Lee looked out at the empty window ledge.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"What kind of danger?"

"Human danger. Bad people-people who want only to kill, to hurt others."

"Like the terrorists?"

Lee looked down at his shoes. "Yes. Like them, and..."

"And the person who took your sister?"

Lee felt hot, stinging tears spring into his eyes, and he brought his hand up to wipe them away. He hated crying in front of this woman, with her long, elegant legs and understanding eyes.

"Do you always have to bring up my sister?" His voice was harsh, tight.

Dr. Williams leaned back and uncrossed her legs.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

Lee looked out at the empty windowsill.

"I'm on a new case."

He expected Dr. Williams to disapprove; they had discussed the inadvisability of Lee taking on a case just yet. To his surprise, though, her face betrayed no emotional reaction.

"I see," she said. "So perhaps you were thinking about the new case when you made the comment."

"Right," he answered, though he didn't believe it himself. He looked at her for a response, but her face was composed, unreadable. "You're not angry?"

"Should I be?"

"Well, we both agreed that it was probably a bit early for me to be...I mean, this just sort of landed in my lap, but I thought you'd be angry."

"Are you disappointed I'm not?"

Lee was caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean? Why would I be disappointed?"

Dr. Williams smiled. "Sometimes when you're expecting a certain reaction and you don't get it, it can be disappointing."

"Are you saying I wanted wanted you to be angry?" you to be angry?"

"It's not about wanting, exactly. It's about using other people as a counterbalance to your own actions. We've talked about your tendency to not take care of yourself, for example-"

"Yes, I know." Lee suddenly wanted to leave this tasteful room with its muted lighting and faint scent of eucalyptus. It all felt oppressive, confining, and he wanted to flee out the door.

"And how you have managed to delegate the duty to other people from time to time."

"Right." He didn't even try to hide his irritation. He knew knew all of this; as a psychologist himself, he could jump through the same intellectual hoops as Dr. Williams. But when it came to his own unconscious mind, he was continually amazed at his own blind spots-and he resented her knowledge of his inner life. "So what are you saying?" all of this; as a psychologist himself, he could jump through the same intellectual hoops as Dr. Williams. But when it came to his own unconscious mind, he was continually amazed at his own blind spots-and he resented her knowledge of his inner life. "So what are you saying?"

"Only that it's possible that you count on me to some extent to worry about you, so you don't have to worry about yourself. So you expected me to be upset when I found out that you had taken on a case, and when I didn't appear to be, you may have found that disappointing."

Lee refused to consider what she was saying. He hated his own defensive reaction, but felt helpless to avert it. He was finding it difficult to concentrate.

"And maybe it even made you angry," Dr. Williams continued.

"Now why would that make me angry?"

"Because you felt I let you down-because I refused to fill the role you assigned me to."

Lee rolled his eyes. "Oh, please please. That's a little far-fetched, don't you think?"

Dr. Williams smiled. "What do you think?"

Lee squirmed in his chair and looked at the door.

"Have you noticed that often when we encounter a difficult or painful subject, your first impulse is to leave?"

Lee looked back at her. "No shit, Sherlock."

To his surprise, Dr. Williams laughed. Then she said, "That's not how your mother would react to such vulgarity, is it?"

"No. When I was a kid, the bar of Ivory soap would be in my mouth so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. So what?"

"So maybe you were testing me. I don't have to tell you that often in therapy, as in our relationships, we're 'testing the waters,' trying to evoke a different response from the one we grew up with."

"Right. You don't have to tell me. Classic transference, yadda yadda. So what?"

"So nothing. Either it's useful to you or it isn't. It's not important whether I'm right or not-what matters is whether or not it helps you."

Lee looked down at his hands. Nothing can help me Nothing can help me, he thought. A silence widened between them, a chasm built of his unwillingness to wade into the murky depths of his mind, to grapple with the monsters lurking there.

"He carves them up," he said abruptly, hoping to shock her, to punish her with his words. He hated her calm, her confident poise, and he wanted to shake her out of it.

"Who does?" she asked.

"The killer. He slashes words into their bodies."

"What kind of words?"

"The Lord's Prayer, for God's sake!"

A thought sprouted in his head, a tiny seed that blossomed as he spoke.

"He's searching too." He spoke slowly, the idea still forming.

"Who is?"

"The killer. For him, it's an eternal search for a better outcome. Only it never happens: The moment passes. Then the rage takes over, and the only thing left for him is to kill. But each time he goes in hoping it won't come to that."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't know know-I just have a feeling about it."

"An instinct."

"Right-an instinct. There's something about him, his MO, his signature-he's killing as a last resort."

"So you feel you understand him."

"Yes, I do."

"And his rage? Do you understand that?"

Lee looked out the window. The pigeon was back again, strutting and pecking, his bright orange eye impersonal as Nature herself.

"Oh, yes," he said, biting out each word. "I understand his rage."

Chapter Nine

Samuel was drawn back to the campus again, hoping to catch another glance of the misty mermaids behind their translucent lace curtains. It was a Friday night, though, and the mermaids were gone-out having fun, no doubt. Girls like that are sluts, Samuel! Sluts! They will corrupt you! Girls like that are sluts, Samuel! Sluts! They will corrupt you!

He shook off the harsh echo of his mother's voice in his head and walked toward the dormitory. A couple of lights shone on the second floor, and he could see bookish students seated at desks, heads bent over their studies. As he approached, he saw light in the windows of one room on the first floor. The first-floor room was different-the lighting was dim, with a warm orange glow to it.

It was the glimmer of intimacy.

He crept to the window and crouched down behind some bushes, listening. There were sounds coming from inside the room, unclean sounds that made his heart pound faster, as a sickly excitement filled his veins. His stomach felt like a vast cavern carved out of his flesh. His palms leaked sweat, and all the blood seemed to drain from his head, leaving it light and empty. He closed his eyes tightly and concentrated on breathing so he wouldn't pass out.

"Oh, Roger, oh, oh...Roger."

The girl's voice was slurred and heavy with passion, and sliced into his consciousness as he crouched there in the darkness, knees digging into the damp ground, a patch of wetness creeping up his pants leg. He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes and clasped his knees, making himself invisible in the darkness. Ever since he was a child, the darkness had been his friend, hiding him from the intrusive glares of his mother and the inquisitive insolence of his classmates. In the darkness he was safe, at one with the velvety blackness surrounding him.

He had never been afraid of the dark, never cried when the lights were switched off in his bedroom at night. He longed to retreat into the silence and stillness of the night, while others slept around him, listening to the subtle murmurings of the creatures who also felt at home in the dark. He would lie in his bed and pick out the various sounds: the metallic clicking of the crickets, the soft hoot of an owl, all the rustlings of the nocturnal creatures of the woods.

He especially liked walking from the bright sunlight of a Sunday morning into the tall, vaulted interior of the church-he loved the cool stillness of the stone columns. He knew that his mother was gratified by his interest in church, but she had no idea how much he loved the dimness of the chapel, especially on dull grainy days, when the weak light could barely make it through the tall stained-glass windows, and the congregation sat shrouded in a holy gloom. It was moments like that when he felt closest to God, when he could almost imagine His forgiveness for his own dark desires...

"Oh, oh, God...R-r-r-o-ger!"

The girl's voice tightened and exploded in a wail of pleasure. He put his hands over his ears as he felt his face redden, warmth spreading up from his neck. Hot tears of shame slid down his cheeks, falling from his chin and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone. He felt violated by his proximity to her unholy passion, and knew then what he had to do. He leaned over on the damp ground and cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth as the wetness seeped deeper into his skin, his veins, his bones. He moaned softly. There was only one thing to do now, and the awesome responsibility of it humbled him.

The hand of God. He looked at his own hands, so white and delicate that they might almost be the hands of a woman. He knew how could it be done-he'd seen it. Now he was ready to do it himself.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done...

He rose from his lonely lookout and retreated into the welcoming darkness. It was time to do God's will.

Chapter Ten

"You know, it's funny," Lee remarked to Butts, "but I have more sympathy for these tortured, driven guys than for your run-of-the-mill murderer-you know, the ones who kill for 'logical' reasons."

They were sitting on the uptown A train as it rattled its way to the Bronx, on their way to interview Christine Riley, Marie Kelleher's roommate at Fordham.

"What exactly do you mean by 'logical'?" Butts asked.

"Oh, you know...jealousy, greed, revenge, money, prestige-or killing to get rid of an inconvenient spouse or family member. The usual stuff."

"You feel more sympathy for these psychos? How come?"

"There's something cold blooded about killing...for money, for example. But sexual homicides-well, they may be planned, but there's usually a compulsion involved. Especially for the repeat offenders."

"Yeah? So what?" Butts asked as the train pulled into the station and jerked to a stop.

"Once they start it's virtually impossible for them to stop."

"Why do they start in the first place?"

"Usually some stressor occurs in their life, and bingo-they go over the edge."

"So what do you think the stressor was in this guy's life?" Butts asked as they trudged up the subway stairs.

They were greeted at the top of the stairs by a leaden gray sky. A low cloud cover had settled like a slab of granite over the city. February was not the best month to be in New York, and the Bronx was hardly the most glamorous of the five boroughs. As they walked up the Grand Concourse, a chill wind nipped at their backs, scattering dried leaves and loose bits of paper around their feet. Even the buildings looked cold-four- and five-story structures of grim gray granite, with the occasional decorative flourish or wrought-iron railing a welcome relief from the massive, stolid rock walls. The Grand Concourse was one of the widest avenues in the city, with a thick median strip down the center. In the spring it was probably festive, with all the trees in bloom and beds of crocuses lining the strip, but now it was just grim. Still, there was a grandeur and dignity in its winter desolation that made Lee sort of glad he was there.

"I don't know what might have pushed him over the edge, but I'm sure he's been hovering there for quite a while," he answered as they turned onto the block Christine Riley lived on with her family.

The buildings on the side streets were smaller in scale than the ones lining the avenue, and Christine's family occupied the second floor of a cozy little four-story walk-up. Dead clumps of chrysanthemums drooped in flower beds lining the neat little white fence in front.

They rang and were buzzed into the building. The knock on the door of the Rileys' place produced a burst of rapid-fire barking from inside the apartment-high-pitched yapping from what sounded like a small and annoying dog. Sure enough, when Christine's mother opened the door, at her feet was a ratty old white West Highland terrier. Fat and rheumy-eyed, the dog took little leaps up at them, barking in a shrill yelping that cut the air like bursts from automatic weapons.

"Stop it, Fritzy!" the woman commanded. The animal ignored her and continued its barrage of barking. Each bark lifted the tiny dog right off the ground, all four feet rising about an inch from the floor with every yap.

"Mrs. Riley?" said Butts.