The women strained against their bonds and their eyes were wide with terror. Their tormentors grinned and fondled groins bulging grotesquely.

The titles: Eat This, Jewbitch. Nazi Lovemasters. Gestapo Rape.

Daniel opened one of them, read several lines of explicit, sadomasochistic pornography, and put the books down angrily.

"Disgusting."

"I got them when I was at Harvard," said Ben David, "in a used-book store near the campus. There's a small but steady market for this type of thing."

Daniel opened the fourth book. A hard-cover volume entitled This Must Not Happen Again: The Black Book of Fascist Horror. He turned pages, saw grainy photographs. Mountains of human skeletons. A row of empty-eyed corpses, partially corroded by lime, lying three-deep in a muddy ditch. Several arms and legs, waxily artificial. The leer of a German soldier as he shot a naked woman in the back.

"Read the chapter on 'Murder for Profit,'" said the psycho logist. "The surgical experiments."

Daniel found this section, skimmed it, then closed the book, his anger growing. "What's the point?"

"The point is that racist politics and psychopathy can be comfortable bedfellows. Mengele, all the other camp doctors, were psychopaths. Hannah Arendt claimed they were normal, banal men, but their psychological evaluations indicate otherwise. They were attracted to the Nazi philosophy because it fit with their psychopathic natures. Hitler reinforced and legitimized them with power and status and technology-serial killers in the employ of the State. The point is, Dani, that if Arab girls keep turning up slaughtered, you'd do well to consider that your psychopath has a thing against Arabs."

"A Jewish race murderer?" Daniel thought of the Ripper book. The shohet theory.

"It could be a self-hating Arab," said Ben David. "Serial killers often turn against their own kind. But don't exclude the possibility that a member of our tribe is running around butchering Arabs just because it's an unappetizing contingency. We're not all lambs. There's a reason for the sixth commandment."

Daniel was silent. Sen David misread the look on his face as resistance and threw up his hands.

"I don't like it either, my friend. You wanted my speculations, you got them."

"I was reading about psychopathic killers last night," Daniel reflected, "and found myself thinking about them in Nazi terms. A phrase came to mind: street-corner Mengeles."

"You see"-the psychologist smiled-"you don't need me. Your unconscious is guiding you in the right direction."

He handed the reports back to Daniel, who put them into his case and removed a folder. The summary on Schlesinger, it had finally arrived yesterday from Civil Guard Headquarters. He gave it to Ben David, saying, "What do you think of this one?"

More rapid scanning. "This tells me nothing," said the psychologist. "An old man with stomach pains-Kupat Holim claims it's in his head. The classic psychosomatic dodge."

"He was the Hagah man patrolling Scopus the night the first one turned up," said Daniel, "giving him excellent opportunity. An old palmahi, hates Arabs-which could give him a motive. He likes to drive around the city at night and he has psychological problems."

Ben David shook his head, held up the summary.

"There's nothing in here about psychological problems. He has stomach pains and persistent hunger pangs that the doctors can't identify. So they cover for their feelings of inadequacy by using psychology to blame the victim." He gave the folder to Daniel. "I'm not saying this Schlesinger isn't your man. If you have evidence, go for him. But there's nothing in here that's relevant." Ben David looked at his watoh. "Anything else?"

"Not for now," said Daniel. "Thanks."

The two of them stood and Ben David walked him back into the waiting room. A young couple sat at opposite ends of the sofa, arms folded, eyes cast downward. When the door opened, both of them looked up briefly, then returned to staring at the rug. Daniel saw their fear and shame, wondered why Ben David didn't have a separate exit for his patients.

"One moment," the psychologist told the couple. He accompanied Daniel out the front door and to the curb. The morning had filled with traffic and sunshine, the hum of human discourse filtering from Keren Hayesod to the quiet, tree-shaded street. Ben David took a deep breath and stretched.

"Psychopaths can be arrogant to the point of self-destruc-tiveness," he said. "He may get careless, make a mistake, and tell you who he is."

"Gray Man never did."

Ben David tugged at his beard. "Maybe your luck will change."

"And if it doesn't?"

Ben David placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes softened as-he searched for a response. For the first time, Daniel saw him in a different light-paternal, a therapist.

Then, all at once, he drew away and said,

"If it doesn't, more blood."

He interviewed sex offenders and false confessors all day- wretched men, for the most part, who seemed too downtrodden to plan anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. He'd talked to many of them before. Still, he considered each of them a pathological liar, put them through the entire grilling, reducing some to tears, others to a near-catatonic fatigue.

At seven he returned home to find Gene and Luanne there, the table set for guests. He didn't recall Laura mentioning a visit, but lately he'd been far from attentive, so she might very well have spelled it out for him without its sinking in.

The boys attacked him, along with Dayan, and he wrestled with them, absently, noticing that Shoshi hadn't come forward to greet him.

The reason was soon obvious. She and Gene were playing draw poker in a corner of the living room, using raisins for chips. From the size of the piles it was clear who was winning.

"Flush," she said, clapping her hands.

"Oh, well," said Gene, throwing his cards down.

"Hello, everyone," said Daniel.

"Hello, Abba." Preoccupied.

"'Lo, Danny. Your turn to deal, sugar."

The boys had run to the back of the apartment, taking the dog with them. Daniel stood alone for a moment, put his attache case down, and went into the kitchen.