Had he erred? Had he somehow misinterpreted the prophecies? Why had the Golden Age not begun?

All along, he had been buoyed by an innate confidence, an ineffable sense of rightness. He had always been an edacious reader, but for years now he had perused nothing but the texts, reading them over and over, subjecting them to the most intense lucubration. He had discovered the truth and he would use it to work miracles. But the offerings had been made, the triumvirate had been sacrificed. Each of them-Helen, Annabel, and the lost Lenore-in turn had been translated in a manner prescribed by the texts. But there had been no passage to Dream-Land. No Golden Age.

No Virginia.

Why had it not happened as prophesied? The final globe of globes will instantaneously disappear, and God will remain in all.

There must be something he was missing, something he had yet to do. But what was it? What could it be?

He staggered away from his reading table, his hand pressed against his brow, his heart filled with sorrow. Why did it have to be so hard? Was this despair that the prophet had felt? Was this why he had ultimately failed? Why he had drunk himself to a crapulous demise on the streets of Baltimore?

He threw his arms up toward the heavens. Why must the road to redemption be strewn with thorns? Would he never find peace?

Don’t go near the ocean, Ernie. Nana told you not to go near the ocean.

He closed the door to his bedroom and entered the living area, then turned on the television and began scanning channels. It was a little early for the news broadcasts, but perhaps there would be something to transport his mind for a brief time…

In only a few moments, he had found a program of interest. That woman. The mother. And another man, prematurely gray hair, bulge around the center.

They were talking about him. His work.

That part didn’t interest him much. The media attention had ballooned to such an extent that he had almost tired of hearing about himself. Idle speculation, repetition, sidebars on other cases not remotely similar to his own. It was all the same uninformed claptrap, over and over again, signifying nothing.

But this woman had something very different to say.

“Dr. Spencer,” the host said, “you’ve been caught in the eye of the hurricane. After building a career based upon helping others, including those bereaved by violent crime, you find yourself crime’s victim. To the rest of the country, perhaps even the world, this is a fascinating, gruesome murder mystery. But to you-it’s personal. How are you dealing with the loss of your daughter?”

She was wearing a red dress, he noticed, red like the blood of the offering, with a neckline more suitable for a prostitute than a mother. No doubt she had used that costume to get on the air, to excite impure thoughts in unsuspecting men. She cared nothing for sweet Annabel. She craved attention for herself.

“It’s a struggle, Chet. I won’t lie to you. Pulling myself out of bed. Facing a new day. Confronting the horror of… of what happened to Annabel. A loss like this-it’s just devastating.”

“I can only imagine,” he said, his eyes watery. “And yet you’ve managed to keep going.”

“It’s been hard. But I-I have an obligation to Annabel. And her child-my unborn granddaughter. Annabel was a fighter, right to the very end.” As if she would know. “So I have to be, too. I have to be strong for her.”

“I think you’re doing an impressive job of that, wouldn’t you agree?” The live audience unleashed a supportive round of applause.

Spencer smiled slightly. “I’ve always thanked the Lord for my blessings-especially Annabel. No matter how busy things were in the world of television, I never forgot that Annabel was my top priority.”

He choked. Not what she told me, you two-faced harridan. You were an absentee mother who didn’t even call on the weekends. She told me you couldn’t identify her boyfriend, didn’t even know she had one. Why don’t you explain to the man why you didn’t know your own daughter was pregnant? Why she flew to Vegas rather than to you for help?

“Now Dr. Spencer, you’ve been quite active in the investigation into your daughter’s murder.”

“Chet, I have no choice. She was the dearest thing in my life.”

“And you haven’t been afraid to criticize the law enforcement officers investigating the case, either. You’ve been quite vocal about your objections.”

She paused thoughtfully. “I never thought of myself as a tub-thumper. But how can I remain silent? This killer tortured and murdered my daughter! Most crimes are solved shortly after the crime is discovered or they aren’t solved at all. I first talked to the LVPD officers twenty-four hours after my daughter’s remains were discovered, and they knew nothing. That hasn’t changed-even now, when a third victim has been discovered. All my suggestions, all my offers to help fell on deaf ears. And they’ve made the most inexplicable, unforgivable personnel assignments.”

“You’re talking about the behavioral expert, aren’t you? Susan Pulaski.”

“Among others. God knows I hate to single out the only woman working on the case. But she’s an alcoholic. Barely out of rehab. It’s inexcusable.”

She was doing it again. Making her ad hominem attacks on Susan for her own petty reasons. Spreading Susan’s secrets to every moron with a television. Had she no sense of decency? Of propriety? How would she like it if her secrets were bared on the open airwaves?

“Now, to be fair, Dr. Spencer, my sources tell me that Lieutenant Pulaski does have some solid experience with aberrant criminal psychology. And she’s not exactly in charge of the case, is she?”

The woman squinted slightly, but there was no wrinkle. Plastic surgery, he surmised. Probably lots of it. And she was barely middle-aged. How telling. “Any contact is too much, Chet. I want my daughter’s case to have the best. I insist upon it. That’s why I’ve taken steps.”

He reached for his teacup, but his hand was shaking. Steps? What… steps?

“Please tell the audience what you’ve done, Dr. Spencer.”

“I can’t tell you everything. But I’ve hired private detectives, several of the best. They’re looking into this case, and they’ve already made several interesting discoveries. Things the police totally overlooked.”

“Can you give us an example?”

“Sorry, Chet, no. You never know who might be listening.”

“I understand.”

“I would like to say this, though.” She turned slightly, adjusting her seat so that she was looking not at her host but directly into the camera. “My first instinct was to make an appeal to the killer. But everything I’ve learned about this case, everything my detectives have discovered, suggests that it would be useless. This man is sick. A sexual deviant. Someone who likes to torture little girls. My experts tell me he probably started when he was young, maiming animals, deriving pleasure from it. Setting fires. They tell me he enjoys torturing his victims before killing them, that it makes him feel powerful, sexually gratified, taking off their clothes, doing-” Her voice choked. “Doing hideous things to them.”

His lips parted as he stared wordlessly at the television screen. No. No!

“The experts tell me it’s even likely that… that…” She turned away, wiping her eyes. “That he probably… did things to Annabel and the others… after they were gone. That he would seek sexual gratification from the dead.”

He stumbled backward, knocking over the chair. Calumny!

“We are dealing with the worst scum who ever walked the face of the earth. A human worm. So I won’t bother appealing to his better nature. But I will say this to all the other people out there, the good people, the ones who want to catch this man as badly as I do. He has struck three times. Common sense tells me someone must know something. Someone must work with him. Someone must live next door to him. Someone must’ve sold him a cup of coffee. Someone must’ve seen or heard something that made them suspicious.”