Symian’s grin revealed canine teeth. He turned back to Colby and put two small pills into the detective’s mouth and said, “Swallow these.”

Colby spat them out. “Fuck you! Carla!” A frightening thought occurred to Colby. Carla might be dead.

“It’s just nitroglycerine,” Symian said. “Trust me.”

Symian gripped the detective’s face, pried his mouth open, slipped two fresh pills under the detective’s tongue, and Hesz clamped the detective’s jaw shut with a massive hand.

When Symian was sure the pills had dissolved, he ripped Colby’s shirt open and drew a circle in the center of his chest with a foul-smelling, thick, cloudy liquid that he seemed to be scraping off his own forearm. Using a Sharpie marker he drew five symbols around the circle and then spread more of the goop over the symbols. Then he placed the fingers of his right hand on the circle under each symbol. He uttered an undecipherable word.

Pushing forward, Symian’s hand sunk into Colby’s chest up to his wrist. Colby’s eyes almost came out of their sockets. He anticipated the agony of such a violation, but as the seconds passed, he realized it was a numb sensation, like pins and needles.

At the door, a shocked, hysterical Carla crawled in, sobbing. Her torn blouse revealed symbols drawn around a red welt on her chest. “Give it back!” she cried at Symian. “Oh, Colby, make him give it back!”

Colby never screamed louder in his life. He could feel the gray man’s hand clamping his heart, but was too gripped with terror to realize there was little blood coming forth. Symian’s hand pulled the organ free of its attachments. Within moments, Symian held Colby’s still-beating heart in front of his face. He put it in the velvet bag, thumping like a trapped rat, and pulled the drawstring shut.