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By Peter Corris

Aussie deepest eye Cliff Hardy narrowly escapes a fireball that kills fanatics and lands him at the path of deception that results in a hell guarded by way of a snarling puppy and full of a family's darkest secrets and techniques. Reprint. NYT.

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I took out Cy’s letter in its pure white envelope and waved it like a flag of truce. ‘Mr Peckham,’ I yelled. ’ The dog barked louder. ‘Call him off. ’ He shook his head. I wondered whether I could hurdle the dog and get beyond the reach of the chain before it recovered. Glen might have made it; I knew I had no chance. 38 Smith & Wesson from the glove box. Back across the street I held the pistol at arm’s length. The dog was rearing up, pressing forward. If a link in the chain or the fastening to its collar gave, blood would have to flow.

Mr Hardy. ’ I had the door open. ’ ‘I can’t help wondering what was in that parcel you posted. ’ * * * * 4 The cat with no name greeted me as I came through the door. It followed me down the hall into the kitchen and stood over me until I opened a tin of food for it. The way I felt I’d have opened two tins if it had insisted. I searched my memory for some recollection of Paula Wilberforce at the Post Office, on the road and at Granville—some sub-conscious mental image that I hadn’t bothered to process.

I told Mrs Lamberte that I’d accept her case and charge her five hundred dollars as a retainer. She wrote out a cheque without blinking. I got her address and that of her husband and the name of the lawyer who was acting for her. That about concluded our business. I gave her a receipt, locked the package and her money in a drawer of my desk and offered to escort her to her car. She refused and I was relieved. Gave me a chance to finish my drink. ’ Glen said. We were sitting in a Thai restaurant in Glebe Point Road.

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