The murders hadn't revived his ability to write, however, and he slumped further into depression. And then, even more troubling, he heard from the fan who'd grown suspicious about the similarities between certain passages in the novel and the real crimes. The author had no choice: He met with the fan and killed him, too, hiding the body in the man's lakeside summer cottage. He covered up the disappearance by pretending to be the fan and phoning the man's boss and landlord to say that he was leaving town unexpectedly.

The author now believed he was safe. But his contentment didn't last. Enter the reporter who'd found the underlined passages, and the investigation started anew. When he was asked to help the police, the author knew he had to give them a scapegoat. So he agreed to meet with the police, but in fact he'd arrived in town a day early. He broke into the police sergeant's house, planted some incriminating evidence from the first murders, and stole one of the cop's bayonets and his business card. These he planted on the body of the fan at the lake house. The next day he showed up at the police station with the fan letter that led ultimately to the cottage, where the detective found the leads to the sergeant. Meanwhile, the author, alone with the unsuspecting cop, grabbed his gun and shot him, later claiming self-defense.

In the final scene, the author returned home to try to resume his writing, having literally gotten away with murder.

Carter now finished reading the story, his heart thumping hard with pride and excitement. True, it needed polishing, but considering that he hadn't written a word for more than a year, it was a glorious accomplishment. He was a writer once again.

The only problem was that he couldn't publish the story. He couldn't show it to a living soul, not even his wife. For the simple reason that it wasn't fiction; every word was true. Andy Carter himself was the homicidal author.

Still, he thought, as he erased the entire story from his computer, publishing it didn't matter one bit. The important thing was that by writing it he'd managed to kill his writer's block as ruthlessly and efficiently as he'd murdered Bob Fletcher and Howard Desmond and the two women in Greenville. And he knew, too, how to make sure that the block never rose from the dead. From now on he'd give up fiction and pursue what he'd realized he was destined to write: true crime.

What a perfect solution this was! He'd never want for ideas again; TV news, magazines, and the papers would provide dozens of story leads he could choose from.

And, he reflected, walking downstairs to make a pot of coffee, if it turned out that there were no crimes that particularly interested him… well, Andy Carter knew that he was fully capable of taking matters into his own hands and whipping up a bit of inspiration all by himself.

Indian summer in a small Midwestern suburb, a hot, hot day in early September.

His heavy book bag slung over his shoulder, Jim Martin – slim, sandy-haired, freckled – trudged along the pitted sidewalk at 7:30 this morning, on his way to Thomas Jefferson Middle School.

He walked slowly, enjoying the heat, enjoying the spongy feel of his new running shoes, enjoying the familiar sights along the route.

Filled with excitement, filled with anticipation, filled with curiosity.

Nervous, too.

This was, after all, the first day of school.

At the bottom of the hill, exactly a mile from his house, he turned the corner and saw the school in front of him.

It wasn't really a very nice building. Single story, squat, yellowish stone. Nothing stood out except the tall flagpole that would ring like a clock chime when the rope slapped it on windy days. Today, in the still air, the pole was silent.

Taking a shortcut through a hedge, Jim walked over the football field, dew leaping from the toes of his shoes, grasshoppers jumping out of his path.

He glanced to his right and noticed a shaded spot on the field near the home team bleachers and a memory suddenly came back to him – a spring day on that very spot. He and Sam Gordon facing each other, fists balled up, ready to slug it out. Sam was an 8th grader, a big kid – he'd been held back a year. He dressed in dark clothes that smelled of cigarettes and motor oil and he wore his anger the way some women wear too much costume jewelry. For no particular reason he'd taken an instant disliking to quiet Jim, who was a year younger and fifty pounds lighter. Sam had mercilessly tormented him all year until finally Jim had had enough and agreed to Sam's taunt to fight it out after school.

The boys circled, Jim terrified but defiant. Sam threw the first punch. Jim blocked it but then the bully's left fist appeared from nowhere and clocked Jim in the cheek. He went down on his knees and Sam leapt on him, flailing away, Jim's thin arms helpless to protect him from the stunning blows. The big boy then stood and was about to deliver a vicious kick to Jim's ribs when a man's voice cut through the April air.

"Boys! That's enough."

Coach LaBell stepped forward, pulled Sam away and ordered him to the principal's office. Sneering, the boy stalked away.

The coach then helped Jim up and surveyed the damage to his face. The man said, "First the nurse, but I'm afraid you're going to the principal too, Jim."

"Yessir."

The grizzled, crewcut man handed Jim a Kleenex for the blood, and the tears, waited a moment and then he said, "I want to tell you something, young man."

"Yessir?" Jim asked.

"You want to know what I think the biggest difference is between being a child and being an adult?"

"What's that?"

"Knowing the difference between the times you have to fight and the times you should walk away. You know what I'm saying?"

Jim nodded.

"Good. Now go see the nurse. Get that cut cleaned up."

As Jim walked sullenly toward the door, Coach LaBell called, "Oh, Jim?"

The boy turned. "Yessir?"

"About those times you do have to fight?" The man pointed a stubby finger at Jim. "You better learn to watch out for left hooks. Or you're gonna lose some teeth."

"I'll do that, coach."

Now, this hot, hot first day of school, trudging through the dewy grass, Jim shifted his heavy book bag to the other shoulder, and he thought about how the coach's words had really made a difference in the way he looked at life.

Closer to the school now, walking past the buses, yellow as pollen, watching the students and teachers, the impatient parents in the car pool lane. Jim waved hello to a few of the kids but he was still lost in his thoughts. He was glancing at a nearby classroom, Mr. Carter's math class.

Oh, Jim hated math. He did all the homework; he'd spend hours studying for tests, but he could never do better than a C plus, at best. He now thought of one of Mr. Carter's classes, early in the semester. The teacher had passed out a graded test – Jim'd gotten a C minus. After all that work, he was so frustrated, so discouraged. The teacher must've seen the look in his eyes and called him up after class.

"Having some trouble, I see, Jim."

"I just don't get it," the boy said. "I mean, I try. I do the work. But it's like it's overwhelming. I freeze up and, you know, I panic."

Soft-spoken Mr. Carter pulled a slip of paper out of his desk and wrote down several names. He said, "These're math tutors, Jim. I want you and your parents to call one of them. I think they'll be a big help."

"Okay," Jim said uncertainly. Then he took a deep breath and confessed, "The thing is, Mr. Carter, I just, I mean, I just don't like math. I'm never going to like it. I know that."

The teacher smiled at this. "Don't like math?…" He nodded. "Well, Jim, you have to understand something. Your goal here isn't to learn to like math. I don't want to teach you that. I don't even care about that."