IT WAS around two o’clock when Spig went home. The moon was clouded over, and a light rain starting to fall made it certain Dunning wouldn’t come back to Eden again that night.
He went quietly upstairs, taking off his jacket and shirt as he went.
“Who was that screaming over there?”
He turned on the light. Molly was over by the windows, partly dressed, tense, blue shadows under her eyes. “I was coming over. I was beginning to worry.”
“Just your friend Dunning.”
He sounded brutal where he’d meant to sound casual—the macabre picture of the Tattoo Artist, the black figure midway between the graves and the white shining temple, the devilish excitement and glee the more sinister the more he thought about it.
“He was over there with his paints. He was sore when I made him clear out.”
Her
