"What, then?" Lee glanced at Chuck, who was looking at him anxiously.

"He was carved up."

"Oh, God."

"What?" said Chuck. "What is it?"

Lee waved him off. "What kind of carving?" he said into the phone.

"It was from the Bible, Boss. It was-"

"No, don't tell me. It was Thy kingdom come, thy will be done Thy kingdom come, thy will be done."

"Yeah."

"Goddamn it."

"It was him, right, Boss?"

"Look, Eddie-"

Chuck tugged at his sleeve, and again Lee waved him off.

"Sorry about all this, Boss. I guess the Slasher got to him before we could."

"It's not your fault. Eddie, do me a favor? Be careful, huh?"

"Sure, sure. Don't worry about me, Boss-I'm the original Iron Man."

"Just be careful-please?"

"Sure, Boss. Sure."

"Okay. Call me soon."

"Right. Will do."

Lee put the phone back in his pocket and looked at Chuck.

"It's Willow-Eddie found him in the boat pond."

"Damn." Chuck smacked his forehead with his closed fist, his face red. "Goddamn it. And was it-?"

"Yeah. He took his time. He took the trouble to carve the next part of the prayer on poor Willow just so we would know it was him."

Chuck's fair complexion reddened even more. "Bastard! He's taunting us."

"Yeah. He's having a good time with all this-and he's beginning to feel invulnerable. But that's what's going to make him screw up eventually."

The key word there, Lee knew, was "eventually." The thought of yet another victim felt like too much to bear right now. They walked in silence for a while, and then Chuck said, "You know, without any forensic evidence, trying to find this guy really is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I mean, no offense, but there's really only so much profiling can give us."

"I know," Lee replied. "I wish we had some hair, fiber, prints-anything."

"Which borough do you think he's going to do next?" Chuck asked "I wish I could say," Lee answered.

He didn't say what they were both thinking. By that time, it might be too late, and someone else would die.

Chapter Thirty-nine

At some point Lee realized that sex with Kathy was inevitable.

Maybe it was when she laid her hand on his as they sat squeezed next to one another in that crowded Madison Avenue cafe. Or perhaps it was the glance they exchanged at the bagel shop on West Seventy-second Street, as he set the bagel down between them...the plump brown circle of dough, toasted and crisp on the outside, soft and yielding on the inside. Lee felt a rush of warmth to his cheeks as he thought about entering her. Would she too be soft and yielding, under her crisp exterior? Once the thought blossomed in his head, it sent out tendrils, runner vines that spread throughout his brain, crowding out other thoughts.

He found everything about her absurdly charming: the way she curled her index finger around her coffee cup; the way she stood with her weight balanced on one hip, arms crossed over her chest; her habit of running her tongue over her teeth when she was concentrating; the resolute set of those square little shoulders; the languid curve of her upper lip; the way one black curl fell onto her forehead. Kathy Azarian had engaged his heart from the first.

He had no idea if she felt as strongly as he did, and he didn't want to ask, in case the answer was no.

Her invitation to come back to her friend's Upper West Side apartment where she was staying was almost casual, another step in the delicate dance the two of them had been performing ever since they met.

"I'm house-sitting for her for the weekend, and she won't be back until late Sunday."

She smiled, and the dimple on her chin puckered and blossomed.

And so they found themselves, later that afternoon, lying in bed at her friend's apartment, on a green plaid bedspread, the late afternoon light creeping across the opposite wall, forming shadows and patterns that her friend's two gray kittens attacked in little hops and leaps.

When at last his mouth found hers he didn't want to move on, but lingered as her strong little pointed tongue felt the insides of his cheeks. He ran his tongue over her perfectly white teeth, imagining them shining in the darkness of her mouth, waiting for his tongue to discover them. It had always amazed him that this act of intimacy was necessary to continue the species-for one body to actually enter another. Surely there would have been easier, safer ways. Instead, Nature had given them this gift, this miracle of flesh on flesh.

The back of Kathy's neck smelled tart and fresh, like winter flowers-carnations, maybe, or narcissi? Her body was so slight that he was afraid he might crush her, but the space between her hip bones tautened and trembled when he ran his lips over it. Her breasts were small but prominent, and perfectly round, like two cupcakes, her nipples sweet as ripe cherries.

He postponed the moment of entry as long as possible, until his body ached to thrust into her, and he gave in, sinking into her wet, unknowable darkness. She took him inside her, and he could feel her body pulling him in. It seemed as natural a fit as a hand inside a well-worn glove. As he entered her he thought of the deep, soft soil of furrowed farm fields stretching out between the white and green trimmed houses of his childhood.

He looked down at her face. She smiled at him through half-closed eyes, and again the dimple on her chin blossomed. He had wondered what her face would look like in the heat of passion, and now he knew. Her dark skin was flushed, her lips full and open.

He drove deeper inside her. She moaned and dug her nails into his back.

Being inside her was like being at the center of the earth. He had experienced good sex that was simply a physical connection, a mutual satisfying of needs-but this was different. He felt engulfed, surrounded, and he surrendered gratefully, wanting her to suck out all the pain of the last few years.

It was still amazing to him that these beautiful creatures, women, could be touched and smelled and licked and entered.

She breathed harder and harder, until her breath was coming in hoarse gasps and she moaned underneath him. He loved the feeling of power it gave him to make her moan like that, as she writhed and cried, "Oh, oh, oh God God," her slim body twisting like a snake beneath him, perspiration collecting on her upper lip, in the hollow of her neck. He wanted to know things no one else knew about her.

The aftermath of his orgasm was like the descent of the winter sunset outside the lace curtains, as daylight slipped slowly into night, separating into a pastel palette of colors too subtle and delicate for the robustness of a summer's evening. He watched the shades of winter twilight, watched as the day seemed relieved to let go and enter the long slide into night. They lay wrapped in the green plaid bedspread as the light outside the window faded, a tangle of arms and legs and cat hair.

He braced himself against the sadness that followed. It surged up inside him, just under his breastbone-soft, wet, and full. It pulled at his throat, closing off his airway, until he cleared it with a deep sigh.

She looked at him, alarmed. In the dim light, her eyes were the color of spruce needles: greenish blue, opaque as storm clouds.

"What's the matter? Are your injuries bothering you?"

"No."

"What was that sigh about, then?"

He wasn't sure how it would sound, to speak of the sadness that always settled upon him after sex. He was afraid she might take it the wrong way.

She rolled over onto her side, her breasts pressed together to create a narrow valley between them. He thought of losing himself in that valley, of sliding in between the heavy softness of those breasts, nestling there forever like a small, furry animal. Her nipples were deep red, almost brown.

"Is it the sadness?" she asked. The question was so unexpected he was caught off guard. She smiled and leaned up on one elbow, her breasts brushing against her arm. "Do you get it too-the sadness that comes afterward?"

He looked away. He had never discussed this with anyone. "Sometimes, I guess."

She reached over and traced a straight line down his forearm with her little finger. It made him shiver. "I've often thought that this might be why the French called orgasm 'a little death.'"

He couldn't think of anything to say. He had always believed his reaction to be peculiar to him alone. Talking about it felt more intimate than sex itself.

She retraced the line on his arm in the other direction. "It's probably a biochemical reaction of some kind. I wouldn't worry about it."

Her scientific bluntness made him laugh.

"That's a relief. I'll call off the existential angst patrol."

She laughed and flopped over onto her back. Her breasts were the whitest part of her body, but they were still darker than his skin.

"I just didn't know anyone else felt it."

"You never talked about it with anyone?"

"No." He didn't want to know whether or not she had.

"It's really an odd thing, when you look at it-sex, I mean," she said.

"How so?"

"Well, I suppose nature has made it arduous and difficult for the male for a reason-another form of natural selection, I guess."

"So how is making it hard for computer geeks to get laid good for the species?"

She punched his arm. "That's not what I'm talking about. I mean that it requires a certain amount of...stamina. If it weren't a fairly athletic activity, then anyone could mate, and that would be bad for the species."

"I just love it when you talk science." He ran his tongue over the outer rim of her ear, tasting the mixture of sweat, ear wax, and lavender.

After the third time he slipped into a deep, stuporous sleep. Murky images drifted in and out of his dreams, sluggish and bulky as whales, sinking just beneath the reach of his conscious mind. He awoke to a bright dawn seeping through the white curtains and the comforting sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. For a few minutes he lay there on his back, eyes closed, listening to the city coming to life around him. The sound of traffic was picking up momentum on Amsterdam Avenue, and he separated the various sounds in his head: the low diesel rumble of the M11 bus, the rattle of delivery vans as they lurched from one pothole to another, the clatter of metal security gates being raised as shopkeepers opened their stores for the day.

The two gray kittens entered the room and attacked his feet under the covers. The cats waged a continuous campaign of attacks and counterattacks, flinging themselves upon each other in a series of short leaps and hops, and then went instantly from full battle mode to licking themselves.

Contentment crested over him like a wave. The kitchen sounds were replaced with footsteps. Already, he thought, he could identify her walk, light and quick. She appeared at the doorway, wearing a green terry cloth robe knotted loosely around her waist, so that the upper part of her inner thighs was visible, dark and inviting where the robe came together. The smell of coffee floated in through the open door.

As she entered the room, the cats skittered out of it, brushing her ankles as they dashed off after each other.

Kathy laughed. "Those two-they're like teenagers cruising down Main Street. They're just looking for action, and pretty much anything will do."

Lee smiled. "They put on a pretty good show. But then, so do you."

She cocked her head to one side. The black curls, uncombed, grazed her shoulder.

"Coffee?"

He stretched his arms out to her.

Chapter Forty

The next day Lee took a long-promised trip to drive to his mother's house to pick up his niece and bring her back to town with him for a visit. Chuck had insisted he take the weekend off, and he even though he disagreed with his friend, he had no choice but to obey.

Fiona Campbell lived in the same house where Lee and Laura were born, in a tiny village nestled deep in the Delaware valley. She had lived there since the first day of her ill-fated marriage, and she intended-or so she often claimed-"to die there, by God,"-which was more of an oath than an appeal directly to the divine.

When Lee arrived to pick up his niece, Kylie was on the front lawn waiting for him, standing on Turtle Rock, the big round boulder he and Laura used to pretend was a giant tortoise. Sometimes it was a whale, a pirate ship, or even a magic carpet, but most often it was a turtle. The boulder rose from the earth in a single graceful arc, its smooth gray hump of a back perfect for straddling, or standing on, or jumping from. Once, years ago, his mother had contemplated having the boulder removed from her lawn, but Lee and Laura made such a fuss that she'd dropped the idea.

His niece was dressed in a pink and white snow parka, with matching pink sneakers and a pink ribbon tied around her blond hair. Pink was Kylie's favorite color, followed by purple. Unlike his mother, with her stern Scottish Presbyterian spine, Kylie was all girl, soft and sweet, but with a streak of mischief.

Lee got out of the car. "Hi, there, pastel girl."

Kylie made a face and balanced on one foot. "Why are you calling me that?"

"Is today a No Teasing Day?" Lee asked, scooping her up off the boulder and putting her on his shoulders. He managed to keep her from seeing his face-at least for now.

"Maybe," she said, putting her hands over his eyes. Her fingers smelled of lemons.

"Guess who!"

"Uh, let me see. Pastel girl?"

"Ugh!" Kylie gave a grunt of mock frustration. It was a sound Laura used to make when she was faking exasperation.