?So some sexual sadists might not actually be violent??

?There you go with the sexual sadist business again. But in answer to your question, yes. Some of these guys play out their fantasies in other ways. Some use inanimate objects, or animals, some find consenting partners.?

?Consenting partners??

?A compliant partner, someone who?ll permit whatever it is the fantasy requires. Subordination, humiliation, even pain. Could be a wife, a girlfriend, someone he pays.?

?A prostitute??

?Sure. Most prostitutes will do some role playing, within limits.?

?That can defuse violent tendencies??

?It can as long as she goes along. Same with a wife or girlfriend. It?s often when the compliant partner gets fed up that things go bad. She?s been his punching bag, then she pulls the plug, maybe even threatens to tell. He gets enraged, kills her, finds he enjoys it. On to the next.?

Something he?d said was bothering me.

?Let?s back up. What kind of inanimate objects??

?Pictures, dolls, clothing. Anything, really. I had one guy used to beat the crap out of a life-size blowup of Flip Wilson in drag.?

?I hate to ask.?

?Deep-seated rage against blacks, gays, and women. Hat trick every time he jerked off.?

?Of course.?

I could hear the Phantom of the Opera in the background.

?J.S., if a guy does that, makes pictures or uses a doll, for instance, does that mean he probably won?t kill??

?Maybe, but again, who knows what?s going to alter his curve and nudge him over that line? One day a naughty picture is enough, the next it?s not.?

?Could a guy do both??

?Both what??

?Flip-flop back and forth. Kill some victims, just stalk and harass others??

?Sure. For one thing, a victim?s behavior can alter the equation. He feels insulted or rejected by her. She says the wrong thing, turns left instead of right. She wouldn?t even have to know. Don?t forget, most serial killers have never met their victims. But these women star in the fantasy. Or he might see one woman in one role, cast another differently. Love your wife, then go out and kill. Cast one stranger as prey, another as friend.?

?So, once someone starts killing, he could still revert to his earlier, less violent tactics on occasion??

?He might.?

?So someone who is seemingly just a nuisance could be a lot more??

?Definitely.?

?Someone who phones a victim, follows her, sends her gory sketches isn?t necessarily harmless, even though he keeps his distance??

?You are talking about St. Jacques, aren?t you??

Was I?

?Does it sound like him??

?I just assumed we were discussing him. Or whoever it was kept the bridal suite you guys tossed.?

Open up your mind, let the fantasy unwind . . .

?J.S. I-It?s gotten personal.?

?What do you mean??

I told him everything. Gabby. Her fear. Her exit. My anger, now my fear.

?Shit, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things? Look, this guy sounds like bad news. Gabby?s creep may or may not be St. Jacques, but it?s possible. He stalks women. St. Jacques stalks women. He draws pictures of eviscerated females, doesn?t exactly have a normal sex life, and carries a knife. St. Jacques, or whoever this devo is, is killing women, then cutting them up or disfiguring them. What do you think??

Turn your face away from the garish light of day . . .

?When did she first notice this guy?? J.S. asked.

?I don?t know.?

?Before or after this whole thing broke??

?I don?t know.?

?What do you know about him??

?Not much. He hangs out with hookers, pays for sex, then plays a scene with lingerie. Carries a knife. Most of the women won?t have anything to do with him.?

?That sound good to you??

?No.?

?Tempe, I want you to report this to the guys you work with. Let them check it out. You say Gabby is unpredictable, so it?s probably nothing. She may have just taken off. But she?s your friend. You?ve been threatened. The skull. The guy who followed you in the car.?

?Maybe.?

?Gabby was staying with you. She?s disappeared. It warrants a look.?

?Right. Claudel will rush right out and collar nightie man.?

?Nightie man? You?ve been hanging with cops too long.?

I stopped. Where had I gotten that? Of course. Dummy man.

?We have a fruitcake that breaks in, stuffs lingerie, stabs it, then leaves. Been at it for years. They call him dummy man.?

?If he?s been at it for years he can?t be that dumb.?

?No, no. It?s what he makes with the lingerie. It?s like a dummy.?

Synapse. Or a doll.

Feel me, touch me . . .

J.S. said something, but my mind was veering off at warp speed. Dummy. Lingerie. Knife. A hooker named Julie who plays games with a nightie. A sketch of carnage with the words ?don?t cut me.? News articles found in a Berger Street room, one about a break-in with a nightgown dummy, one with my picture, clipped and marked with an X. A skewered skull, grinning from my shrubbery. Gabby?s face in 4 A.M. terror. A bedroom in chaos.

Help me make the music of the night . . .

?I?ve got to go, J.S.?

?Tempe, promise me you?ll do what I say. It?s a long shot, but it could be that Gabby?s creep is the sicko that kept the Berger Street nest. He could be your killer. If so, you?re in danger. You?re blocking him, so you?re a threat to him. He had your picture. He may have put Grace Damas?s skull in your yard. He knows who you are. He knows where you are.?

I wasn?t hearing J.S. In my mind I was already moving.

It took thirty minutes to cross Centre-ville, go up the Main, and find my alley spot. As I stepped over the splayed legs of a wino who sat slumped against the wall, his head bobbing to the muted thud of CW coming through the brick, he smiled and raised a hand in a one-finger wave, then opened his palm and extended it toward me.

I dug in my pocket and gave him a loony. Maybe he?d watch my car.

The Main was a smorgasbord of night dwellers through which I nibbled a path. Panhandlers, hookers, druggies, and tourists. Accountants and salesmen jostled in clumps, reckless with binge merriment. For some it was a boisterous romp, for others a joyless reality. Welcome to the Hotel St. Laurent.

Unlike my last visit, this time I had a plan. I worked my way toward Ste. Catherine, hoping to find Jewel Tambeaux. Not so easy. Though the usual pack was gathered outside the Hotel Granada, Jewel wasn?t part of it.

I crossed the street and considered the women. No one reached for a rock. I took this as a good sign. Now what? From my last social call on these ladies, I had a pretty good idea as to what I shouldn?t do. That, however, gave me no clue as to what I should do.

I have a rule that has served me well in life. When in doubt, do nothing. If you?re not sure, don?t buy it, don?t comment, don?t commit. Sit tight. Deviation from this maxim has usually caused me regret. The red dress with the ruffled neck. The promise to debate Creationism. The angry letter fired off to the Vice Chancellor. This time I stuck to my policy.

I found a cement block, brushed off the broken glass, and sat. Knees drawn, eyes on the Granada, I waited. And waited. And waited.

For a while I was intrigued by the soap opera playing around me. As the Main Turns. Midnight came and went-1 A.M. Then 2. The script unwound its tale of seduction and exploitation. Maul My Children. The Young and the Hopeless. I played mental games, creating all sorts of clever titles.

By 3 A.M. screenwriting no longer held my interest. I was tired, discouraged, and bored. I knew surveillance was not glamorous, but I hadn?t been prepared for just how numbing it was. I?d had enough coffee to fill an aquarium, prepared endless lists in my head, composed several letters I would never write, and played ?guess the life story? of a great many citizens of Quebec. Hookers and johns had come and gone, but Jewel Tambeaux was not to be seen.