There was a knock at the door. The burly youth in the flannel shirt and jeans put down the book he was reading in the flickering light and got up to answer it. On opening, recognition was instant. "Glenn Danzig? What brings you to Alaska?"

"I want your skulls."

Laird Barron nodded in reply, turned and walked back into the house. A few minutes later he returned. He carried a fleshless orb in each hand. On reaching the doorway he stopped and handed them over to the muscular dark-haired musician. Looking Danzig in the eye, he raised an eyebrow in query.

"Don't ask," he replied. "But I'll have Bob and HP back to you by next Thursday."

Barron watched the singer stride into the night, a bony writer's cranium under either arm.

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