Sleep waited in the line of cars on Walter Street in Roslindale. He thought he could see the glare of unnatural light coming from Peter’s Hill. The police roadblock closed off Bussey Street, and when he got that far, probably Mendum Street too. All the direct public accesses to the Arboretum were blocked. The commotion indicated that the police had found his perfect couple.

It made him sad. The lovers would get to repose only a short time more.

With these two, he could see that he was getting better at his art. The girl was beautiful and didn’t need much makeup, even after meeting Brother Death. The dress Sleep had chosen for her slipped on, a perfect fit. The boy was the boy. Just like at weddings and proms, you could put a call into central casting and get a handsome groom or a date in a white shirt and black tux. But the boy was a necessary part of the tableau. Sleep was getting better with hair too. Momma had left a generous supply of beauty products. All in all, a very successful venture.

There was a time, long ago, when he didn’t understand his purpose. Before he’d discovered all those books about mythology in the library. Before he’d met his brother Death. A time when he lived for his Little Things. Dressing them, buying new outfits for them at yard sales. Browsing through stores, pretending he was selecting a gift for an imaginary sister.

It was exactly at that time that his father caught on.

Then his Little Things started demanding even more.

He could remember every detail of that day. The two of them, Sleep and his father, were alone at the bakery. They’d been working since one in the morning. It was three when his father, the black hairs of his arms dusted in flour, his round face greasy from frying oil, said, “When are you gonna get a girlfriend? Act like other kids your age? When I get home, I’m gonna go up to that attic and get those dolls. I’m gonna bring ’em here and hang them in the window with a sign that says ‘These are my half-a-fag son’s toys.’ Week after that, we’ll hang Cinderella’s pissy wet bedsheet in the window.”

Something like a dozen plane engines roaring filled Sleep’s head. His old man was relentless. He watched girls on the street and nudged Sleep to watch too. If a love scene came on the TV screen, he jacked up the volume. Once they had been waiting for Momma in Filene’s and his old man had shoved him into a rack of bras.

Sleep could see himself reaching for the rolling pin. He could see himself waiting for his old man to show the back of his head. He could see himself raise the pin, feel the heft of the wood. Before he could stop himself, he remembered trying to say something like “oh no,” he could see himself hammering until his father was quiet at last.

When the police came, he told them he had come in late that morning and found his father on the floor, the register open and empty.

He didn’t tell the police about his father nattering at him, humiliating him, pushing him. And he didn’t tell them about the queen of the gods and the dwelling of Sleep and his Brother Death. He bet none of the cops had ever read The Tales of Troy.

Sleep was startled by the loud noise. The driver in the car behind him was leaning on his horn. Traffic was moving. Sleep adjusted his sunglasses and pulled his Bruins cap down tighter on his head. He drove toward the patrolman directing traffic. He waved to the officer as he passed close to Peter’s Hill, taking one last look.

Connie followed Alves up Peter’s Hill. He’d stood in the cold, watching Mooney setting up cones while a photographer snapped pictures, for close to two hours before getting inside the yellow tape.

“Aren’t you in the middle of a trial?” Alves asked.

Alves was treating him like a punk DA, making him wait, greeting him with a sarcastic question first thing. “Trial’s over,” Connie said. “A simple gun case, remember? Jury came back in ten minutes with a guilty. Angel, I’m out here because this case is important to me.”

Alves didn’t say anything as he led Connie around a thicket of bushes, toward the glow of the klieg lights. The hill was lit up like a night game at Fenway. Connie stopped when he saw the girl. She was lovely, even in death. She reminded him of Andi, his ex-girlfriend, but without the long red hair. The victim was a brunette, like the others. “Have they been moved?” Connie asked.

“Not yet. We’ve marked off everything that might have evidentiary value. Sarge had the ID unit take about a thousand pictures. Mooney wanted me to give you a walk-though before the ME takes the bodies. Eunice Curran and her crew are standing by to collect everything else.”

“Their poses are different from the last time,” Connie said. “These two are having a picnic.”

“Yeah. A post-prom snack. He has them set up to make you think, next thing, the dress comes off.”

“You’re wrong,” Connie said. “Look at the scene. It’s more like a romantic dinner. She’s wearing a dress that will never come off. The killer doesn’t want it to. He wants them in this position, at this moment in time, happy, before the relationship is consummated. Before everything goes to shit. He wants them to live happily ever after, like in fairy tales.”

Alves’s face betrayed a range of emotions, pain among them. Connie had heard the rumors that Marcy Alves wasn’t sleeping in the big bed anymore. “You got all that from looking at this setup?” Alves seemed impressed, then doubtful. “Creative, but it doesn’t fit. Remember, he’s re-creating prom night.”

“Who gave him the name Prom Night Killer? The media? The police? He’s never called himself that.” Connie closed his eyes and imagined himself at the first crime scene. “The first victims were coming from their prom, but our killer didn’t know that. Male was in a tux. Female was in a fancy white dress. To him they could have looked like newlyweds going for a stroll in the park. Picture those miniature plastic figures, those wedding cake toppers. He’s dressing the victims up as though they’ve just been married. That’s why all the women are wearing white instead of the carnival of colors you’d normally see in prom dresses.”

Connie opened his eyes again to find that Alves was staring at him. He had to know that Connie could be right. Connie did not avoid his stare. “What have you been holding back from me, Angel?”

“What are you talking about?” Alves asked.

“There’s something else. Something related to Chinese culture. I saw the look you gave Mooney the other day at his place. You let him answer for you.”

“I can’t tell you, Connie. Mooney will flip. He’s kept this thing under wraps for ten years. Hardly anybody knows about it. It’s one of the reasons we’re convinced he’s not a copycat.”

“I haven’t held anything back from you, Angel. I can’t help you if I don’t know all the facts.”

Alves seemed to think over his options for a couple seconds. “If I show you, it goes nowhere. You can’t tell Mooney. If you come up with anything based on what I show you, you come to me. Then I’ll relay it to Mooney as my idea. Got it?”

“I’m not looking for credit.”

Alves walked over to the girl and lifted the hair off the back of her neck.

Under the bright lights, stamped with black ink, Connie saw the familiar Yin-Yang symbol. The Tai-ji. It was upside down. The killer didn’t know anything about Chinese culture. But he wanted the police to think he did.

Alves lowered her hair and stepped away from her. “Mooney’s coming.”