He had already fed the first coin in the slot before he noticed the front page of the afternoon paper. His gut twisted in a spasm of pain. He took a deep breath, carefully opened the box, and took out a paper, then fed more coins into the morning paper boxes and took out one of each. He couldn’t read it out here on the street. People would look at him from every window in the development, wonder why he was buying all these papers, wonder what he was doing, wonder where he went in his lovely van. He walked sedately back into his house, wanting to run, not daring to. In the living room, he unfolded the paper, turned on the lamp beside the couch, and forced himself to look at the front page again.

“Have You Seen This Man?” the banner screamed in red above a sketch of someone intended to be him.

Police sources revealed today that they are seeking a man in his twenties, about six feet tall, with light brown curly hair, for questioning in relation to a series of vicious attacks on women in the Metro area in recent months. The sketch shown was supplied by police artist John MacVey, working from descriptions given by an unidentified young woman who was attacked on Friday. Thanks to the rapid intervention of three bystanders, she was unharmed. It is possible that he has scratch marks on his face. The fourth victim in this series of brutal murders died this morning (see story, p. 5).

He got up and trudged up the stairs to the bathroom and stared once again into the mirror. Then at the sketch. Then at the mirror. They had made his face too long and too thin, he thought, and his eyes too small and narrow. He splashed water in his burning eyes, then turned and walked back down to the living room.

Two miles away Ginny stood perplexed in her mother’s living room. After a minute or two, she walked over to the front hall and called upstairs. “Rob! Come down here a minute, will you?” A large, amiable-looking young man lounged down the steps, two at a time, and sat down at the bottom.

“What can I do for you, eh, lady?” he said, yawning.

“Are you busy right now?” Worried lines creased her face.

“Just studying. But it’ll keep. What’s the matter?”

Her eyes swam with tears. She always seemed to be on the verge of tears these days. “It’s Glenn,” she said. “Come up to my room. I don’t want Mom to hear.” He nodded and followed her up. He had long since ceased to expect his big sister to make sense. He sprawled on her bed and looked lazily at her perched on a hard-backed chair. “I’m not going back there,” she said, grimly, as if he had just told her that she must, on pain of death. “I don’t care what anybody says.”

“I don’t blame you,” said her brother. “He’s a jerk. And I don’t think you have to worry about Mom, either. She never liked him. But what can I do for you right now?”

“All my clothes and stuff are there, and I should tell him that I’m not coming back, but I can’t get through to him. I’ve phoned every time of day; I’ve let the phone ring twenty times. I just called Donna next door, and she said that he’s home. She’s seen him go out to get the papers and take the van out. But I don’t want to go over there and see him.” She shivered.

“Do you want me to go?” asked Rob. “I’m not scared of the son of a bitch. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll go over right now. I need some exercise. I can take Kevin with me and we’ll beat the shit out of him.” He yawned again as he sat upright.

Ginny laughed. “No, that’s okay. Just get my clothes—and my shoes, so I can go back to work. Here, I’ll make a list for you. You can stuff it all in my old duffle bag.” She pulled out a piece of paper from her little desk, and started making a list, looking animated and full of purpose for the first time in weeks. At that moment, the afternoon paper came flying across their front lawn, skidded over the porch, and landed, for the third time that month, in a wet and soggy corner of the front garden.

Rob had reflected briefly on his brother-in-law’s uncertain temper, and therefore when he pulled up in front of the townhouse his formidable friend Kevin was with him. “Just in case the guy pulls a knife or something,” he had said.

“Sure,” said Kevin. They played on the same hockey team, worked out in the same gym, and he was just as happy to be mixing it up here as on the ice, as far as that went. Anything to help out a buddy and a teammate. As they were getting out of their car, however, reinforcements in the shape of a police car pulled up behind them. A uniformed constable climbed out and walked over to them.

“You Mr. Glenn Morrison?” he asked, reading from a list in his hand.

“Nope,” said Rob. “He lives in there, and we’re just going to pay him a little visit.” The constable followed the two up to the minute front porch.

Rob leaned on the doorbell for about thirty seconds. No response. He looked at the police officer and shrugged. “Did you want to see him about something important?”

“Are you a friend?”

Rob shook his head. “Just a brother-in-law. What’s going on?”

The constable raised his large fist and pounded on the door. All three of them listened for answering footsteps. “Does he own a light brown van?” was the response.

“Yeah,” said Rob, “does he ever! It’s like his baby. Did he have an accident?” he asked curiously.

“Is there a back door?” asked the constable.

“I have something better than that,” said Rob. “I have the front-door key.” He pulled it out of his pocket. “My sister asked me to go in and get some clothes for her. You want to look around, be my guest.” He turned the key and threw open the door with a flourish.

The three men stopped dead at the front hall, assailed by the unmistakable stench of decay. “Jeez,” said Kevin. “What died in here? It stinks.”

“You better let me go first,” said the constable, looking distinctly unhappy. “Just in case.”

Rob walked up the steps into the kitchen and looked in. The afternoon sun played over the piles of filthy dishes and food that oozed with slime. He gagged at the smell, went purposefully up the steps into the living room, threw open the drapes and pushed the French windows open. There was a merciful blast of cool clean air. They glanced quickly at the chaos of the living room and solemnly followed the constable up the winding stairs to the bedrooms and bathroom. No rotting corpses, no surprises. Just filth and unmade beds. “Well,” said Rob, “since we’re up here, I think I’ll throw my sister’s stuff into a bag.” He pulled out the list, looked at it carefully, and then started with the top dresser drawer.

“Where would Mr. Morrison keep the van?” asked the constable.

“It’s probably in the garage, unless he has taken it out. Ginny’s car sat out all winter in the snow so the damned van could stay safe in the garage—and she was the one who had to take her car to work all the time.” He turned and started to stuff shoes into a big duffle bag he had taken from the closet. “Just let me finish this and I’ll show you where it is. Kevin, grab those things off the hangers and let’s get going. This place gives me the creeps.”

The three men wound their way down the ever-turning stairway as far as it went. Rob opened the door at the very bottom and felt around for a light switch. “There it is,” he said, as the lights clicked on. “I guess he didn’t take it with him when he went out.” The constable looked carefully all around the van. He peered in the side windows, rattled all the door handles, gave it one last look and walked out.

“Is that what you were looking for?” asked Rob.

“I couldn’t say, sir,” said the constable. “I suppose it could be. Anyway, thanks for your assistance.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Rob, cheerfully. “Anything to get that bastard in trouble, I always say. I hope he loses his bloody license. Here, Kevin,” he said, throwing him the duffle bag. “I’d better shut that door up there.” And the three of them closed up the house again.