"Who was that?" Lee asked.

"That was really strange," Nelson replied, shaking his head. "All I heard on the other end was music playing."

"What kind of music?"

"It was an old Rodgers and Hart song, actually-one I recognized."

"Which one?"

"'Manhattan.'"

"Oh, God," Lee said. He sank back his chair. "Good lord...so he knows you're on the investigation."

"Obviously."

"Your number's unlisted, right?"

"Right."

"Caller ID?"

Nelson glanced at the receiver. "'Unavailable.' Probably using a phone booth somewhere. We can track it, but I doubt it'll give us much. If he's smart-which he is-it won't be anywhere near his home."

"Well," Lee said after a moment, "at least we can stop wondering which borough is going to be next."

Chapter Forty-five

The wind took the barren black branches of the trees and swung them back and forth in a kind of mad dance, a tango of bad weather to come.

They didn't know know they were being bad, these soft-eyed girls with their white hands and even whiter throats-little lambs, really, innocent white lambs with their trusting, open faces. They trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He was there to save them, after all, to make sure their souls went up to heaven, instead of down they were being bad, these soft-eyed girls with their white hands and even whiter throats-little lambs, really, innocent white lambs with their trusting, open faces. They trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He was there to save them, after all, to make sure their souls went up to heaven, instead of down there there, that horrible place his mother kept talking about, where demons ate your flesh and you lived in eternal damnation.

He walked along the creek bed, stepping carefully on the stones so as not to get his feet wet. He tried to shut out the sound of his mother's voice in his head, but it was to no avail.

Samuel! Sam-u-el! Are you listening to me? They'll tear at your flesh, and you'll be forever damned-trapped down there in eternal torment! And do you know what the worst thing of all will be? You'll never get to see Jesus again! You'll be eternally banished from His presence. Think about it, Samuel. Never to see Jesus again, never to look upon His divine presence! to see Jesus again, never to look upon His divine presence!

He did think about it. It would be too bad, he supposed. But then again, it might be a kind of relief. Jesus' eyes were so sad, so tormented. Samuel felt bad just looking at the carved figurine of Jesus, garishly painted blood dripping from His side, on the cross above his mother's bed. It was as if Jesus were begging Samuel to come save Him from torment, but he couldn't. He wanted to, but Jesus was already dead-they had already killed Him. And yet, somehow, here he was, hanging above his mother's bed, his beautiful doelike eyes begging for mercy-begging him, Samuel, for deliverance, for release from his agony.

Well, Samuel couldn't do anything about Jesus, but he could help those girls. He could release them, point them the way to eternal salvation.

He smiled. It had to be right, what he was doing, because it felt so good. He was delivering them from sin and temptation-and yes, evil. Deliver us. Deliver us Deliver us. Deliver us. The words rang a tattoo in his head, rhythmic as a pulse. He sniffed at the air like a bird dog on a scent. The wind was blowing in from the river, carrying the smell of salt air and fossilized sea creatures. Forgive us our trespasses Forgive us our trespasses. Tonight he would get to work.

Chapter Forty-six

Sophia wanted a cigarette. She knew she shouldn't smoke, but she desperately, dreadfully needed a cigarette. She sat at the desk in her dorm room trying to concentrate on the book in front of her: Film Analysis Film Analysis by R. L. Rutsky and Jeffrey Geiger. by R. L. Rutsky and Jeffrey Geiger.

Her mother had said she was crazy to think she could make a living working on "those Hollywood movies," as she called them, but her father had glowed with pride when she was accepted into NYU as a film major.

"She has a talent, Loretta-you'll see," he had said to his wife, squeezing her to him, her round little body plump as a ripe peach.

"You should be glad she's staying close to home," he continued, looking out at the garden in front of their two-family house in Queens. "She'll be able to come over for dinner."

Sophia wished she were going away to college, but NYU was a really good school and she was grateful to be accepted into the film studies program there.

Now, sitting in her dorm room with most of her classmates asleep around her, she tried to concentrate on the book on her desk, but the words blurred and danced on the page in front of her. All she could think of was how much she longed for a cigarette.

Finally she gave up. Moving quietly so as not to disturb her sleeping roommate, she grabbed her pack of Marlboro Lights, pulled on her boots and overcoat, and slipped out of the room.

The fresh snow was silent and glistening in the street, soft and white and pristine, not sullied yet by the soot of engines and the pollution of the city. Sticking a cigarette in her mouth, she realized she'd forgotten her matches. She shivered, drew her coat tighter around her, and headed through the snow toward the deli on the corner of La Guardia Place.

The street was deserted, and the street lamps cast pools of light onto the softly falling snow. The flakes swirled and danced under the lights; caught up in the magic of the night, Sophia almost didn't see the man standing in the shadows of the NYU dormitory building. Seeing her, he took a step toward her.

"Need a light?" His voice was soft, his face still half in shadow.

"Sure-thanks."

It was the last thing she ever said.

Chapter Forty-seven

When the phone rang at seven the next morning, Lee awoke instantly, the sharp stab of sound pulling him out of bed. He grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Lee, it's Chuck."

"Oh, God-another one?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it this time?"

"Old St. Patrick's. You know it?"

"On Mulberry?"

"Right."

Old St. Patrick's Cathedral was a beautiful landmark building nestled between Mott and Mulberry Streets, at the intersections of Chinatown and Little Italy. Lee had never been inside, but had walked past it countless times. It was a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment.

"I know where it is," Lee said. "Jesus."

"I'm on my way," Chuck said, "but you'll probably get there first."

"Right. Any instructions?"

"No-just don't let anyone move anything until I get there."

"Right."

Lee pulled on some clothes and hailed a cab in under five minutes. He was there in less than ten. He showed his ID to the uniformed cop on duty and went in the side door.

The scene at Old St. Patrick's was depressingly familiar: the same group of investigators dispersed around the church, the same hushed voices and dimly lit interior. The early-morning rays of the rising sun crept tentatively through the circular stained-glass window at the back of the church.

Lee walked past the crime scene technicians, who were just unpacking their equipment, and approached the altar, to look upon the face of the latest victim. He steeled himself for the sight of her naked, mutilated body, but he couldn't prepare himself for what he saw.

There, on the altar, lay the torso of a young woman. Her head was still attached, but that was all; her limbs had been severed, and were nowhere to be seen. On her dismembered torso were carved the words On earth as it is in heaven On earth as it is in heaven.

Lee absorbed this information in one terrible moment-then, turning away, he vomited. The members of the CSI team glanced at him, then continued with their work. This was obviously not the first time they had witnessed this reaction to a crime scene. Within seconds, a young woman from the CSI team headed toward him with a rag and a bucket, hastily gathered from the mop closet.

As she cleaned up after him, Lee forced himself to look at the victim. As he expected, she had the same short, curly dark hair as the others, though her skin was more of an olive hue. Her lips were fuller, her body-what there was of it-more womanly and developed. His head began to spin, and, fearing he was going to be sick again, Lee turned away.

"Sophia," said a deep voice behind him. "Sophia Lo-Bianca."

Lee turned to see Detective Florette approaching from the back of the church. Though without his usual jacket and tie, he wore a crisp white shirt, creased trousers, and polished brown loafers. Lee wondered if the man had a full-time valet.

"NYU student, film major," Florette said, frowning.

Lee stared at him. "How did you get all that?"

Florette indicated a young man in a clerical collar sitting in the back pews of the church.

"Father Joseph. Knows her because she sings in the choir here."

Florette looked down at Sophia-or what was left of her-and shook his dignified head.

"Nasty business. What do you make of this?"

Lee gritted his teeth, determined not to be sick again in front of the elegant detective. "I'll know more once we find the rest of her."

Florette laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me."

Apprehension gathering in his churning stomach like a sour storm cloud, Lee followed the detective to the back of the church. There, underneath a stained-glass window depicting Death terrifying a group of people, he saw a leg. He looked around for a blood trail, but there was none. That meant either the Slasher had cleaned up, or she had stopped bleeding by the time he cut her up, which meant she was already long dead-thank God. He took a deep breath and looked at Florette.

"There's more," he said, and led Lee to the other side of the church, where, on the basement stairs, they found another leg-and then an arm, and finally, under a statue of Mary holding Jesus, the other arm.

Florette gave Lee a few moments to process what he had seen, and then he said, "Does it have significance-the placement, I mean?"

"I think it does, probably a religious significance, but I'm not equipped to interpret it." He wished with all his heart Nelson were here-he would know what to make of all this. He was a lapsed Catholic, but he had absorbed all the symbolism and church history.

Lee looked over at the priest, still huddled in a corner pew. "Can he stick around for a while?"

"I'll ask him," Florette answered, and walked over to the priest.

Chuck arrived shortly afterward. When he saw what the Slasher had done to poor Sophia, his face grew crimson right up to the roots of his blond crew cut.

"Jesus," he said. "Bastard," he added through clenched teeth, though the epithet hardly seemed strong enough.

Lee and Florette filled him in on what they knew. Nelson wasn't answering his phone, and Detective Butts was with his wife's family out in the middle of New Jersey. There wasn't much for them to do. The CSI team had things under control, as usual, and after interviewing the priest again, all they could do was watch as poor Sophia was processed and bagged, piece by piece, and taken off to the ME's office. Lee noticed a smell in the air, something he couldn't identify. It was sweet, and it lingered in his nose even after they left the church. It seemed somehow familiar, but maybe it was just the aftereffects of all the years of burning incense.

As they were leaving he remembered the last murder, and pulled aside a CSI technician, a young man with bad skin and neatly trimmed blond bangs.

"Test the communion wine for blood," Lee instructed him.

The tech looked at him, puzzled. "Why would there be-"

"Just do it, okay?" Lee said.

"Christ," Chuck said as they stood on the steps of the church watching the dark blue medical examiner's van drive away. "We've got to catch this bastard." He glanced at his watch. "I've got a meeting in half an hour-let's meet this afternoon in my office."

Lee went home and showered, then called Nelson, but he still wasn't answering his phone.

That afternoon at Chuck's office, none of them looked well rested, having been awakened by the early morning summons. Butts had driven in straight from his in-laws' place, and looked as ragged as the rest of them. Nelson was still unreachable, so they started without him.

"Is there any news from New Jersey?" Chuck asked Lee, taking usual his seat behind his desk.

"I spoke with the state troopers in Somerville this morning. They processed the car thoroughly, but the only prints they found were from the doctor and his family. The only thing they have is the footprints in the snow."

Chuck frowned. "Without a suspect in custody, they're worthless. And I chewed out the cop who was supposed to be tailing you that night-turns out he had a family emergency, but that's still no excuse."

"What's this all about?" Butts asked.