Water under the bridge. Now this was hot and Smithback was ten thousand miles away. If the killings went on-and Harriman fervently hoped they would-the story would only get bigger. There might be television opportunities, magazine articles, a big book contract. Maybe even a Pulitzer. With any luck, the Times would be only too happy to get him back.

He was jostled by an old man in a wizard costume, gave a hard shove back. There was an almost hysterical frenzy to the crowd Harriman had never seen before, a potentially dangerous mixture if you stopped to think about it: volatile, like a tinderbox.

There was a sudden noise off to one side, and Harriman looked over. Some Elvis impersonator in gold lamé-a halfway-decent-looking one, for a change-was blaring "Burning Love" with the aid of a portable karaoke machine:

"I feel my temperature rising."

The crowd was growing noisier, more restless. Now and then Harriman could hear the distant shriek of a police siren.

"Lord Almighty, I'm burning a hole where I lay."

He had his tape recorder ready; he could pick up some color to add to what he already had on the murder itself. He looked around. There was a guy at his elbow, in leather boots and a Stetson, carrying a crystal wand in one hand and a live hamster in the other. Nah: too weird. Someone more representative. Like that kid with the Mohawk not far away, in black. A pimply middle-class suburban kid trying to be different.

"Excuse me!" He elbowed his way toward the youth. "Excuse me! New York Post . Can I ask a few questions?"

The kid looked toward him, eyes lighting up. They were all so eager for their fifteen nanoseconds of fame.

"Why are you here?"

"Haven't you heard? The devil has come!" The kid's face positively shone. "Some guy up there. He's just like the one out on Long Island. The devil took his soul, fried him to a crisp! Dragged him down to hell, kicking and screaming."

"How'd you hear about this?"

"It's all over the Web."

"By why are you , personally, here?"

The kid looked at him as if the question was idiotic. "Why do you think? To pay my respects to the Man in Red."

Now a group of aging hippies started to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" in cracked falsettos. The smell of pot wafted toward him. Harriman struggled to hear, to think, amidst the hubbub. "Where are you from?"

"Me and my buddies came over from Fort Lee." Some of his "buddies" were now crowding around, all dressed exactly like he was. "Who's this guy?" one asked.

"Reporter from the Post ."

"No kidding."

"Take my picture!"

To pay my respects to the Man in Red. There was his quote. Time to wrap it up. "Name? Spell it."

"Shawn O'Connor."

"Age?"

"Fourteen."

Unbelievable.” Okay, Shawn, one last question. Why the devil? What's so important about the devil?"

"He's the man !" he whooped, and his friends took up the cry, high-fiving each other. "The man !"

Harriman moved off. God, the world was full of morons; they were breeding like rabbits, especially in New Jersey. Now he needed a contrast, someone who took all this seriously. A priest-he needed a priest. Just his luck: there were two men with collars, quiet, standing not far away.

"Excuse me!" he called out, forcing his way toward them through the growing crowd. As the two turned to him, Harriman was taken aback by the expressions on their faces. Fear, real fear, mingled with the sorrow and pain.

"Harriman with the Post . May I ask what you're doing here?"

The older of the two men stepped forward. He had a lot of dignity; he really seemed out of place in this hysteria. "We're bearing witness."

"Witness to what?"

"The last earthly days." The way the man said it sent a flurry of goose bumps along Harriman's spine.

"You really think the world's coming to an end?"

The man quoted solemnly: "'Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit.'"

The other, younger man nodded. "'She shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her. And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning.'"

"'Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!'" the first priest went on. "'For in one hour is thy judgment come.'"

Harriman had drawn out his pad and was scribbling to get this down, but the first priest laid a gentle hand over his. "Revelation, chapter 18."

"Right, thanks. What church are you from?"

"Our Lady of Long Island City."

"Thanks." Harriman got their names and backed away hastily, tucking his notebook into his pocket. Their calmness, their certitude, spooked him more than all the hysteria around him.

There was a stirring along one edge of the crowd. A small convoy of police cars was approaching, lights flashing. There was a sudden eruption of flashes and television lights. He pushed forward, brutally shoving his way through a group of soundmen: he was Harriman of the Post , he wasn't going to sit at the back of the class. But the crowd itself was now surging forward, desperate for news.

A woman had stepped out of an unmarked cruiser at the rear of the convoy, dressed in a suit but with a shield riding shotgun on what looked like an amazing set of knockers: a really good-looking young woman, with a bunch of men now falling into place behind her. Young, but clearly in charge. It looked to Harriman like she didn't want to talk to the crowd at all, but needed to take charge before things grew any uglier.

She positioned herself behind a barricade of uniformed cops and held up her hand against the clamor of the press.

"Five minutes for questions. Then this crowd is going to have to disband."

More incoherent yelling as a thicket of boom microphones was thrust forward.

She waited, surveying the crowd, while the shouting continued. Finally she checked her watch and spoke again. "Four minutes."

That shut up the rows of press. The rest-the party people, the witches and satanists, the weirdos with crystals or perfumes-realized something interesting was about to happen and quieted down a little as well.

"I'm Captain Laura Hayward of NYPD Homicide." She spoke in a clear but soft voice, which forced the crowd to quiet further, straining to listen. "The deceased is Nigel Cutforth, who died at approximately 11:15 last night. Cause of death is unknown at this point, but homicide is suspected."

Tell me something new, Harriman said to himself.

"I'll take a few questions now," she said. There was an eruption of shouting, and she pointed at one frantically waving journalist.

The questions tumbled out. "Have the police noted connections between this and the death of Jeremy Grove? Are there similarities? Differences?"

A wry smile appeared on her lips. "We have. Yes and yes. Next?"

"Any suspects?"

"Not at this point."

"Was there a burned hoofprint or any other sign of the devil?"

"No hoofprint."

"We heard there was a face scorched into the wall?"

The smile left the woman's face briefly. "It was an irregular blotch that suggested a face to some."

"What kind of face?"

The wry smile. "Those who've claimed to see the face have labeled it ugly."