun's had its way with you, beauty!"

"We're just on our way back to the Big Smoke," Sunny said.

"If you ask me, you've just come from the big smoke," the stranger jibed and nudged Sunny in the ribs, hard. "Tell me you've got some grass for sale. Please, tell me!" Sunny laughed. "Sure, mate." He glanced at the other figure in the shadows, the man by the table leaning on his cue. "No problem."

The stranger threw out a hand and Sunny gripped it, felt its calluses against his palm. "No probs, no probs. How much are you after?"

"Aw, we'll do all that later. Hamish is the name, mate. Can I invite you to a game?"

"Yeah! Shit, yeah. This is Clara. I'm Sunny."

"Me mate over there's Braaaadley, but don't you worry 'bout him. He don't talk much. Plays a rubbish game of pool, too, don't you, Brad? Aye? Wake up, shithead!" the man squawked back toward the pool table, but roused nothing in his partner. "Excuse me, miss, but me old Bradley's prone to leaning on that pool cue till he drifts off and no amount of slapping can get him back, if you know what I mean."

"Right," she laughed.

They racked the balls while Clara and the silent one watched, now and then letting their eyes drift to each other, the hairy man in the dark struggling beneath the weight of his frown, the young woman swinging her hips, holding on to the cue. She finished the champagne and wanted another, but the men were talking and laughing and making friends, and Sunny had always had trouble making friends, so she didn't interrupt.

"How about a little wager, just to make things interesting?" Hamish asked.

"Yeah, sure." Sunny puffed out his chest, ignored a warning look from Clara. "Where do you ... ? I mean. What do you usually ...?"

"Five bucks?"

Sunny laughed. "Sure, mate, sounds great."

They played. Clara was the most excitable of them all, howling when she sunk the white ball, cheering when Sunny scored. There was plenty of kissing, rubbing of backsides. The men in the booths watched them. The happy group at the table were cut off from the rest of the world by the cone of light that fell upon them.

"Very good, young sir," Hamish said, offering his big hard hand again. "How about another?" "Twenty bucks this time," Sunny said. "You can pay me in labor, if you like. The van needs a wash."

"Sunny!" Clara gasped.

"Listen to this guy, would you?" Hamish laughed, squeezed the young woman on the shoulder, and made Clara's face burn red. "What a cocky little shit. You're lucky you're so goddamn beautiful, Sunny, me old mate. No one's gonna knock that gorgeous block off no matter whatcha say."

They laughed and played again. Hamish was hard on Bradley. The balls cracked and crashed and rolled into the pockets. Clara was good. Her daddy had taught her the game young, bent over the felt, his hips pinning her against the side of the table. But she knew when to sacrifice a shot so that she didn't lean over too far and give Bradley a view of her breasts, her ass. The man looked at her funny.

"One more?" Sunny said. The bar was empty now but for the bartender, who was motionless in the shadows. Sunny won, and won again.

"One more, little matey, and then it's off to bed with you. What say you we make it interesting, eh? Everything you've won, you give me the chance to win it back. We go even. I lose, you take the notes right outta my hand, no hard feelings."

"Mate," Sunny drawled, "you win this and I'll give you double what you owe me."

"Sunny!"

"Oh ho! Just listen to this guy!" Hamish laughed.

"Sunny, no!"

"Cla." The boy drew her close. "They haven't won a game all night. It's fine. I'm just having a laugh."

"Sunny —"

"Just shut up, would you?" Sunny snapped. "I'm only having a bit of fucking fun."

Clara watched the men shake hands, rack the balls. Hamish leaned down, took aim, and began sinking balls.

The table was empty of Hamish's balls in less than two minutes. Then he sunk the eight ball in a single shot. Sunny never got a turn.

"Mate," Hamish said when it was done, straightening and leaning on his cue, the smile and the charm and the humor forgotten. "Seems you owe me quite a bit of cash."

* * *

In the parking lot, Bradley walked behind them, keeping watch now and then toward the Black Mutt, although no such careful eye was needed. A hidden hole drilled straight to hell warmed the air as it breezed across the asphalt and ruffled Clara's thick, dark curls. Hamish's hand on the back of her neck was like a steel clamp. They approached the Volkswagen van, the only vehicle in the lot, parked out in the middle of a huge barren wasteland so that the young couple would be safe from whatever might be lurking in the towering wall of dark woods around the bar when they returned. Clara put her hands out to stop Hamish from slamming her into the side of the van, and turned. Bradley had let a steel pipe slide down from where it was hidden high up inside his sleeve.

"Give me an inventory," Hamish said.

"There's the CD player, some cash, and Clara has some jewelry," Sunny was saying, fumbling with his keys. "There's the hash, too. You can take it. Please,...