In black paper.

Uh-oh.

Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front was

“Jack Taylor.”

Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the package there and pulled back from it. Opened the fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I approached the package as if it were incendiary. My history of such mail was all bad.

Took a deep breath and tore it open.

Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature sculpture.

A headstone the size of a Bic lighter.

I stared at it, muttering,

“The fuck is this?”

It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.

Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the sheer artistry.

In a state of alert, I reached for the dictionary, looked up the definition, got

“A stone at the head of a grave.”

All my instincts screaming,

“Throw it out… now!”

Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was less trick or treat as more trick and threat.

No coincidence that the clocks were due to go back to winter time and when that happened, it was a long time to the light.

If the package was meant to unnerve me it did.

I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my growing paranoia. Once outside, I felt better-not great but getting there. What I needed was a large Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser first.

I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a pang,