"… It's like advertising, they wear these skirts and these tight pants and these see-through blouses and show off their legs and their asses and their tits, and then what? They don't think a guy is gonna want what they're advertising?

"… I whacked her around a little bit but I didn't plan to kill her or nothing, that's just what the cops said. I mean, I did fuck her, but I was just trying to hold her down on her chest and the cops said it was around her neck. I didn't want her to scream…

"… I tried to talk to her, and she didn't want to talk to me. I mean, look at me. I'm not a good-looking guy. When I was a kid I'd look in the mirror and try to make myself good-looking. I'd think, well, you're not bad-looking, there are lots of guys not as lucky as you were, but I always knew that I'm not a good-looking guy. I mean, not like Tom Cruise or anybody. I got okay teeth, though, and that's important…"

"I thought maybe a truck would be a big idea, and maybe it would be. I got an eighty-six Ford F-one-fifty. It'd been wrecked but it'd been fixed, a cherry red color, best truck I ever had. I was working at an assembly plant building computer cases and making good money, six bucks an hour, nine bucks on overtime, pretty good job but it was all piecework, some weeks I'd work six days and some weeks I'd work two days…"

"… Women, you know, they're the big shots in the courts now, judges and lawyers and everything, they don't know about blue balls, because they don't have them. So how can they know about it? They don't know that you're forced to get some sex. Have you ever tried coke? I tried some once and the thing I thought was, it's like getting the blue balls. It makes your head different. I'd get me some sex and then my head would be all right, but if I'd go awhile without it, and get the blue balls, my head would get all weird and I'd have to get some.

"… Okay, I paid a couple of times, but it was just a couple girls in Rochester that you sorta knew were okay. What's the difference between that and maybe taking some chick out to TGI Fridaysand maybe blowing twenty dollars, just to try to get some, and then you don't get it. Maybe if you know a couple of girls it's better just to give them the money…"

"I wouldn't ever go with a colored girl, their pimp'd catch you and he'd cut your nuts off. I seen some good-looking colored girls, though. If I thought, you know, they could go for me, and if they didn't have a boyfriend around…"

"I don't remember strangling her. I don't think I did. I think the cops just made it up. I just whacked her a few times. I wouldn't do it again, you know, unless it was self-defense or something. Okay, so it probably wouldn't be self-defense, but some of these chicks, they can really fight…"

LUCAS LISTENED FOR ALMOST two hours, running the tape back and forth, made a few notes. Charlie Pope was afraid of big cities, he thought, and blacks and Latinos and Hmong. If he were hiding someplace, it would be in a small city or a town.

He would be looking for sex. The shrinks had been emphatic about it, and Lucas was convinced: sex seemed to soak through Charlie Pope's view of the world. A note should be sent to all the law-enforcement agencies to warn the local hookers against him, and to circulate his photograph where hookers would see it. In most smaller cities, that would be one or two bars.

Pope would definitely go for a car, Lucas thought, or most likely, a truck, and almost certainly already had one. Unless…

Could he be hiding out in the countryside? Literally living in the woods? Did he have that capability? He'd been working as a garbage-man and Lucas had known a couple of guys who'd lived on dumps, eating garbage and furnishing their hand-built hovels with whatever they could find on the piles of trash.

If not that, he must be disguised. At a minimum, he would have grown a beard. But what could he be doing? Stealing stuff to live on? How about just one holdup, where he scored a couple of grand, and continued to live on that? Lucas made a note to have the co-op guys check muggings and robberies by bearded men who fit Charlie's physical form.

WHEN HE FINISHED with the tapes, Lucas thought he knew Charlie Pope. But where was he? A Charlie Pope didn't hide well. Unless…

A second man or woman was hiding him. Was running him.

Or, maybe after the second killing he'd run so far that the news hadn't caught up to him. Maybe he was working as a janitor or a garbageman or an assembly worker in backwoods Florida.

That was possible, but Charlie was rooted in the Upper Midwest. He was nuts, but he was a small-town boy. He was afraid to go to big places, afraid of the people he might meet. And he didn't seem to be smart enough, or to have the will, to ignore those fears.

A village idiot.

Lucas sighed and put down his pen. A second man-or a woman. Something to lose sleep over.

RUFFE IGNACE WAS WORKING LATE. Not as much to do, feet up on his desk, waiting for the paper to be put to bed. His latest triumph, the serial-killer story, cut no ice with the other reporters when it came to picking a replacement for the regular night man, when the night man went on vacation.

That occasion always started a newsroom dogfight. Ignace had been peremptorily ordered to take the job: "You have," his team leader said, "the requisite skills. What am I supposed to do, have the music critic write about fires on deadline? And you're single and you're not dating anyone."

"Is that why you asked me yesterday if I was dating anyone?" Ignace asked.

A muscle twitched in the team leader's jaw. "Well… yeah."

"You treacherous fuck."

The "treacherous fuck" line didn't do him any good, so here he was, eleven o'clock at night, waiting. He was the "just in case" guy. Just in case the president was assassinated, just in case terrorists took out the Target Center, just in case one of the Vikings was busted on cocaine charges. Nobody really wanted to tear up the paper when it was this close to the press turn.

SO IGNCACE HAD HIS FEET UP, reading the Idiot's Guide to Etiquette, which he'd lifted off another reporter's desk. When the phone rang, he assumed it was the desk asking for a rewrite.

A voice in a harsh, rustling whisper inquired, "Is this, I don't know how you pronounce it, I apologize, Rough Ignacy?"

"That would be Roo-fay Ig-Nas," Ignace said. "Who is this?"

"This is old Charlie Pope, calling to thank you for the write-up."

Now Ignace sat up. "Who is this really? Is this Jack, you shithead?" A whispery laugh: "Nope, it's me, old Charlie Pope." Ignace had a notebook and a pencil out: "Okay, old Charlie Pope. Tell me something about the murders that wasn't in the newspaper."

A pause, then, "Wasn't in the newspapers that I cut Adam Rice's dick off."

"What?"

"I cut his dick off," the whisperer said. "You didn't put that in the paper."

"The cops haven't said anything about that-I don't believe it happened."

"Believe it, Ruffe." The whisper turned cold, ragged.

"We didn't say what you killed the kid with. What'd you kill him with?"

"He come down the stairs in his pajamas. I didn't even know he was up there until he started running. There was an aluminum baseball bat in the corner and when the kid went running into the kitchen, I picked up the bat and caught him right by the door and whacked him. Then I went back and finished with Daddy."

The ring of truth pushed Ignace back in his chair. "With a baseball bat."

"That's right. When I got outside, I wiped it down with Adam Rice's undershirt, so it wouldn't have no fingerprints on it. That's before I knew they were gonna pickup on me so fast. I threw it into that field of whatever it-is off to the side of the farmhouse. Right by the drive-way going up the hill."