He called louder.

"Mrs. Hughes? Are you there?" He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles. He was burning to burst into the house, but they had no search warrant, and the last thing they needed was to have the whole case thrown out of court.

"I don't think anyone's in there," Butts said, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. He, too, looked impatient and anxious.

"The door is open," Lee said, "do you think we should-"

But at that moment he realized what was blocking the door. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he could make out a pair of woman's shoes-still attached to their owner. She lay partially out of sight, in the small front foyer, but even in the darkened room, Lee could see her feet, her legs, and-was that blood?

He turned to Butts. "We're going in. Cover me."

"I don't think we should-" Butts began, but that was all he managed to get out.

Lee didn't wait for Butts to pull his gun. He pushed against the door with his shoulder, and it gave.

What he saw made him catch his breath.

The dead woman in front of him was nude, just like the rest of the Slasher's victims. But there was no neat positioning of the body with the arms spread out evenly from her shoulders. Instead, she lay splayed out on the floor, her hands flung above her head, a jagged scar where her throat had been cut. A dark rivulet of dried blood snaked crookedly from her throat across the white linoleum floor.

"Jesus," Butts said softly, behind him, looking around the room. Blood spatter was everywhere-on the floor, the walls, the furniture, even the ceiling.

The victim was slight of build-like her son, Lee thought-and, unlike the other victims, she was middle-aged, but slim and trim, what was once called "well-preserved."

On her chest had been carved the words, Deliver us From Evil Deliver us From Evil.

He was looking at a textbook example of overkill. In addition to slashing her throat and carving on her chest, the killer had ripped her clothes from her body, and they lay in tatters around her. Her limbs were splayed out in every direction. It's possible she had fallen like that, but Lee thought it more likely that the killer was making a point by leaving her this way. He had staged every other crime scene, and would probably have staged this one-unless he was falling apart completely now, which was also possible.

He knelt and felt for a pulse, but knew there was no point. Her dead eyes stared reprovingly at the ceiling. The expression on her face was of shock and disbelief, as if she could not fathom what could cause this depth of violence from her own flesh and blood.

Lee straightened up to face Butts, who was staring down at Mrs. Hughes.

"He finally killed the person he meant to kill all along," Lee said.

"So we finally got our guy," Butts remarked.

"Except that we don't have him yet," Lee reminded him. He touched her dead hands. Rigor mortis had already begun to set in, indicating the time of death was probably some hours earlier.

"Do you think it means anything that he skipped over part of the prayer?" Butts asked, looking down at the body. "I mean, should we be lookin' for more vics to turn up?"

"Judging by this, he's spinning out of control, becoming more disorganized. I think he's on the run."

Bundy had gone on the run at this point, fleeing all the way down to Florida, where his killing became unhinged-he attacked five young women on his final, orgiastic night of slaughter.

"I'll call it in," Butts said, getting out his cell phone.

"Okay," said Lee. "I'm going to look around." There was a slight chance Samuel was still here-very slight, Lee thought, given the circumstances. The killing of his mother represented the culmination of his violence, the final-and most authentic-act of retribution in what had until now been symbolic slayings. This would make him more vulnerable, but also far, far more dangerous.

Lee stepped from the foyer into a small but tidy living room adorned with religious icons. He caught a flash of white disappearing around the corner-a cat, probably. He looked around the room. Statues of Joseph and the Virgin Mary graced either side of the mantelpiece, and one wall had a kitschy portrait of Jesus looking heavenward with tragic, soulful eyes. But the most striking icon was the heavy gold cross above the fireplace. A suffering carved Christ was nailed to it with what looked like real nails, and he was dripping blood from every pore. The carving was so realistic that it made Lee's flesh crawl. The furnishings evoked a Victorian parlor-dark furniture covered with fringed antimacassars and lace doilies.

"Okay," Butts said, lumbering into the room, "they're on the way. Hey-look at that, will ya?" he said.

Lee followed his gaze. There, sitting on a small round table, next to an old-fashioned dial telephone, was a white plastic inhaler, the kind used by asthmatics. Next to it was a slip of note paper. Lee picked it up and read the hastily scrawled handwriting.

Amtrak Philly 3:35 pm Penn Station Philly 3:35 pm Penn Station He glanced at his watch. The train had left from Penn Station an hour ago.

"Philly?" Lee said. "Why would he go to Philly?"

"Here," said Butts. "Take a look at this." He thrust another crumpled receipt in front of Lee, this one for the Adam's Mark Hotel, just outside downtown Philadelphia.

Lee stared at the receipt. Suddenly his ears were ringing, and there was a roaring sound in his head. He realized why Samuel Hughes was going to Philadelphia.

Next time I'll strike closer to home.

He's after Kathy. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. He grabbed Butts by the arm, dragging him to the door.

He wasn't sure what he said or did, but somehow he managed to get Butts out of there. They rushed down the street, the stubby detective trundling a few years behind him as he sprinted toward the subway. There were no yellow cabs cruising this neighborhood, and he reasoned that an express train would be faster anyway.

"What's goin' on?" Butts asked, panting as he tried to catch up with Lee. "You trying to give me pneumonia or something?"

"I've got to get to Philadelphia!" Lee called back over his shoulder.

"How are you gonna find him in a place like that?" Butts yelled as they charged down the steps to the train, dashing through the turnstiles just in time to catch an express headed for Manhattan.

"Okay," Lee said as they threw themselves down onto the plastic seats, panting heavily, "listen carefully. I'm going straight to Penn Station. I want you to contact Chuck Morton and tell him that I've gone after Samuel Hughes, and that he's our man."

"Oh, man man," Butts said, struggling to breath through a sudden coughing fit. "Have you gone loco on me? How do you figure to find this guy in goddamn Philadelphia?"

Lee told him what he feared-that Hughes was going after Kathy now-and that that was the reason for his trip to Philadelphia.

"Oh, jeez," Butts said. "Let me come with you!"

"No, I need you to talk to Chuck first, and explain everything. Then maybe he can get in touch with the cops in Philly and get me some backup. It's tricky, though. We don't really have anything concrete on this guy, so they might not want to stick their necks out. And he might not want to risk asking them, either. They may all think I'm crazy."

"Okay, okay," said Butts. "Where are you gonna be?"

Lee gave him the addresses of Kathy's father's house, and the Vidocq Society.

"If you can, call both those places and leave a message for her or her father to stay put until I arrive. There's no guarantee he'll show up either of those places, though," Lee said, looking at his own cell phone. The battery only had one bar left on it. He turned it off-he wouldn't be able to charge it again before reaching Philadelphia.

"So what do you think he's gonna do?"

"I don't really know."

And that was what frightened him most of all.

Chapter Sixty-three

The Adam's Mark was the kind of hotel built for conventions and large groups of people. Easily accessible from I-95, it stood twenty-five stories high, a hulking monolith on the outskirts of downtown Philadelphia. After catching a cab from the train station to the hotel, Lee walked into the lobby and told the young desk clerk he was there to see Samuel Hughes. To his surprise, Samuel was registered under his own name.

The lobby was full of fantasy and science-fiction fans-large, oddly dressed people with pasty skin and pale, intelligent faces. Some wore medieval tunics and tights. Others wandered about dressed in jeans and T-shirts with dragon emblems on them. One nerdy-looking man with greasy black hair wore a vest covered with buttons with sayings like MY MOTHER IS A KLINGON MY MOTHER IS A KLINGON, and MY OTHER CAR IS A MILLENNIUM FALCON MY OTHER CAR IS A MILLENNIUM FALCON.

The desk clerk refused to give Lee the room number until he presented his ID, showing his identity as a civilian consultant to the NYPD. It looked exactly like the ID a cop might carry, except that the background was red instead of blue. Fortunately for him, she was too young to know that this position gave him no legal authority-and, in any case, the NYPD had no real jurisdiction in Pennsylvania. She dispatched a porter with a master key to follow Lee to the room.

When their repeated knocks on the door received no answer, the bellboy unlocked the room to let Lee inside. Lee thanked him and sent him away with a ten-dollar tip. He didn't know what he would find inside, but he didn't want anyone else around when he found out. He pushed the door open, stepped inside onto the plush carpeting, and closed the door behind him.

The first thing that hit him when he entered the room was the smell of death-and fear. The air was heavy with the scent of panicked sweat. It was dark inside, and his first impression was that he was alone in the room.

But then he saw, silhouetted in the yellow light of the street lamps coming in through the window, the body hanging from the wooden rafters.

It swung back and forth, moving in the air currents created when Lee entered the room. He switched on the overhead light, and looked at the face. It was indeed the same thin, ascetic young man he had seen at the funeral in Westchester. An overturned footstool lay on its side underneath his feet. By all appearances, he had hanged himself from the strong oak beams that straddled the ceiling of the room.

Technically, Lee knew, he should call the hotel security staff and alert them, but instinct told him that something wasn't right. He didn't know what it was yet, but something something. He moved around the room, careful not to touch anything-to keep the crime scene pure, but also to avoid leaving evidence that might lead to him needing to explain later why he was there.

Crime scene-the phrase popped into his head, even though at first glance it appeared to be a suicide.

Lee approached Samuel's body. Unlike the girls he had left in the churches, who looked so lifelike even in death, Samuel looked dead dead. There was no color in his face-it was the sickly color that comes when all the blood has been drained away from the skin, leaving a grayish white pallor. The eyes were wide open, and Lee felt an accusation in the stare of those dead eyes, as though Samuel somehow blamed him-for what?

The suicide note was short and to the point: I have done many bad things, and I am sorry for everyone that I hurt. It is best this way--I can't hurt anyone else. I love you, Mother. I have done many bad things, and I am sorry for everyone that I hurt. It is best this way--I can't hurt anyone else. I love you, Mother.--Samuel The first thing that struck Lee as odd was that it was typed. Who types out a suicide note? Did he write it before he left for the convention? If so, why go to Philadelphia to kill himself? And why did he type type the note? Presumably, he could have used the computers in the hotel, but why go to the trouble of the note? Presumably, he could have used the computers in the hotel, but why go to the trouble of typing typing the note? Why not just write it by hand on hotel stationery? And why did he tell his mother he loved her when he had brutally killed her hours earlier? the note? Why not just write it by hand on hotel stationery? And why did he tell his mother he loved her when he had brutally killed her hours earlier?

The questions swirled around Lee's mind as he worked his way through the room, taking note of everything he saw. A suitcase of clothes lay open on the bed. He looked through the clothes, all neatly packed-underwear, socks, shirts, enough for three days. Another puzzle. Why take clothes for three days if you planned to kill yourself the night you arrived?

A musty, sweet odor hung in the air. It smelled familiar, but he couldn't place it.

He went over to the body to examine it more closely. Samuel was fully dressed, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, with conservative oxfords and argyle socks. Why hang yourself wearing shoes? Why hang yourself wearing shoes? He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn't think of any. He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn't think of any.

He examined the footstool that lay beneath the body. When he stood it up, it was not tall enough to reach Samuel's feet. Lee felt a surge of adrenaline through his veins. Samuel could have looped the rope through the rafters without the help of the stool, but if he had hanged himself standing on the stool, it would have to be at least tall enough to reach his feet.

There was no doubt in Lee's mind now that this was a staged crime scene. Someone had killed Samuel and then tried hard to make it look like a suicide-but not hard enough. The details didn't add up. Either the murderer lacked knowledge of forensics, or he was in a hurry.

Lee went over to the suitcase full of clothing. Perhaps it held a clue, something to help identify the murderer. He searched the clothes, but found nothing helpful. Seeing the hotel phone on the bedside table, he punched the Speaker Phone Speaker Phone button, and, on an impulse, hit the button, and, on an impulse, hit the Redial Redial button. button.

The musical pattern of the numbers was so familiar to him that he didn't even have to wait for the voice mail to pick up. In an instant, everything became horrifyingly clear to him. In a flash, he saw every misread clue, every wrong turn in the road, every false lead. He knew now what the musty, sweet scent in the air was.

His hand trembling, he put the receiver back in its cradle.

Depression began to tug at him, seeping into his stomach like poison, threatening to spread upward, turning his limbs to stone as surely as if he had seen Medusa herself.

"No!" he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might. he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might. "Not this time you don't!" "Not this time you don't!"

He took a last look around the room. There was nothing more he could do for poor Samuel. He would leave the crime scene untouched for the local police to ponder.

He had to go, now-before it was too late.

Chapter Sixty-four

Dr. Azarian's house was not hard to find. A handsome Edwardian brick structure in an affluent neighborhood, it stood at the end of a short stone walkway. The front gate was open, and Lee went through it and up to the front door. The house was dark, though, and the blinds were drawn. He stood on the front stoop and peered inside. There was no sign of life-no sound, no movement. He walked around the house and looked in all of the windows. He found no sign of forced entry, no indication that anyone was inside. He glanced at his watch. It was only five o'clock, and the Vidocq Society meeting would not start for several hours yet. Kathy and her father could be anywhere.

He had an idea. Forcing himself to breathe against the rising panic in his chest, he turned from the door and stumbled out into the street. A little old lady bundled up in a blue woolen coat was pushing a shopping cart loaded with groceries down the street.

"Excuse me!" He was afraid his voice came out too high, too urgent. Not wanting to alarm her, he kept his distance several feet away.

The woman looked up, startled, her body already tightening in response, her eyes apprehensive.

"Excuse me," he repeated more softly, "do you know where the nearest Catholic church is?"

That seemed to relax her a bit, but her eyes were still wary. She wore garish blue eye shadow, and black mascara was caked thickly on her lashes, giving the impression of a wrinkled, wizened Kewpie doll. Then her face spread into a smile, and she lifted one gloved hand from the handle of her shopping cart and gestured north along the street.

"There's one just four blocks up," she said. Her voice was thin, like a shredded nylon cord. "I prefer St. Michael's, of course," she continued, her tone conspiratorial. "Father Paul is very young, you know, but he gives a wonderful sermon."

But Lee was already running in the direction she had indicated.

"Thank you," he called over his shoulder.

By the time he reached the church he was out of breath, more from fear than exertion.

The church was a heavy, neo-Gothic monstrosity, built during an era when labor was cheap and building materials plentiful. The main chapel loomed over the street, and various gray stone outbuildings sprawled from beneath its buttresses like chicks under the wings of a great stone brooding hen. A clunky sign, made out of the same gray masonry, sat on a little square of grass outside the church.

Welcome to St. Mary's Come Worship With Us And Celebrate the Glory of God

Lee dashed up the shallow front steps, but the heavy wooden front doors were locked. He raced around to the side of the church, where a single door faced the side street. When he turned the brass handle, the latch clicked, and the door opened inward.

He pushed open the heavy oak door. It was dark and quiet inside, the only light coming from flickering votive candles along the far side of the chapel. A deep animal instinct warned Lee that he was in danger, but his feelings for Kathy propelled him forward.

He crept forward into the semidarkness of the chapel. The air was heavy with bayberry incense. He felt his breathing thicken, and tried to clear his throat without making any sound. He thought he heard a scurrying sound at the back of the church, and he froze, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.