He peeked through the peephole, saw a man he didn’t recognize, and opened the door. “You Doug Kirk?” the visitor asked. Kirk caught himself staring. The man at his door stood roughly eye-to-eye with him, but the collection of scars covering his face could make a person wonder if he had dove headfirst into a wood chipper. A five o’clock shadow had bare runnels through it, reminding the Halifax warden of claws. A razor had done an equally fine job on the guy’s scalp. The gray eyes were as pure as smoky glass. “Yeah,” Kirk said. “Something wrong?” the man asked with a half-smile, showing white teeth. “Just wondering… if I should call the cops now or later.” The stranger chuckled and shrugged his wide shoulders. He wore a fall leather jacket that might have been stitched together from the best cuts of a bunch of baseball catcher mitts. “I get that a lot,” the bright-eyed man said. “I’m Nick Dyer. I’m the last visitor to come calling, I think.” “Come on in,”
