Do you think that'll give you another piece of the puzzle you need to catch me?

Not really. I'm just curious.

Curiosity killed the cat.

I'll take that chance.

Like your sister? Did she take chances?

Lee leaned back in his chair. This man was trying to get him-but had told him nothing important, except that he had done his research about Lee's family. He counted to ten and typed.

Why do you do it?

He tells me to do it.

Does it get easier or harder?

Easier. Much easier. The first time was the hardest.

Don't you feel bad for the women?

No. I just think of where they're going. I'm sending them to God-away from this world of sin and on to God. It is a great privilege, really.

But killing is forbidden by the Bible.

I am a Servant of God. He tells tells me who to kill. me who to kill.

Lee wondered if this was just a put-on. Was he saying this to set up an insanity defense later? I hear voices from God ordering me to kill, Your Honor I hear voices from God ordering me to kill, Your Honor. David Berkowitz-a.k.a. Son of Sam-had tried it, claiming his evil impulses were the result of urgings from the neighbor's rottweiler, but the jury hadn't bought it. Later he confessed the dog voice thing had occurred to him after his second killing. Berkowitz was highly intelligent, and so was this man.

Lee decided to go fishing, to play along. Maybe he'd find out something.

How did you know about my sister?

It was in all the papers.

Not the detail about the dress.

Oh, that.

How did you find that out?

Finders keepers.

Lee wondered if Holyman had something to do with Laura's death. He doubted it-though Laura fit the victim profile, it had been over five years since she disappeared. He wouldn't have taken five years between killings-unless, of course, he was in prison for something else. What, though? This was not the kind of person who would be a "common criminal"-definitely not drugs or alcohol. He tried a tactic to appeal to the man's sense of isolation.

I do understand you, you know.

Nobody understands me.

I do-I swear it. I know what it feels like to be you.

If you did, you'd know what I'm going to do next.

I do know.

You think you'll get me to tell you that way?

I don't need you to tell me.

Reverse psychology-that's so pathetic.

You seem to know something about psychology.

I know all I need to know.

Really? What's that?

I'll be striking closer to home next time.

What's that supposed to mean?

You figure it out. You're the one with the degree.

We're a lot alike, you and I, don't you think?

Nice try. See you later.

The message box read, Holyman has logged off has logged off.

Lee bit his lip and stared at the screen.I'll be striking closer to home next time.

Chapter Forty-nine

The mayor stood on the platform, the sun reflecting off the bald spot on his head. Camera crews jostled with each other to get the best angle, the closest shot. People in the crowd craned their necks and stood on tiptoe, climbing up onto the bases of street lamps, straining to see better. Chuck Morton stood behind him and to the left, next to the Manhattan DA and the police commissioner. The police presence on the street was heavy. Patrolmen dotted every corner, and there were still a few National Guardsmen roaming around in their military outfits.

There was an oddly festive atmosphere in the air. Ice cream vendors wheeled their carts down Park Row, men selling brightly colored helium balloons plied their way through the crowd, and there were pretzel and hot dog vendors on every corner, all of them doing a brisk trade. After a cold, dark February, the temperature had shot up to nearly sixty degrees. Lee could smell coconut oil, bringing with it the incongruent memory of summer days at the beach. He and Butts stood at the edge of the crowd, near the iron gate leading into the park.

Lee couldn't help thinking of the scene at public hangings, or the crowd that surrounded the guillotine as Madame Defarge calmly knitted her way through the carnage. Knit one, purl two Knit one, purl two. He suspected most of the people here didn't believe they were in danger from the Slasher, and that they were just attracted by the event itself. Oh, look, Harriet, the mayor's giving a press conference open to the public. Let's grab the kids and head on down Oh, look, Harriet, the mayor's giving a press conference open to the public. Let's grab the kids and head on down. After 9/11, people seemed to gather in groups in public more often, as if there truly was was safety in numbers. safety in numbers.

"What do you think?" Butts said, sucking on a salted pretzel. "Is this guy full of it or what?"

"Well," Lee said, "I guess we'll see."

The mayor raised his arms, and the buzzing in the crowd subsided. He looked out across the rows of expectant, upturned faces, eager for him to lead them once more, to recite magic words of comfort, once again restoring order out of chaos. The crowd grew silent, and Lee could hear the rushing of the wind through the caverns of lower Manhattan, picking up speed as it crossed over the flat expanse of New York Harbor, to wind its way through the twisted labyrinth of downtown skyscrapers.

A gust of wind lifted a tuft of the mayor's thinning hair, and he put a hand up to stop it, then seemed to forget all about his hair as the shifting wind brought with it the thin, acrid smell of smoke from the still smoldering ruins a few blocks to the south. The mayor hunched over the microphone and tapped it. There was a buzz, a short, high-pitched burst of feedback, and then silence as the sound crew adjusted their dials. The mayor cleared his throat, and the crowd leaned in to hear his words.

"My fellow citizens," he began, adjusting the mike stand, "this has been the most trying time in this great city's history. The events of five months ago proved that New York is indeed the greatest city in the world."

He paused for the wave of applause that rose from the crowd below, cresting upward and echoing off the narrow streets. "Now, once again, we are challenged by another kind of terrorism-this time violent actions of a lone, mentally disturbed individual. But this great city survived the worst attack ever on American soil, and we will not be cowed by the evil deeds of a single, psychotic individual!"

Again the pause for applause. The mayor removed a stringy strand of hair from his forehead and placed it back on this top of his head. He knew where the applause breaks were in his speech, and his audience didn't let him down-they clapped long and hard, with a few cheers and whistles sprinkled in.

"And so," he continued, "I am creating a special task force to oversee the apprehension of the man known as the Slasher."

More applause. Lee looked at Chuck, standing behind the mayor, his normally impassive face grim. He shifted from one foot to the other, coughed, and looked away. He's not enjoying this He's not enjoying this, Lee thought. It was clear that his friend did not like the mayor. He wondered if the mayor knew this. If he did, he was too professional to show it.

After introducing everyone, he stepped back and clapped a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Lee saw Morton stiffen at the gesture. He managed to force out a stony smile, but Lee wasn't fooled. The mayor didn't seem to notice, though, and Lee concluded that he hadn't gotten where he was by paying attention to every little slight. Like most successful politicians, the mayor had control over his emotions in public. He managed somehow to look both serious and hopeful.

"I am confident that Captain Morton will be successful in leading the elite task force to the successful capture of this heinous criminal."

"Elite task force, huh?" Butts muttered under his breath. "Wait till the wife hears that one."

"What does this mean for us?" Lee asked Chuck later, as the three of them walked uptown, passing the Chinese merchants piling empty wooden crates and bags of garbage on the narrow curb of Mott Street, the fading sun casting a golden glow over the jumble of streets and alleyways.

"Not much. More paperwork, more of City Hall breathing down my neck, but it's really just a political gesture. He doesn't want the FBI barging in, for one thing, and so he's fluffing up his feathers and strutting around the yard a little."

"Politics," Butts said, kicking at an empty carton.

"I think I'll leave that up to the mayor," Chuck said.

"I just hope he does right by us," Lee remarked.

"What I want to know is where the hell hell is Nelson?" Chuck fumed. "Does he do this often?" he asked Lee. "I mean, just drop out of sight like this?" is Nelson?" Chuck fumed. "Does he do this often?" he asked Lee. "I mean, just drop out of sight like this?"

"Since the death of his wife his behavior has been pretty unpredictable," Lee replied.

Chuck kicked at a discarded soda can on the sidewalk in front of him.

"Well, he really picked a bad time to go on a bender, if that's what he's doing."

Lee looked over his shoulder at the thin trail of sunlight dipping in and out between the buildings. He was afraid something had happened to Nelson, but he didn't want to say that to Chuck, who had enough to worry about right now. But he knew he needed to fill Morton in on what happened last night.

"The killer contacted me last night-or at least I think it was him," he said.

Chuck stopped walking.

"What? How?"

Lee told Chuck and Butts about the instant messages of the previous night, including the threat to "strike closer to home" next time.

"Wonder what he meant by that?" Butts mused.

"I've been trying to figure it out. Maybe he meant closer to me?"

"But he just did did Manhattan," Butts pointed out. Manhattan," Butts pointed out.

"Or maybe he means his his home," Chuck suggested. home," Chuck suggested.

"But that wouldn't make sense in terms of the patterns of most serial killers. His first victim would be the one closest to his residence. Besides, the message was meant for me."

"Jeez," said Butts, shaking his head as he stepped over a wayward garbage bag on the sidewalk.

"Can we trace him, do you think?" Lee asked Chuck.

"I'll check with the folks in the Computer Crimes Division, but I think there are ways he can hide his trail, if he's smart."

"Plus, we don't know for sure if this is him," Butts said. "Could be a copycat, a wannabe."

"True," Lee agreed, but in his heart he didn't believe it.

"I'll send the guys in Computer Crimes over later to check out your machine and see if they can trace the source of the messages," Chuck said.

"Did you get the test results from the communion wine yet?" Lee asked.

"Yeah," Chuck said. "The report came in this morning: zip, nada."

"No blood?"

"Not even very much wine. It was a pretty watered-down Zinfandel, according to the lab. That's it."

Lee couldn't decide if the Slasher was trying to throw them off, or if he was just becoming more disorganized, as the dismemberment of poor Sophia might suggest.

"What about your contact who put you in touch with that homeless guy? Anything from him lately?" Butts asked.

"No, he seems to have gone underground." The truth was that Lee was worried about Eddie too. It was unusual for him to be out of touch for this long.

But when Lee returned to his apartment, there was a message on the machine from Eddie.

"Hey there, Boss Man. Good news! I may have a real break in the case. I'll call back later. So long for now." Lee wished Eddie would call his cell phone, but Eddie hated cell phones. He didn't like answering machines either, and only grudgingly left messages on them.

Feeling relieved that Eddie was okay, Lee sat down at the piano and warmed up on a few jazz standards before tackling a new Haydn sonata. The left hand was a series of octave arpeggios, and soon the back of his hand ached from the prolonged stretching. After thirty minutes or so he took a break and poured himself a Rolling Rock. A favorite aunt of his had always kept a few cold ones for him at her house, and he bought them in memory of her.

Standing at the kitchen counter, he looked out the window, across the yard behind his apartment into the lighted windows of the neighboring building. A middle-aged couple was sitting at their kitchen table, having dinner. The man lowered his head and said something to the woman, who threw back her head and laughed, the overhead light shining on her upturned face.

Next time I'll strike closer to home.

What the hell did that mean? Closer to home...whose home? Closer to home...whose home?

He took a drink and felt the cold liquid slide down his throat.