She split. Not even a note. Thanks. Gotta go. Nothing.

Isn't that a bit much, even for Gabby? The fear became stronger.

"Okay, Dr. Macaulay, let's find out."

I went to the guest room and looked around. Where to begin? I had already gathered her belongings and heaped them on the closet floor. I hated to go through them.

Trash. It seemed less invasive. I dumped the wastebasket onto the desk. Tissues. Candy wrappers. Tinfoil. A sales slip from Limite. An ATM receipt. Three b.a.l.l.s of crumpled paper.

I opened a yellow ball. Gabby's scrawl on lined paper: "I'm sorry. I can't deal with this. I would never forgive myself if . . ."

It broke off there. A note to me?

I opened the other yellow ball: "I will not succ.u.mb to this hara.s.sment. You are an irritant that must . . ."

Again, she'd given up. Or been interrupted. What had she been trying to say? To whom?

The other ball was white and larger. When I unwadded it, runaway fear shot through me, vaporizing all the unkind thoughts I'd been nurturing. I flattened the paper with trembling hands and stared.

What I saw was a pencil drawing, the central figure clearly female, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and genitalia depicted in minute detail. The torso, arms, and legs were crudely sketched, the face an oval with features vaguely shadowed in. The woman's abdomen was open, the organs rising from it to circle the central figure. In the lower left-hand corner in a stranger's hand was written: "Every move you make. Every step you take. Don't cut me."

30.

IFELT COLD ALL OVER. OH, G.o.d, GABBY. WHAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN into? Where are you? I looked at the mess around me. Was it normal Gabby chaos, or the aftermath of panicky flight? into? Where are you? I looked at the mess around me. Was it normal Gabby chaos, or the aftermath of panicky flight?

I reread the unfinished notes. For whom were they intended? Me? Her stalker? I would never forgive myself if what what? An irritant that must be what what? I looked at the drawing and sensed what I'd felt when viewing Margaret Adkins's X rays. Foreboding. No. Not Gabby.

Calm down, Brennan. Think!

The phone. I tried Gabby's apartment and office. Answering machine. Voice mail. Bless the electronic age.

Think.

Where did her parents live? Trois-Rivieres? 411. Only one Macaulay. Neal. An old woman's voice. French. So glad to hear from you. Been such a long time. How are you? No, they hadn't talked to Gabrielle in several weeks. No, that wasn't unusual. Young people, so busy. Is anything wrong? a.s.surances. Promises to visit soon.

Now what? I didn't know any of Gabby's current friends.

Ryan?

No. He's not your guardian. Anyway, what would you tell him?

Slow down. Think. I got a Diet c.o.ke. Was I overreacting? I returned to the guest room and reexamined the sketch. Overreacting? h.e.l.l, I was underreacting. I checked a number, reached for the phone, and dialed.

"Y'allo."

"Hey, J.S. Tempe." I struggled to keep my voice steady.

"My G.o.d. Two calls in one week. Admit it. You can't stay away from me."

"It's been over a week."

"Anything under a month I interpret as irresistible attraction. What's up?"

"J.S., I . . ."

He caught the tremor in my voice and his demeanor changed, the flipness replaced by genuine concern.

"Are you okay, Tempe? What is it?"

"It's these cases I talked to you about last week."

"What's happened? I profiled the guy right away. Hope they realize that was your influence. Did they get my report?"

"Yes. You made the difference, actually. They've decided to form a task force. That part's moving right along."

I wasn't sure how to broach my anxiety about Gabby, didn't want to abuse our friendship.

"Could I ask you a few more questions? There's something else I'm concerned about, and I really don't know wh-"

"Why do you even ask, Brennan? Fire away."

Where to begin? I should have made a list. My head was like Gabby's room, thoughts and images scattered haphazardly.

"This is something else."

"Yes. You said that."

"I guess I'm interested in what you call nuisance s.e.xual offenders?"

"Okay."

"Would that include things like following someone, calling her, but not doing anything overtly threatening?"

"It could."

Start with the sketch.

"You told me last time that violent offenders often make records? Like tapes and drawings?"

"Right."

"Do nuisance offenders?"

"Do they what?"

"Make sketches and things."

"They might."

"Can the content of a drawing indicate the level of violence someone is capable of?"

"Not necessarily. For one person drawing could be a release valve, a way of acting out without actually engaging in violence. For another, it could be the trigger that sets him off. Or a reenactment of what he's already done."

Great.

"I found a drawing of a woman with her stomach slit and her guts spread out around her. What does that suggest?"

"The Venus de Milo has no arms. G.I. Joe has no d.i.c.k. What does that mean? Art? Censorship? s.e.xual deviance? Tough call when seen in a vacuum."

Silence. What should I tell him?

"Did this drawing come from the St. Jacques gallery?" he asked.

"No." I found it in my guest room trash. "You said offenders often escalate to higher and higher levels of violence, right?"

"Yeah. At first they might just engage in peeping, or obscene phone calls. Some stay with that, others move on to bigger challenges: self-exposure, stalking, even breaking and entering. For still others that's not enough; they progress to rape and even murder."

"So some s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.ts might not actually be violent?"

"There you go with the s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t business again. But in answer to your question, yes. Some of these guys play out their fantasies in other ways. Some use inanimate objects, or animals, some find consenting partners."

"Consenting partners?"

"A compliant partner, someone who'll permit whatever it is the fantasy requires. Subordination, humiliation, even pain. Could be a wife, a girlfriend, someone he pays."

"A prost.i.tute?"

"Sure. Most prost.i.tutes will do some role playing, within limits."

"That can defuse violent tendencies?"

"It can as long as she goes along. Same with a wife or girlfriend. It's often when the compliant partner gets fed up that things go bad. She's been his punching bag, then she pulls the plug, maybe even threatens to tell. He gets enraged, kills her, finds he enjoys it. On to the next."

Something he'd said was bothering me.

"Let's back up. What kind of inanimate objects?"

"Pictures, dolls, clothing. Anything, really. I had one guy used to beat the c.r.a.p out of a life-size blowup of Flip Wilson in drag."

"I hate to ask."

"Deep-seated rage against blacks, gays, and women. Hat trick every time he jerked off."

"Of course."

I could hear the Phantom of the Opera Phantom of the Opera in the background. in the background.

"J.S., if a guy does that, makes pictures or uses a doll, for instance, does that mean he probably won't kill?"

"Maybe, but again, who knows what's going to alter his curve and nudge him over that line? One day a naughty picture is enough, the next it's not."

"Could a guy do both?"

"Both what?"

"Flip-flop back and forth. Kill some victims, just stalk and hara.s.s others?"

"Sure. For one thing, a victim's behavior can alter the equation. He feels insulted or rejected by her. She says the wrong thing, turns left instead of right. She wouldn't even have to know. Don't forget, most serial killers have never met their victims. But these women star in the fantasy. Or he might see one woman in one role, cast another differently. Love your wife, then go out and kill. Cast one stranger as prey, another as friend."

"So, once someone starts killing, he could still revert to his earlier, less violent tactics on occasion?"

"He might."

"So someone who is seemingly just a nuisance could be a lot more?"

"Definitely."

"Someone who phones a victim, follows her, sends her gory sketches isn't necessarily harmless, even though he keeps his distance?"

"You are talking about St. Jacques, aren't you?"

Was I?

"Does it sound like him?"

"I just a.s.sumed we were discussing him. Or whoever it was kept the bridal suite you guys tossed."

Open up your mind, let the fantasy unwind . . . . . .

"J.S. I-It's gotten personal."

"What do you mean?"

I told him everything. Gabby. Her fear. Her exit. My anger, now my fear.

"s.h.i.t, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things? Look, this guy sounds like bad news. Gabby's creep may or may not be St. Jacques, but it's possible. He stalks women. St. Jacques stalks women. He draws pictures of eviscerated females, doesn't exactly have a normal s.e.x life, and carries a knife. St. Jacques, or whoever this devo is, is killing women, then cutting them up or disfiguring them. What do you think?"

Turn your face away from the garish light of day . . . . . .

"When did she first notice this guy?" J.S. asked.

"I don't know."