Owen Blackwell stepped down the slick stone path toward the mouth of the green-lit tunnels. He came alone, because the man waiting inside only sold names to desperate buyers. Owen needed names. He meant to tear apart the one who had emptied his father's life, and he could not do it without a crew. A huge red toilet sat outside the entrance like a joke chair. Owen knew the rule. You sat on it. You waited. You felt small. Filthy little green creatures scurried at his feet, sniffing his boots and hissing through brown teeth. He did not move them. He sat on the red throne and waited until the glow inside shifted. The man came out wiping his hands. He was older now, softer in the belly, but his eyes were the same eyes that had once bled Owen's father dry. He smiled like they were old friends. "I have names," he said. "Men who hate him as much as you do. But you'll owe me protection money. Monthly." He produced a wooden-handled plunger and set it upright between them, rubber cup pressed to the stone. A signing tool, his little ritual. Touch it, and the deal was sealed. Owen looked at the plunger. He looked at the man who had helped ruin his family. Then he wrapped his hand around the handle and squeezed. "Names first," Owen said. The man laughed, then stopped laughing when he saw Owen's face. He spoke three names, slow and clear. Owen let go of the handle and stood. He had what he came for. He also had a new leash around his neck, and the man holding it was already smiling again.

Owen left the green tunnels with three names burning in his head. He picked the first one and walked all night to find him. The trail led out past the swamp flats, where the ground turned soft and the air smelled of rot. He found the man under a tall stone marker, half sunk in moss and black water. The carved face of the slab loomed over the body like a bad joke. The man was dead. Cold. A clean wound in his chest. Owen crouched and searched the pockets. He found a sticky lollipop wrapped in gold honey, half eaten, still tacky. An odd thing for a grown man to carry. A message, maybe. A signature. Owen did not know whose. He stood and saw it then, nailed to the stone above the corpse. A small square photo. A snarling man with a heavy paddle, squared off against a small dark ape. Someone had left it where Owen would find it. Someone knew he was coming. A pair of filthy green creatures scurried from the reeds, sniffing at the blood. Owen watched them tug at the dead man's sleeve. He pulled the photo loose and slid it into his coat. His first lead was gone. A hunter he could not see had moved first, and wanted him to know it. Owen walked back the way he came with two names left and a colder fear in his gut. The work had changed. He was not the only one circling this prey.