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  Silence.

  She turned, started for her desk, heard Rick's door being pulled open, glanced back.

  She saw him coming at her, though so briefly that she was almost able to discount the whole thing with the flash of a smile and a breathy, "Oh?" as if he were playing a joke on her. He crossed the ten feet from his office door in only a second, and in the last bare fraction of that second, she realized what she was seeing, and knew that she was about to be slit open. She pitched wildly to her left, but her quick-wittedness was no match for his speed and agility. The blade entered her belly, just below her navel, and in her last moments, she thought that it was no more painful than a flu shot, that he had somehow miscalculated, only pricked her a little.

  Five minutes after that, she had her intestines cupped in her dead hands, and Rick Dunn was wrapping her up in plastic.

  ~ * ~

  "Is this Father Muldavey?"

  "This is he."

  "Father, I have a confession to make."

  "Yes, of course. Please come to the confessional at six o'clock. . ."

  "I don't have time for that. I want to make my confession now!"

  A pause, then, "Are you Catholic?"

  "That's a stupid question."

  "Are you a member of my parish?"

  "For Christ's sake, can't you simply—"

  "Show some respect, please!"

  "Why in the hell should I respect you? You're no one! You're just some asshole who's gotten himself possessed by the Holy Spirit. That can happen to anyone! I don't want to confess to you, I want to confess to Him, to It, to the Holy Spirit!"

  "I'm afraid this conversation is growing very much out of hand—"

  "You know what I've got in my hand, father? I've got a piece of rib cage in my hand! I broke it off the body of a woman I killed. I don't want to have a piece of a woman's rib cage in my hand, but it's there!"

  "Clearly, my son, you are operating under a severe delusion."

  "And clearly you're not listening to me. I have murder inside me, father. I'm confessing to you that I have murder inside me. Doesn't that matter to you?"

  "My son, we all have murder inside us—"

  "I don't need your fucking platitudes!"

  The priest hung up.

  ~ * ~

  "You know what I'm thinking, Rye?" asked Lenny. "I'm thinking that you're only halfway there when you say our murderer is an architect." They were in a small Italian restaurant on Bloor Street West, which was not far from Rick Dunn's office, though they weren't aware of it.

  Ryerson said wearily, "Listen, the only reason I let you come in here with me, Mr. Baker, was to tell you, once again, that we are not compatible—"

  "No, really, Rye," Lenny cut in, and speared a piece of garlic-cheese bread with a fork. "I mean it." Ryerson rolled his eyes. Lenny continued, "Don't forget that I'm probably every bit as psychic as you are, and if we put our heads together, we can get this bastard!" He took a huge bite of the garlic-cheese bread and said as he chewed, "It's a woman, Rye. It's a woman architect who's missing a finger and wears purple lipstick." He swallowed, took another bite of the bread, and hurried on, "She's also a three-time divorcee—I mean, she's been married three times—"

  "I knew what you meant, Mr. Baker."

  "You can call me"—he swallowed—"Lenny. I wish you would. Anyway—hey, haven't we been waiting a long time for our spaghetti?"

  "It's only been a few minutes, Mr. Baker." Ryerson sighed. He realized at last that it was going to be very, very hard indeed to free himself from this man. "Don't be impatient."

  Lenny shrugged; his body shook. "Hey, I've always been impatient, Rye. It's in my blood. My father was impatient, and his father before him. I come from a long line of impatient people—we're all waiting for the world to catch up with us. And anyway, this woman, this three-time divorcee who wears purple lipstick and is missing a finger, is also a grandmother, even though she's only thirty-seven. I don't have her name yet, but I'm sure it will come to me in time."

  "Yes," Ryerson said, "I'm sure it will."

  Lenny's jaw fell open. His eyes widened; his face got red. "Great leaping ghosts!" he whispered. "That's her name! It's Juliet! Her name is Juliet!" He pushed himself heavily and awkwardly out of the chair. He began to growl.

  "Stop that!" Ryerson whispered.

  Lenny continued to growl.

  Ryerson whispered, "What in the hell are you doing?"

  Lenny stopped growling. He looked bewildered. He tilted his round pink head and said, "I'm sorry. What was I doing?"

  "Sit down!" Ryerson ordered.

  Lenny sat down. He leaned over the table. "Just tell me what I was doing, Rye."

  "You know damned well what you were doing, Mr. Baker. And if it happens again—if you try to impress me with your . . . sensitivity again—"

  "It wasn't an act." Lenny shook his head vehemently. "No, Rye, I swear to you that it wasn't an act."

  Ryerson sighed. He was being unfair, he knew. After all, there had been plenty of times when he'd been an embarrassment to whomever he'd been with. He said, "You were growling."

  Lenny's meaty brow furrowed. "No, I wasn't."

  "Yes. You were. Just like Creosote." He stopped. "Damn!" he breathed. Creosote had been in the hotel room alone for a day and a half. Ryerson jumped to his feet. "Thanks, Lenny," he said and ran from the restaurant.

  FOURTEEN

  Lincoln Curtsinger was getting ready to teach his evening classes in Canadian literature at Toronto University when Rick Dunn came to his door. Lincoln was very conscientious about his teaching. He thought that although teaching wasn't the highest paid or the most prestigious of professions, it certainly was the noblest, and the most challenging; and it was from teaching, he maintained, that all other professions were made possible.

  He was a slight, blotchy-skinned, timid man whose big, watery blue eyes seemed to betray a constant state of alert. For years, the inside of his mouth had been plagued by a strange purplish discoloration that his doctor had been unable to treat or even explain; so when he spoke, it was through a slit between his lips that was barely the width of a dime. He did not speak well this way—even though he'd been doing it for years—because his hearing was bad in the all-important mid-range, where the sound of voices occurs. He thought that his speech was impeccable and could not understand why people were constantly asking him to repeat himself.

  He had grown to believe that the rest of the world was going deaf.

  He said to Rick Dunn, who was grinning strangely at him outside Lincoln's Old York apartment, "Hullo, Rick. What is it you would like? I'm getting ready to go teaching in a few minutes."

  And Rick said, "Teaching in a few minutes?" because that was all he had understood. "I won't be long. May I come in?"

  Lincoln stepped aside. "Certainly, Rick, you may come in. Come in, I could make us some tea, but I have to go teaching in a few minutes."

  Again, Rick understood clearly only the phrase "teaching in a few minutes," so he said, "I know," and stepped into the apartment.

  Lincoln's apartment was a monument to books. There were books lining most of the walls, books on tables, books lying on chairs, and a few on the floor. And they were not just scholarly works. There were several hundred contemporary paperbacks of various genres, Westerns especially, which Lincoln had grown to love in the past five years. He liked to fantasize that he was a strong, lusty cowboy riding the American plains in search of gold, squaws, and gunfights. It was a fantasy he had cultivated because his psychologist had told him that fantasy was a terrific outlet for, as the psychologist had put it, "the constipated soul." Lincoln no longer felt constipated. He felt that he was living in several different worlds and so had one up on the rest of humanity. He said now to Rick, who had seated himself in a battered, overstuffed chair near the kitchen doorway, "I could get us some tea, but there is no time."

  Rick said, "I came here, Lincoln, because you, of all people, can best appreciate what I have grown to be al
l about." His arms were flat on the arms of the chair. He was sitting very erect and still grinning strangely.

  "Yes, good," said Lincoln, standing over him and smiling his pleasure that Rick would pay him such a compliment. "Thank you. And what is it about?"

  Rick said, "It's about murder, Lincoln."

  Lincoln clapped his tiny spidery hands and exclaimed, "Yes, murder can be fun, of course. What is it about murder?"

  "Murder," Rick answered, "is power!"

  Lincoln nodded. "Murder is the ultimate power!"

  "The only power we have in life is life!" said Rick, thinking that Lincoln—of all his friends—could understand and appreciate what he was saying. "If we take away life, we take away power. We gather it unto ourselves, Lincoln. Tell me you understand that."

  Lincoln said at once, although his voice trembled a little, as if it were on the verge of breaking, "Oh, yes, Rick. I do understand that."

  "And," Rick hurried on, "we become like the great tiger in search of its prey. We become the benefactor to the weak because we take away misery. We become the keepers and maintainers of a healthy gene pool."

  "Yes," said Lincoln, "I understand that, too."

  "So, you see"—Rick cocked his head and shrugged—"that's why I'm here."

  Lincoln's brow furrowed. "I don't understand that, Rick."

  Rick put his hands palm down on the arms of the chair as if preparing to stand. "Do I really have to explain it, Lincoln?"

  Lincoln thought only a moment, then answered, his voice trembling, "No, Rick, I don't think that you do."

  Rick hadn't understood him. He said, "I'm sorry, Lincoln, you'll have to repeat that."

  "Repeat what?"

  "What you just said." Rick pushed himself to his feet quickly and powerfully. He was a good six inches taller than Lincoln, but at that moment, as Lincoln's mouth dropped open—revealing the purplish discoloration—and as his eyes widened in fear and anticipation, then as his thin, purplish red tongue stuck straight out because Rick's massive hands were hard on his throat, Rick might easily have been whole atmospheres taller, Rick might have been his personal God come down to exact payment for the gift of life. Which is precisely what Lincoln thought as death approached.

  Then Rick, standing over Lincoln's small, thin body sprawled in the kitchen doorway, cocked his head in puzzlement, and said, "It's one possibility, Lincoln."

  And he felt people crowding him, people pushing at him, people muttering all around him.

  ~ * ~

  "The thing about possession," Ryerson said to Lenny as they walked on Yonge Street, "is that it splits the psyche into two parts, of course, and each part is vaguely aware of the other." He had Creosote in his arms and had vowed never to let him out of his sight again. Creosote's day-and-a-half alone in the hotel room had left both the room and the dog a mess. Ryerson had read an awful jumble of confusion, anger, anxiety, and depression in the dog and had realized then just how incredibly attached to the little soul he had become.

  Lenny nodded. "I was possessed once." Ryerson had gotten him to change his stained white suit. He was wearing a pair of oversized gray pants ("From when I weighed thirty pounds more than I do now, Rye"), a brown silk shirt, ("I was into silk, once. You should see my tie collection"), and a huge blue overcoat that flopped to the right and left with each step.

  Ryerson said, "No, Lenny. Please. Let's not start that, okay?"

  Lenny looked crestfallen, but after a moment he brightened. "Sure, Rye. Sorry. Habit."

  Ryerson went on. "And when people are possessed, they do things they wouldn't normally do—that is, the thing possessing them makes them do things they wouldn't normally do. And because the two halves are in communication with each other—albeit, weak communication—the things the person does while he's possessed are very, very troubling to his normal self. So he makes excuses for them. For himself. He begins to rationalize. I've seen it a dozen times, Lenny. And he rationalizes . . . the person being possessed rationalizes his behavior because he's caught up in the idea of ultimate responsibility. Society is, too. No matter what the reason for a crime, society demands punishment for it. For instance, society demands that a murderer who kills while under the duress of some insane compulsion be brought to justice after the insane compulsion has been eliminated, when the person has presumably become sane and responsible. It's the same sort of thinking that makes owners of antique shops put little signs up that say, 'You break it, you bought it.' Ultimate responsibility—because, after all, someone's got to take responsibility."

  Yonge Street was crowded with chic, vivacious Torontonians. A dark-haired young woman walking toward them—she was dressed in a short brown leather skirt, frilly white blouse, and heavy black shawl—gave Lenny a very hungry and sensual look as she passed. Lenny's head turned. A huge, disbelieving grin broke out on his round, red face, and Ryerson said, "For instance, her."

  "Her what?" said Lenny.

  Ryerson smiled. "Why did she look at you the way she did, Lenny?"

  Lenny shrugged. He was still grinning, but now he looked embarrassed, too. "She liked me, Rye."

  Ryerson, regretting his words, at once, said, "Do you really believe that?"

  Lenny's grin vanished. He looked hurt. He glanced quickly around again, and watched the woman turn the corner onto Bloor Street West. He said, looking back at Ryerson, "Why shouldn't I believe it? I'm not a virgin, you know. I've had more women than you can shake a stick at."

  Ryerson transferred Creosote from one arm to the other. "Forget it," he said.

  Lenny's red face got redder. "No, dammit—say what you were going to say."

  Ryerson sighed. "I was simply going to ask whose responsibility it would have been if you'd gone to bed with her and gotten some ... disease."

  Lenny looked confused. He said, surprising Ryerson, "That's awfully ... judgmental. That's"—he stopped, shook his head, repeated—"awfully judgmental!"

  "Yes," Ryerson conceded. "I know it is. I'm sorry."

  "I mean not just to me, Rye, but to her, too." He inclined his head backward.

  Ryerson transferred the squirming Creosote from one arm to the other again and repeated, "Yes, I know. I'm sorry." It was the truth. His cruelty had made him feel like a jerk.

  Lenny fumed, "You should be sorry, dammit!"

  "It was simply to illustrate a point, Lenny."

  "You don't make other people feel ... ugly, just to illustrate a point."

  "I didn't mean to make you feel ugly." Ryerson knew he was whining now. Once more he transferred Creosote to his other arm. This time the dog, in protest, raked his teeth along Ryerson's nose. Ryerson whispered, "Shit!" and felt his nose for blood. There was none.

  "I'm just as much a person as you are!" Lenny proclaimed and suddenly veered away, crossed the street, and, in moments, disappeared in the crowds of beautiful Torontonians.

  Ryerson said to Creosote, "Now I know what it feels like to make an ass of myself."

  Creosote licked Ryerson's nose.

  FIFTEEN

  Max Tyler said to Dan Creed, "We got something here out of Chicago, Dan." Max had been born and raised in the States; he pronounced "out" as "out."

  From behind his desk, Creed said, "Oh? What did you get out of Chicago?" He said "out" as "oot."

  Max put a computer printout on Creed's desk. There was a computer-reproduced, low-resolution, black-and-white police photo at the top of the printout that showed what appeared to be a huge tube of plastic with the rough outline of a body visible within. The Cook County Medical Examiner's Report of Autopsy was printed beneath the photo, and, below that, two short paragraphs from the homicide lieutenant in charge of the investigation. At the bottom of the printout were the words: NO SUSPECTS--CASE OPEN.

  Creed glanced over the two short paragraphs from the lieutenant in charge, then looked up at Tyler. "When did we get this?"

  "Five minutes ago."

  Creed smiled. "It's something, isn't it?"

  "It's the same M.O.," Ma
x said.

  "Sure it's the same M.O. Our boy gets around. And because he gets around, Max, I think we can nail him." He picked up his phone, dialed. Seconds later, he reached the desk sergeant at the Eighth Precinct in Chicago, and seconds after that was connected with the homicide division. He said to the man who answered, "I'd like to speak with Lieutenant Sam Gears, please."

  The man said, "The lieutenant's on assignment. Who's calling?"

  Creed gave his name, quickly checked the computer printout, and asked, "Is George Ripley in?"

  "Yes, he is," the man answered. "Hold on."

  A moment later, Ripley came on the line. "Inspector Creed, this is Sergeant Ripley. What can I do for you?"

  "I have a computer printout in front of me, sergeant, relative to an unsolved murder from"—he checked the date at the top of the printout—"eight years ago. A young woman named Augusta Mullen was the victim. She was stabbed, wrapped in plastic, and stuck up in a false ceiling in the Sears Tower. Do you remember the case?"

  Ripley answered. "You bet I do."

  "And do you have a file handy on it?"

  "I don't have it handy, no, but I can get hold of it and call you back."

  "Yes, thanks. I'll be here for another hour." He paused. "First, can you tell me what sorts of businesses there are in the Sears Tower?"

  "What sorts of businesses? I'm not sure. Bankers, I think. And advertising agencies. Doctors' offices. Why?"

  "There are probably lots of architects in there, wouldn't you say?"

  "Probably. It's a damned big place, inspector."

  "But you can't say for certain?"

  "I can find out, if it's important." He paused. "You've had some trouble up there, haven't you?"

  "Yes, we have." A pause. "Do you think you could get me a list of the architects in the Sears Tower at the time of the murder?"