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the time he reached the door, he barely had the will to pull up on the knob. Even then, he did it wrong and had to try again before he could push the stubborn door open. And when he finally entered the apartment, he did not experience the warm embrace of a home. Instead, he felt exactly like what he was — an intruder.
    "Pappy?" When no answer came, Duncan flicked on the living room light, and a new fear took him over. The room had been cleaned out.
    All the books, all the papers, all the magazines. The jewelry, the glasses, the little porcelain figurines. Every bit of hoarded junk had been removed. The blankets had been taken off the furniture and someone had dusted everything well. The carpeting bore track lines of a vacuum, and the sharp fumes of lemon-pine cleaner drifted in from the kitchen. Even the marked door had been spruced up so that it didn't look so oddly out of place. The entire room looked like something one found in a model display home.
    He knew, Duncan thought. Pappy knew, must have known the moment Duncan left, that he'd be back. Duncan pictured how hard Pappy would have worked to clean out this place. Maybe he called Mary — she'd love to screw Duncan over and would've helped eagerly. They would have had to work fast, sweating and grunting, never taking a break. When Duncan called Mary's cell phone, it would've been a final alarm bell that they only had a short time left. All that work to keep him from having anything to pawn.
    He dropped onto the couch and buried his head in his hands. Of all the times for these people to start caring. All their caring was going to get him killed.
    Tears welled and he had a hard time breathing. It wasn't just threatening words in his head anymore. He had no other option he could think of. This was real. The Boss and his men — they were going to kill him. His life would end. And though it had never amounted to anything important, it was still his life. Heck, even Pancake clung to the hope of living.
    From the couch, Duncan could see a sliver of the kitchen. He considered stomping over there, grabbing a sharp knife, and ending his own life. At least it would be on his terms, then — and probably less painful than whatever psychotic torture scenario the Boss would think up.
    But he stayed on the couch. The thought soured his stomach. Suicide in Pappy's kitchen — no way.
    He glanced to his right, and his wet eyes rested upon the door. All those crazy markings called out to him. Something important lay on the other side. Something so valuable that Pappy had protected it all these years. Possibly dangerous, too, but at this point, what did he have to lose? If he survived whatever the danger was, then he'd be able to get a hold of the valuable thing — whatever it was. Something that special wouldn't be able to be pawned with ease. But playing cards with criminals had introduced him to several fences. And if he couldn't get them to help him out, he could hand the object directly to the Boss. Probably call it even and walk away. He'd have a terrible time explaining it to Pappy, might even lose the last family member on his side, but he'd be alive. Live Duncan trumped a dead Duncan any day.
    On weak legs, Duncan stood and approached the door. He thought he felt waves of energy pulsing off the door, pounding into his chest, but then realized it was his own heart beating. He licked his lips. Took a deep breath. His hand hovered over the doorknob, his fingers tapping out a fast rhythm. Heat rose from the knob, warming the palm of his hand.
    He glanced back to the clean room feeling smaller and smaller. Any remaining swagger left him. He turned away from the door and stepped toward the exit. He could leave now, forget he ever considered this, and find some other way to solve his problem.
    Not one that could happen fast enough to save his life, though.
    "Damn," he said, turning back to the strange door. This time, he didn't allow himself the luxury of thinking.