"Right."

"And got into the locked room where they kept the communion wine with no sign of a break-in?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, this may sound far-fetched, but what if he has an expertise that helps him do this?"

"Such as?"

"Well, what if he's a locksmith?"

"Hmm. You mean as in 'Lock, Stock, and Barrel.' That's not bad. It's worth a shot, anyway."

"We agreed that he was probably self-employed, right?"

"Right."

"So what if he actually owns owns a business?" a business?"

"Okay," Chuck said. "We can put Florette's men on it right away."

"I rode the train down with him."

"Yeah? And?"

"He liked the idea. I suggested we draw a radius to begin with of a mile around that church in Queens. That will be the most likely place-assuming he works not far from where he lives."

"Okay. We can start calling places by about eight a.m."

"I'll be in your office at eight sharp."

"Okay." There was a pause, and Chuck spoke softly, as if he didn't want someone in the room with him to hear. "Lee?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm going to bed now."

"Okay. Do that, all right?"

"Sure. I may call Nelson first, but-"

"Oh, let him sleep it off. He acted like a total jerk."

"I know. He's in pain, though."

"Yeah, right. Aren't we all?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Bed, Lee."

"Right. Good night."

"Good night."

There was a click on the line, and Lee imagined Susan wrapping her arms around Chuck, luring him to bed. Well Well, he thought, one man's meat is another man's poison. one man's meat is another man's poison.

He put on a CD of some vocal music by the Estonian composer Arvo Part, and looked out the window at the fading light as the voices of the choir floated around him in the air, singing cluster chords in soft, spooky tones. The days were getting longer now, and on warm days he could smell a hint of spring in the air. He knew he was supposed to rejoice in the opening of buds and the quiet greening of the trees, and yet all he felt was wistfulness.

He longed for a retreat into darkness, to sink into the womb of winter, instead of having to claw his way into the light. The longer the day, the more he felt the pressure to solve this case, and the growing impossibility of his task shook him to the core.

He could not know that was something he had in common with the man he pursued.

His mother rejoiced in the sunlight, of course; in fact, she took Lee's journey into depression as a rebuke to her very existence. When she asked about his mental health-which she did rarely-she danced around the topic as though it might bite her.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me." It was Kathy. "Just called to say good-bye."

"Why?"

"I'm going back to Philadelphia tomorrow. The Vidocq Society monthly meeting. My dad invited me, remember?"

"Oh, right. Sorry-I forgot."

"No problem. My place is being renovated, so I'll be staying with my dad. I'll call you."

"Okay, great."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"Well, make sure you get enough rest," she said, sounding unconvinced.

"I'm going to go lie down right now."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later in the week."

"Right."

"I'll miss you."

"Me too."

After they hung up, he looked out the window at the Orthodox Ukrainian church across the street. A ray of moonlight fell on the huge round window above the door of the church, lighting up the colors of the stained glass like a kaleidoscope.

He was reminded of the sun glinting off the windows of the World Trade Center, windows that would never reflect light again, and of the three thousand souls that lay buried in the debris. The sheer arbitrariness of the attack still stunned him. But for the grace of...God? Fate? Nature? But for the grace of...God? Fate? Nature? What would you call it if you'd rejected traditional Christian notions of faith? What would you call it if you'd rejected traditional Christian notions of faith? A leap of faith A leap of faith-more like a dive, a plunge into the abyss. And yet, he thought, surrender could be sweet-so sweet that intelligent, educated young men had surrendered themselves, or so they imagined, to the will of Allah.

He wondered what was in the minds of the hijackers as they carried out their implacable plan. For, he was convinced, it was not so different from what was in the mind of his own Holyman, the Slasher.

Chapter Sixty

He looked around the restaurant in Grand Central Station. These were all nice people, surely, with families and mortgages and dogs they had gotten from rescue shelters-scruffy terriers with sweet, lopsided faces, sporting red bandanas, who liked to chase Frisbees in the park on Sunday afternoons. They were the kind of people that advertisers targeted on television: middle-class families looking to upgrade their dishwashers, their laptops, their life insurance policies. They had aging parents in managed-care facilities they were concerned about, college tuition to save up for, IRA accounts to roll over.

But he he existed outside of their world. His was a half-lit netherworld of dark drives and even darker deeds. He glided in and out of their cheerful daytime lives like a ghost, an unwelcome visitor whose mission was to disrupt their daily ordinariness to satisfy his appalling fantasies. existed outside of their world. His was a half-lit netherworld of dark drives and even darker deeds. He glided in and out of their cheerful daytime lives like a ghost, an unwelcome visitor whose mission was to disrupt their daily ordinariness to satisfy his appalling fantasies.

If he could not be one of them, then he would live to remind them of that, to let them know they were not safe-not in their fortified SUVs, their multiplex houses with the elaborate security systems, or their fabulously expensive office buildings with the Japanese fountains and designer furniture fresh from the showroom. He would strike wherever they lived, worked, or played. He would invade their safety like a virus, a worm, a bacterium. They could not know his world, but he would know theirs.

He glanced at his watch-it was time to leave. His train would be boarding for Philadelphia soon.

Chapter Sixty-one

Lee promised himself that he would call Nelson right after he had a short nap on the couch. His head had been pounding now for hours, his neck was stiffening up, and he felt nauseous. He took one of the pills Dr. Patel had given him, and tried not to think about the doctor's face when he announced his intention to leave the hospital. He lay down on the couch and pulled the green afghan, the one Laura knitted him when she was sixteen and he was on his way to his freshman year at Princeton, over his legs. As he drifted off, he saw a thin ray of moonlight reflecting off the silver wind chimes Kylie had given him last Christmas.

He awoke to a ringing bell. In his dream it was the wind chimes ringing, but when he regained full consciousness he realized it was his phone. He threw off the blanket and staggered over to the phone.

"Hello?" His voice was slurred, ragged.

"Lee?" It was his therapist.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Williams."

"Are you all right?"

"Uh, yes, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry to call you on a Thursday evening, but I was becoming concerned about you. You've never missed an appointment and then not called."

Thursday! His weekly appointment with her was on Wednesday afternoons, and he had completely forgotten about it. His weekly appointment with her was on Wednesday afternoons, and he had completely forgotten about it.

"I'm sorry. I was in the hospital."

"What's wrong?"

He could hear the concern in her voice, underneath the patrician professionalism.

"I'm okay now."

"Was it...?"

"I had an infection of the brain. Bacterial meningitis."

"That can be very serious. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. I was just asleep, that's all. I'm sorry I didn't call you."

"Never mind. I'm just concerned about you."

"Look, I'd like to reschedule, but I think we're closing in on this guy."

"The Slasher, you mean? That's wonderful."

"Yes." He tried to sound hopeful and positive, but knew he had failed.

"You feel conflicted about it."

He stared out into the blackened sky. The stained-glass window on the Ukrainian church now reflected only pale lamplight.

"Maybe you identify with him. You told me that you believe he has an absent father and controlling mother."

"Yes, but-"

"So in some ways, you may feel that his rage is your rage."

A terrible thought crowded itself into his mind. Though he was, in every way, luckier than this young man, Lee realized that he felt an unwelcome emotion.

"It sounds awful, but I think I envy him just a little."

"What do you envy about him?"

"Because I have to swallow my rage, and he gets to act it out."

"So you wish you could be like him?"

He took a breath and held it. "Yes. I wish sometimes I could just be a murderer."

There was a pause, and Lee heard the click of call waiting.