The Lab raised its head, which seemed as wide as an anvil.

"After a great guitar player," Twilly explained. The dog uncurled and stretched out on his side. That's when Twilly noticed the tape and bandage. He knelt beside the dog and gingerly peeled the dressing from a shaved patch of belly. Beneath the gauze was a fresh surgical incision, in which Twilly counted twelve steel staples. He pressed the tape back in place and lightly stroked the dog's ribs. It let out one of those heavy sighs that Labs do, but didn't appear to be in pain.

Twilly worried about the wound, wondered what could have gone haywire on such a strapping critter – the gallbladder? Do dogs even havegallbladders? I know they get arthritis and heart disease and autoimmune disorders and cancers – for sure, they get cancer. All this was going through Twilly's mind; a juicer commercial on the television and Twilly hunched with his elbows on his knees, on the corner of the bed, with McGuinn snoozing on the burnt-orange shag.

That dog, it had the softest breathing for an animal that size. Twilly had to bend close to hear it, the breathing like a baby's in a crib.

And Twilly thinking: This poor fella's probably on some heavy-duty dope to get past the surgery. That would explain why he'd come along so meekly. And the longer Twilly thought about it, the more certain he became about what to do next: Return to Palmer Stoat's house and find the dog's medicine. Risky – insanely risky – but Twilly had no choice. He wanted nothing bad to happen to McGuinn, who was an innocent.

Master Palmer, though, was something else.

He got fooled. He went back the next night, arriving at the same moment Stoat was driving away, the silhouette of a woman visible beside him in the Range Rover. Twilly assumed it was the wife, assumed the two of them were going to a late dinner.

But it turned out to be one of the maids riding off with the litterbug; he was giving her a lift home. And so Twilly made a mistake that changed everything.

Ever since his previous incursion, the Stoats had been more scrupulous about setting the house alarm. But Twilly decided to hell with it – he'd bust in and grab the dog's pills and run. He'd be in and out and on the road in a minute flat.

The kitchen door was a breeze; a screwdriver did the job and, surprisingly, no alarm sounded. Twilly flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations.

He found the dog's medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his pocket. The Lab's leash hung from a hook near the door, so Twilly grabbed that, too. For the daring raid he awarded himself a cold Sam Adams from the refrigerator. When he turned around, there stood Desirata Stoat with the chrome-plated .38 from the bedroom.

"You're the one who stole our dog," she said.

"That's correct."

"Where is he?"

"Safe and sound."

"I said where.'"'She cocked the hammer.

"Shoot me, you'll never see McGuinn again."

"Who?"

"That's his new name."

Twilly told Mrs. Stoat he hadn't known about the dog's surgery – not an apology but an explanation for why he was there. "I came back for his medicine. By the way, what happened to him?"

The litterbug's wife said, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Put your hands on top of your head."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stoat, but that's not how it goes in real life." Twilly took a minute to polish off the beer. "You recycle?" he asked.

Desie motioned toward a closet. Inside was a plastic crate, where Twilly deposited the empty bottle. Then he turned around and calmly snatched the revolver away from the litterbug's wife. He shook out the bullets and put them in the same pocket as the dog's medicine. The gun he placed in a silverware drawer.

Mrs. Stoat lowered her chin and muttered something inaudible. She wore no shoes and a long white T-shirt and pearl earrings, and that was about it. Her arms were as tanned as her legs.

"You're the sicko who put the bugs in my husband's truck?"

"Beetles. Yes."

"And left those nasty notes? And pulled the eyes out of all the animal heads?"

"Correct." Twilly saw no point in mentioning the attack on her red Beemer.

Desie said, "Those were terrible things to do."

"Pretty childish," Twilly conceded.

"What's the matter with you anyway?"

"Evidently I'm working through some anger. How's Palmer holding up?"

"Just fine. He took the maid home and went over to Swain's for a cocktail."

"Ah, the cigar bar." That had been Twilly Spree's original target for the insect infestation, until he'd hit a technical snag in the ventilation system. Also, he had received conflicting scientific opinions about whether dung beetles would actually eat a cured leaf of Cuban tobacco.

"What's your name?" Desie asked.

Twilly laughed and rolled his eyes.

"OK," she said, "you're kidnapping our dog?"

"Your husband's dog."

"I want to come."

Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn't be serious.

"I need to know what this is all about," she said, "because I don't believe it's money."

"Please."

"I believe it's about Palmer."

"Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat."

"It's Desie." She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.

"I'll scream bloody murder. Worsethan bloody murder," she warned.

Twilly sat down heavily behind the wheel. What a twist of rancid luck that Stoat's wife would turn out to be a head case. A light flicked on in the house across the street. Desie saw it, too, and Twilly expected her to start hollering.

Instead she said: "Here's the situation. Lately I've been having doubts about everything. I need to get away."

"Take a cruise."

"You don't understand."

"The dog'll be fine. You've got my word."

"I'm talking about Palmer," she said. "Me and Palmer."

Twilly was stumped. He couldn't think of anything else to do but drive.

"I'm not very proud of myself," she was saying, "but I married the man, basically, for security. Which is a nice way of saying I married him for the dough. Maybe I didn't realize that at the time, or maybe I did."

"Desie?"

"What."

"Do I look like Montel Williams?"

"I'm sorry – God, you're right. Listen to me go on."

Twilly found his way to the interstate. He was worried about McGuinn. He wondered how often the dog needed the pills, wondering if it was time for a walk.

"I'll let you see the dog, Mrs. Stoat, just so you know he's all right. Then I'm taking you back home."

"Don't," Desie said. "Please."

"And here's what I want you to tell your husband – "

"There's a cop."

"Yes, I see him."

"You're doing seventy."

"Sixty-six. Now here's what you tell Palmer: 'A dangerous drug-crazed outlaw has kidnapped your beloved pet, and he won't give him back until you do exactly what he says.' Can you handle that?"

Desie stared in a distracted way out the window.

Twilly said: "Are you listening? I want you to tell your husband I'm a violent bipolar sociopathic lunatic. Tell him I'm capable of anything."

"But you're not."

He was tempted to recite a complete list of personal felonies, but he thought it might freak her into jumping from the car. "I blew up my uncle's bank," he volunteered.

"What for?"

"Does it matter? A bombing is a bombing."