Stoat had opened the front door and in they came. Before greetings could be exchanged, the spiky blond man had whipped out a stubby pistol, bound Stoat to the bar stool and dragged the bar stool into the kitchen. There Robert Clapley paced in front of the bay window, his diamond ear stud Clinting when he spun on his heels.

He began by addressing Stoat as follows: "Palmer, you are a world-class turd fondler."

And so on, ending with: "I spoke to the governor."

"Oh." Stoat experienced a liquid flutter far, far down in his colon. He went icy at the prospect of being shot point-blank, which now seemed likely. Bitterly he thought of the Glock in the Range Rover's glove compartment, and of the .38 in his bedroom, both useless in his singular moment of dire peril.

"Dick told me everything," Clapley was saying. "Told me this was entirely your idea, the veto, on account of your fucking dog got kidnapped by some mystery maniac. Can this possibly be true? Of course not. There's no earthly way."

Stoat said, "The guy sent me an ear."

"Do tell." Robert Clapley put his tan face close to Stoat's. He wore a mocking smile. Palmer Stoat was struck – no, overwhelmed – by Clapley's cologne, which smelled like a fruit salad gone bad.

"The dog's ear, Bob. The guy cut it off and sent it to me."

Clapley chuckled harshly and moved away. "Yeah, Dick told me all about that, the FedEx delivery. I say it's bullshit. Creativebullshit, Palmer, but bullshit nonetheless. I say you're nothing but a world-class turd fondler who's making up stories in order to shake me down for an extra fifty large. Please give me one good reason not to trust my instincts."

Then, as if on impulse, Blond Porcupine Man seized a handful of Stoat's hair, jerked back his head, pried open his mouth, inserted something warm and soft, closed his mouth and then continued to hold his jaws shut. This was achieved, with viselike effect, by placing a thumb beneath Palmer Stoat's surgically resculpted chin, and a stiff finger inside each nostril.

Robert Clapley saying: "Before I became a real estate developer, I was engaged in another line of work – not exporting VCRs, either, as you've probably figured out. Mr. Gash here was on my payroll, Palmer. I'm sure even you can figure out what he did for me, job description-wise. Nod if you understand."

It wasn't easy, with Mr. Gash clamping his face, but Stoat managed to nod. He was also desperately trying not to throw up, as he would likely choke to death on his own trapped vomit. The gag reflex had been triggered when the small soft object Mr. Gash had dropped into Stoat's mouth began to squirm; when Stoat finally identified the odd tickling sensation as movement – ambulation, it felt like, something crawling across his tongue, moistly nosing into the pouch of his right cheek. Stoat's doll-sized blue eyes puckered into a squint, and with a violent moan he began shaking his head.

Robert Clapley said to Mr. Gash: "Aw, let him go."

And Mr. Gash released Stoat's face, allowing him to unhinge his jaws and expel (in addition to the tuna casserole he'd eaten for lunch) a live baby rat. The rat was dappled pink and nearly hairless, no bigger than a Vienna sausage. It landed unharmed on the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and began to creep away.

Later, after Stoat finished hacking and splurting, Clapley placed a hand on the back of his neck. "That's a little something from the old days, the rat-in-the-mouth number. Worked then, works now."

"Lets you know we're serious." The first utterance by Mr. Gash. He had a deceptive voice, as mild as a chaplain's, and it sent a frigid bolt up Stoat's spine.

Clapley said, "Palmer, I assume you've now got something to say. Help me fill in the missing pieces."

And Stoat, who had never before faced torture or death, willed himself to swallow. He grimaced at the taste of his own bile, spit copiously on the tile and croaked: "The freezer. Look in the goddamn freezer." Jerking his chin toward the huge custom Sub-Zero that Desie had picked out for the kitchen.

Mr. Gash opened the door, peeked inside, turned to Clapley and shrugged.

Stoat blurted: "Behind the ice cream!" Praying that Desie hadn't moved the damn thing, or thrown it in the trash.

Mr. Gash, reaching into the freezer compartment and moving things around, taking things out – a pair of steaks, a box of frozen peas, a do-it-yourself pizza, a carton of rum raisin – dropping them on the floor. Then giving a barely audible "Hmmmm," and withdrawing from the freezer the clear Baggie containing the dog ear.

"See!" cried Stoat.

Mr. Gash tapped the frosty ear into the palm of his hand. He examined it closely, holding it to the light as if it were an autumn leaf, or a shred of rare parchment.

Then he turned and said: "Yeah, it's real. But so fucking what?"

But Robert Clapley knew what the severed ear in the freezer meant. It meant that Palmer Stoat (turd fondler though he was) was telling the truth about the dognapping. Stoat was capable of many tawdry things, Clapley knew, but hacking off a dog's ear wasn't one of them. A fellow like Mr. Gash, he might do it on a friendly bet. But not Stoat; not for fifty grand, or five hundred grand. He couldn't hurt a puppy dog, his or anybody else's.

So Robert Clapley told Mr. Gash to untie Stoat, then allowed the sweaty wretch a few moments to freshen up and get dressed. When Stoat finally emerged from the bathroom – his face puffy and damp – Clapley motioned him to take a seat. Mr. Gash was gone.

"Now, Palmer," Clapley said. "Why don't you start at chapter one."

So Stoat told him the whole story. Afterward, Clapley rocked back and folded his arms. "See, this is exactly why I'll never have kids. Never! Because the world's such a diseased and perverted place. This is one of the sickest goddamn things I ever heard of, this business with the ear."

"Yeah," said Stoat without much fervor. In his cheeks he could still feel the tickle of Clapley's rat.

And Clapley ranted on: "Stealing and mutilating a man's dog, Jesus Christ, this must be one diseased cocksucker. And you've got no idea who he is?"

"No, Bob."

"Or where he is?"

"Nope."

"What about your wife?"

"She's met him. He grabbed her, too," Stoat said, "but he let her go."

Robert Clapley frowned. "I wonder why he did that. Let her go, I mean."

"Beats me." Stoat was exhausted. He wanted this creep out of his house.

"Would you mind if I spoke to Mrs. Stoat?"

"She's not here now."

"Then whenever."

Stoat said, "Why?"

"To find out as much as possible about your sicko dognapper. So I'll know what I'm up against."

"Up against, when?"

"When I send Mr. Gash after him, Palmer. Don't be such a chowderhead." Clapley smiled matter-of-factly and tapped his knuckles on the kitchen table. "When I send Mr. Gash to go find this deranged bastard and kill him."

Stoat nodded as if the plan was not only logical but routine – anything to please Clapley and hasten his departure, leaving Stoat free to go get drunk. He was so shaken and wrung-out that he could barely restrain himself from fleeing the house at a dead run. And, Christ, now the man was talking about murder.

"One thing I've learned about the world," Clapley was saying, "is that shitheads like this won't go away. They say they will but they never do. Suppose Dick vetoes my bridge, and this pervo puppy-slasher actually frees your dog, or what's left of your dog. What d'you think happens as soon as he finds out we're getting the bridge anyway?"

Stoat said, "OK, I see your point."

"He'll pull some other crazy stunt."

"Probably."

"Not only inconvenient to me but very expensive."

"Not to mention vicious," said Stoat.

"So the only sensible thing to do, Palmer, is waste the fucker. As we used to say in the old days."