Twenty-nine.

Within a day Xander moved everything he wanted into the house on the bluff. The books presented the biggest challenge. The library wouldn't hold all of them.

"I never imagined this house would be too small for anything."

He shrugged, studying the shelves, now filled with books. And the tubs on the floor, still full of them.

"You don't want all your books in one place anyway. We should scatter some around."

"There are too many to scatter."

"Don't even think about saying I should get rid of some."

"Wouldn't think of it."

Maybe she had-just for an instant-and had just as quickly rejected the idea.

"I just don't know where to put them. They don't deserve to be stuck in tubs either. How will I know what's in there I want to read?"

"Kevin could do another wall of books."

"I'd love a wall of books," she considered. "But I don't know where."

"Basement. You're putting in a darkroom down there, right?"

"Yeah, sooner or later."

"I could use some office space. Don't need much, but somewhere for a desk and some files."

"You don't want an office in the basement."

"Works for me," he countered. "You're out of my way, I'm out of yours, and there's a hell of a lot of space down there. Plenty for a wall of books. They're okay in tubs until. I'll spring for the office and the wall, whatever goes with it."

Which included, to his mind, doors leading out to the yard. But he didn't see the point of front-loading that on.

"I've got money, Naomi. Investing it here instead of another rental-I've been looking at that-makes more sense right now. Plus I just got another rental since Jimmy's moving into the apartment over the garage. Gangly guy with the pitiful goatee deal? He works for me."

"Yes, I met him. You . . . You've already rented it."

"Jimmy graduates from trade school in June, wants his own place. And I like having someone over the garage. It's a good deal on both sides as it comes mostly furnished. You don't want the crap I had in there."

"But don't you?"

"I want the books. They're nonnegotiable," he said, idly picking up a worn paperback copy of The Illustrated Man. "Did you ever read this?"

"I saw the movie."

"Not the same." He pushed it into her hand. "It's good. Anyway, unless you've got other plans or want to think about it, I can get Kevin thinking about office space and a wall of books."

"Other than the darkroom, I didn't and don't have any plans for the basement."

"Good. We'll get on that. Worrying about what you've gotten yourself into?" he asked her.

"No. More wondering why I'm not. And I guess since I have some actual furniture coming tomorrow, we could scatter some books. Or at least consider their final location."

She stuck the book in the back pocket of her jeans for later and would have picked up a tub, but he beat her to it. "They're heavy," he said.

"The little sitting area off the living room. That's a good start."

She led the way through the quiet house. Just the man and the dog, with all the workmen gone for the day. It didn't seem smaller, she realized, now that she lived with a man and a dog. It seemed that was always what the house had in mind.

It seemed natural.

She mentally rearranged the sitting room furniture she'd yet to buy as she studied the space-added a funky plant stand with some interesting houseplant. And . . .

"There's this open cabinet-four shelves-in the basement. I was going to use it outside for plants, but it would work right here for a bookcase-with knickknacks worked in. Books and maybe a couple of photos, some whatever. Metal frame, wood shelves."

"I guess you want me to get that."

"What's the point in having a man around if he doesn't get things from the basement?"

"Right."

"Oh, you know, now that I see it here-in my head-Cecil has this old radio. You know, the dome-shaped vintage style. How cute would that be on the top of the case? It doesn't work, but . . ."

"Doesn't work doesn't mean it can't work."

"And what's the point in having a mechanical man around if he can't fix a vintage radio that would be perfect in the sitting room? I think, yes, I think I'm getting used to it already."

"I'll get the case. How about if I see if I can get used to drinking your wine while we set it up?"

"An excellent idea."

They drank wine, loaded books on shelves.

"Did you talk to Loo?"

"Yeah. She's pissed. Not at you," he said, reading Naomi's face clearly. "Jesus, give her some credit. She's pissed this bastard's been stalking you since college. Pissed he killed Donna. And now she's aware. A lot of people go into Loo's. A lot who aren't local, who stop in for a drink, some easy food. Or like they will Friday night to listen to the band. She'll be looking."

For a thirtyish guy with an average build in Wolverines, Naomi thought, but let it go.

"Mason's going to West Virginia, to the prison, with someone from the BAU."

"It couldn't hurt."

"They have some names."

Xander dropped the book he'd just picked up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't recognize any of them. But they're going to interview anyone who sends up a flag-who's corresponded with or visited Bowes multiple times, or whose correspondence sends up those flags."

She picked up the book, set it on the shelf. "They'll look into all of them. Lifestyle, travel, occupation."

"Good. Nobody's ever looked for him-not like this. And I'm not buying he's so damn smart he'll slip through now that they are."

"Mason agrees with you. I'm working on getting there, too. He could be gone-from here, I mean. He could have moved on, at least for now."

But when they found the body of Karen Fisher, part-time waitress, part-time prostitute from Lilliwaup, on the side of the road a half a mile from Point Bluff, they knew he hadn't gone far.

- The best thing about a press pass-and his was legit-was how it got you where you wanted to go. The little whore from nowhere stirred things up again, brought reporters from Seattle back. Even some national stringers.

And he was right there with them. Hell of a story that would be, he thought. If he wrote it himself he'd win the fricking Pulitzer.

Up yours, New York Times, Washington Post, and all the other creaky dinosaurs who wouldn't give him the time of day when he'd wanted a job.

Now papers were the dodo of news, and blogging was the way to go.

He could work anywhere, and did. He'd actually doubled back and covered some of his own work before, but this marked the first time he'd been right on the spot before, during, after.

While he found it tremendously satisfying, and knee-slappingly funny, he knew he couldn't stay in the area much longer.

Getting too hot, he thought as he recorded the droning chief of police (asshat) and the media liaison from the FBI (arrogant bitch).

Time was coming-he could feel it-to wind up the odyssey. Time to take Naomi for a ride, have some long conversations, a hell of a lot of fun.

Then end her.

After that, maybe he'd take his show on the road. Maybe up to Canada for the summer, down to Mexico for the winter.

Footloose, fancy-free. And plenty of targets to shoot when the mood struck. In memory of Naomi Bowes.

And one day he would write the story. He'd write a book-not for money. He'd have to wait until he settled somewhere. Like Argentina. He'd write and self-publish the book that rubbed everything he'd accomplished in the faces of the asshats and arrogant bitches.

He took notes on his tablet, took some pictures. He liked focusing in on Mason, he especially liked that.

Hey, over here, fuckhead. I'm going to kill your sister soon. I'll rape her every way there is to rape first, then strangle her like your old man should have.

Maybe send old man Bowes a picture of her. There were ways to smuggle things in-and he'd made a point of finding them. He thought that would be the whipped cream on top.

Yeah, he'd do that, and go one better. He'd publish all the pictures online, every one of the bitches he'd done. God bless the Internet.

Then everyone would know he'd outdone Bowes. Outdone them all. The Green River Killer, the Zodiac? They were nothing next to him.

Deliberately he threw out a question during the Q&A, wanting to draw eyes to him.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

He would've asked a follow-up, but the ugly bitch beside him tossed a question out first.

Later he wrote up the story for the bullshit Daily Crime blog he freelanced for, working on his laptop in the pizzeria because most of the media types retreated to the motels or the coffee shop that looked out over the marina.

"Can I get you anything?"

He looked up, saw the pretty blonde he'd targeted and lost. He thought: You should be dead.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Ah, gotta get out of my head." He offered a big smile. "Forgot where I was for a minute."

"I can come back."

"No, that's okay. I could use a Coke, and, yeah, I could eat. How about the calzone-loaded."

"Sure."

She brought the drink in under two minutes. "Are you staying in the area?" she asked. "You've been in before."

"For now, yeah. I'm a reporter."

"Oh." Her eyes went sad and blank.

"Sorry." Immediately he coated himself in sympathy. "I guess you knew the . . . Donna Lanier. She worked here."

"Yes."

"I'm really sorry. If there's anything you want to say, want me to write about her-"

"No. No, thanks. Enjoy your Coke."

When she scurried away, he had to hide the smile.

Maybe he'd snatch her up after all. Maybe he'd just circle back for her, then make Naomi watch while he did the little bitch with her tight ass and tight tits.

Can't save this one, he imagined saying. Not like Ashley this time. And when I'm done with her, when I'm done with you, I'm going to pay your good friend Ashley a visit, too. Finish what your old man couldn't.

He worked right through the calzone, putting together another piece on spec, and listening to the chatter around him.

Small towns, the same everywhere, he thought. If you wanted to know what went on, you just had to sit in the same place long enough.

He learned the mechanic was moving in with the photographer, into the big house on Point Bluff. He learned people were scared, and some of them impatient with the police.

Why hadn't they caught him? they asked.