"Sad, maybe."

"Anything else?"

Lee looked at her. "Like what?"

"Like...angry, perhaps?"

His stomach burned-boiled with-yes, rage.

"Okay," he said, "so I'm angry. What do I do about it?"

"Well, allowing yourself to acknowledge it is a start. Then you might tell me all the things you're angry about."

Lee felt his jaw tighten.

"Okay," he said stiffly. "I'm angry at my mother for not recognizing the truth: that Laura is gone, that she's never coming back. She just can't accept that Laura is dead."

"So you're angry at your mother for holding on to hope."

"Yes. There's a time to let it go, to see reality for what it is."

"What if reality is too painful?"

"Reality is often too painful. That's not a good excuse. You still have to face it."

"So you wish your mother had your courage?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. Because then I could-I could grieve with her. It's something we could go through together, instead of living in these parallel realities."

Dr. Williams nodded, sympathy stamped across her high-cheekboned face. "Yes, it's hard when people we care about continue to disappoint us."

"There's something else." How to say it? How to say it? "I've met someone." "I've met someone."

Dr. Williams folded her elegant hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair. "Well, that sounds like a good thing."

"It sounds sounds great-but it feels scary." great-but it feels scary."

"Why don't we talk about why it feels scary?"

"Well, it's a chance to have something I want, but it's also a chance to fail, to lose what I want."

"So as long as you don't want anything you're safe?"

Lee considered the question. "Yeah, pretty much. That's no way to live, though. The thing is, I'm not sure I'm ready for something like this. I mean, the timing-I feel caught off guard."

"Wouldn't it be great if opportunity only knocked when we asked it to?"

"Do I sense a little sarcasm?"

"No, not at all. Just irony. I don't think it's unreasonable for you to feel that way at all, but life often throws you a curve just when-"

"When you were hoping for a fastball."

Dr. Williams laughed, a low, bell-like sound that emanated from deep in her throat. Lee was reminded of a didgeridoo, the Australian musical instrument that produced amazing waves of overtones when played correctly.

"What does she look like?"

"She's, uh...kind of short, with curly dark hair."

"Like your sister."

"Oh, come on on-does everything have to be about Laura?"

"No. I'm just pointing it out. It's interesting that you became so immediately defensive about it."

"All right, all right right!"

"You know, it isn't unusual for someone to try to construct a surrogate family when their family of origin is inadequate-or, in this case, torn away from you."

"Okay, okay," Lee said impatiently. "And John Nelson is my substitute father figure, who doesn't abandon me, but chooses me from among all the others."

"Why does that make you so angry?"

"That's what I'm here to find out, isn't it?"

"Okay." Dr. Williams rarely took bait, even when it was dangled in front of her. It was one of the things Lee liked about her-she had that kind of confidence as a therapist.

There was a pause, and then Lee said, "You know, my mother doesn't really approve of what I do for a living."

"You think not?"

"It's too messy, too involved with things she'd rather not think about."

"The dark side of human nature?"

"She was all right with my being a psychologist, but this 'profiling thing,' as she calls it, takes me to places she doesn't want to admit even exist."

"So you think she finds it threatening?"

"I'm sure of it."

"And you? Do you find it threatening?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"This woman you've met-do you think she finds it threatening?"

"Well, that's the thing: she seems fascinated by it. I don't know how I feel about that. Part of me is glad, and part of me wonders..."

"What's wrong with her?"

He thought about it. "Yeah, maybe."

"So you think you should marry a girl just like dear old Mom?"

"Well, now, which is it, Dr. Williams-my mother or my sister? Make up your mind."

They both laughed, but Lee had a sticky feeling of discomfort. It was one thing to read about these things in a textbook, or even to go through it with a patient, but it was another thing to experience it yourself.

Lee left Dr. Williams's office feeling a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was such a relief to be able to say "I'm afraid." In his family, those were forbidden words. No one was ever afraid-not strong, worthy people, at any rate. Fear was for the rest of humanity, those inferior beings who had not the good fortune to be born Campbells. As Lee turned the corner onto University Place, past the University Coffee Shop, the smell of grilled beef assailed his nostrils, and he was suddenly ravenous.

His cell phone beeped inside his jacket, indicating that he had a message. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. NEW TEXT MESSAGE NEW TEXT MESSAGE. He scrolled over to the message and read it. It was a single sentence.

What about the red dress?

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, stunned. No one knew about the red dress, the one his sister was last seen wearing before she disappeared. That detail had never been released to the public-only the police knew about the red dress.

Except that now someone else knew too.

Chapter Twenty

Later that afternoon Lee sat in the overstuffed brown leather armchair by the window, his feet propped up on the windowsill, a cup of strong coffee on the round rosewood table by his side. He opened the yellow file folder on his lap. The red tab marking said simply Kelleher, Marie Kelleher, Marie, followed by the case number. This young girl, who once had a life ahead of her, was now reduced to a manila folder, a few horrific photos, and a case number. A good girl, a practicing Catholic, pious and churchgoing, without an enemy in the world. His sister hadn't had an enemy either, and yet someday someone would be sitting with a file like this one on his lap, and the tab would read Campbell, Laura Campbell, Laura...if her body was ever found.

What about the red dress?

Lee rubbed his forehead. There was no way to trace who might have left the text message-you could buy a disposable cell phone at any bodega in New York, use it for one call, and throw it in the East River. Lee debated whether to call Chuck and tell him about the message.

He forced his mind back to the file in front of him and looked at the forensic data, or lack of it: no semen, no prints, and-other than the victim's-no blood. He studied the crime scene photographs, and was struck by the orderliness of the scene. Nothing out of place, the vase of flowers exactly where the priest said he had last seen them, the pulpit right where it belonged-very little had been touched, except for the awful presence of Marie's body on the altar. The lack of defensive wounds meant she was probably blindsided-a blitzkrieg attack. The killer didn't necessarily know her well, but she didn't feel threatened by him-until it was too late.

The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie. He picked it up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Heya, Boss."

"Hi, Eddie."

"I think I got something for you."

"Really? What?"

"I can't talk right now, but it might be good. Diesel and Rhino have been snooping around, you know."

"Okay, listen-give me your number and I'll call you."

"No can do, Boss. I'll have to call you back."

"Okay."

"When would be a good time?"

Just then Lee heard the beep of call waiting.

"Look, I have to go. Call me tomorrow, okay?"

"Right. Will do."

Lee pressed the receiver and answered the other line.

"Hello?"

"Lee, it's Chuck." Something in his voice made Lee's stomach clench. Before he spoke again, Lee already knew what was coming next. "There's been another one-same MO. It's him, Lee."

"Where?"

"Brooklyn. The victim's name is Annie O'Donnell. They found her in a church in the Heights."

"Damn. Are you there now?"

"On my way. It's in Park Slope-Two-two-five Sixth Avenue."

"Okay, I'm leaving now. I'll meet you there."

Lee took a gulp from the cooling cup of coffee, threw on his coat, and grabbed his house keys, shoving them in his pocket.

He stepped out into the dimming February twilight and looked at the lights in the windows of the apartments lining Seventh Street. The apartment opposite his had cream-colored French lace curtains, and the soft yellow glow of lamplight inside was inviting. But behind even the most inviting glow of lamplight there could live a killer, plotting his next act of rage against society. Lee jogged a half block to the west to look for a cab at the intersection where the Bowery bifurcated into Third Avenue to the east and Fourth Avenue to the west.

As he stepped out from the curb to hail a cab, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. It wasn't an unusual sound to hear on Third Avenue, but an instant later something whizzed by his head, embedding itself with a tinny thud in the lamppost behind him. He turned to look at the lamppost, but just then a cab pulled up in front of him. He looked around Third Avenue, but there was no sign of the shooter. No one on the street seemed to notice that anything unusual had happened. He searched the crowd, but no one was running away-even the sound of the gun firing had been swallowed up by the blare of car horns and traffic noise.

He glanced at the lamppost. Whatever the object was, it had cut deeply into the metal. He took a step toward it, but the cabbie honked his horn impatiently.

"Hey mister-do you wanna go somewhere or not?"

Lee looked down Third Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, and this was the only free cab in sight.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, climbing in and closing the door.

There was no doubt in his mind that the dent in the lamppost was made by a bullet. What he wasn't sure of was whether or not he was the intended victim.

The pursuer becomes the pursued, he thought grimly as the cab rattled up Third Avenue.