Later today…

Feeling hungry, starving to death. His gut was drying up from the craving. If he didn't have his little heart-to-heart with Joanne pretty soon he'd waste away to steam.

Now he drank a can of Dr Pepper, ate a bag of potato chips. Then some pretzels.

Starving…

Hungry…

Vincent Reynolds would not on his own have come up with the idea that the urge to sexually assault women was a hunger. That idea was courtesy of his therapist, Dr. Jenkins.

When he was in detention because of Sally Anne-the only time he'd been arrested-the doctor had explained that he had to accept that the urges he felt would never go away. "You can't get rid of them. They're a hunger in a way… Now, what do we know about hunger? It's natural. We can't help feeling hungry. Don't you agree?"

"Yessir."

The therapist had added that even though you couldn't stop hunger completely you could "satisfy it appropriately. You understand what I mean? With food, you'd have a healthy meal when it's the appropriate time, you don't just snack. With people, you have a healthy, committed relationship, leading up to marriage and a family."

"I get it."

"Good. I think we're making progress. Don't you agree?"

And the boy had taken great heart in the man's message, though it translated into something a little different from what the good doctor intended. Vincent reasoned that he'd use the hunger analogy as a helpful guide. He'd only eat, that is, have a little heart-to-heart with a girl, when he really needed to. That way he wouldn't become desperate-and careless, the way he had with Sally Anne.

Brilliant.

Don't you agree, Dr. Jenkins?

Vincent finished the pretzels and soda and wrote another letter to his sister. Clever Vincent drew a few cartoons in the margins. Pictures he thought she might like. Vincent wasn't a terrible artist.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in."

Gerald Duncan pushed the door open. The men said good morning to each other. Vincent glanced into Duncan's room, which was perfectly ordered. Everything on the desk was arranged in a symmetrical pattern. The clothes were pressed and hanging in the closet exactly two inches apart. This could be one hurdle to their friendship. Vincent was a slob.

"You want something to eat?" Vincent asked.

"No, thanks."

That's why the Watchmaker was so skinny. He rarely ate, he was never hungry. That could be another hurdle. But Vincent decided he'd ignore that fault. After all, Vincent's sister never ate much either and he still loved her.

The killer made coffee for himself. While the water was heating he took the jar of beans out of the refrigerator and measured out exactly two spoons' worth. These clattered as he poured them into the hand grinder and turned the handle a dozen times until the noise stopped. He carefully poured the grounds into a paper cone filter inside a drip funnel. He tapped it to make sure the grounds were level. Vincent loved watching Gerald Duncan make coffee.

Meticulous…

Duncan looked at his gold pocket watch. He wound the stem very carefully. He finished the coffee-he drank it fast like medicine-and then looked at Vincent. "Our flower girl," he said, "Joanne. Will you go check on her?"

A thud in his gut. So long, Clever Vincent.

"Sure."

"I'm going to the alley on Cedar Street. The police will be there by now. I want to see whom we're up against."

Whom…

Duncan pulled his jacket on and slung his bag over his shoulder. "You ready?"

Vincent nodded and donned his cream-colored parka, hat and sunglasses.

Duncan was saying, "Let me know if people are coming by the workshop to pick up orders or if she's working alone."

The Watchmaker had learned that Joanne spent a lot of time in her workshop, a few blocks away from her retail flower store. The workshop was quiet and dark. Picturing the woman, her curly brown hair, her long but pretty face, Hungry Vincent couldn't get her out of his mind.

They walked downstairs and into the alley behind the church.

Duncan hooked the padlock. He said, "Oh, I wanted to say something. The one for tomorrow? She's a woman too. That'd be two in a row. I don't know how often you like to have your…what do you call it? A heart-to-heart?"

"That's right."

"Why do you say that?" Duncan asked. The killer, Vincent had learned, had a tireless curiosity.

That phrase too came from Dr. Jenkins, his buddy the detention center doc, who'd tell him to come to his office anytime he wanted and talk about how he was feeling; they'd have themselves a good old heart-to-heart.

For some reason, Vincent liked the words. The phrase also sounded a lot better than "rape."

"I don't know. I just do." He added that he'd have no problem with two women in a row.

Sometimes eating makes you even hungrier, Dr. Jenkins.

Don't you agree?

As they stepped carefully over the icy patches on the sidewalk, Vincent asked, "Um, what are you going to do with Joanne?"

In killing his victims Duncan had one rule: Their deaths could not be quick. This wasn't as easy as it sounded, he'd explained in that precise, detached voice of his. Duncan had a book titled Extreme Interrogation Techniques. It was about terrifying prisoners into talking by subjecting them to tortures that would eventually kill them if they didn't confess: putting weights over their throats, cutting their wrists and letting them bleed, a dozen others.

Duncan explained, "I don't want to take too long, in her case. I'll gag her and tie her hands behind her. Then get her on her stomach and wrap a wire around her neck and her ankles."

"Her knees'll be bent?" Vincent could picture it.

"That's right. It was in the book. Did you see the illustrations?"

Vincent shook his head.

"She won't be able to keep her legs at that angle for very long. When they start to straighten, it pulls the wire around her neck taut and she'll strangle herself. It'll take about eight, ten minutes, I'd guess." He smiled. "I'm going to time it. As you suggested. When it's over I'll call you and she's all yours."

A good old heart-to-heart…

They stepped out of the alley as a blast of freezing wind struck them. Vincent's parka, which was unzipped, blew open.

He stopped, alarmed. On the sidewalk a few feet away was a young man. He had a scrawny beard and wore a threadbare jacket. A backpack was slung over a shoulder. A student, Vincent guessed. Head down, he kept walking briskly.

Duncan glanced at his partner. "What's the matter?"

Vincent nodded at his side, where the hunting knife, in a scabbard, was stuck into his waistband. "I think he saw it. I'm…I'm sorry. I should've zipped my jacket, but…"

Duncan's lips pressed together.

No, no…Vincent hoped he hadn't made Duncan unhappy. "I'll go take care of him, if you want. I'll-"

The killer looked toward the student, who was walking quickly away from them.

Duncan turned to Vincent. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

He couldn't hold the man's piercing blue eyes. "No."

"Wait here." Gerald Duncan studied the street, which was deserted, except for the student. He reached into his pocket and took out the box cutter he'd used to slash the wrists of the man on the pier last night. Duncan walked quickly after the student. Vincent watched him catching up until the killer was only a few feet behind him. They turned the corner, heading east.

This was terrible…Vincent hadn't been meticulous. He'd put everything at risk: his chance for friendship with Duncan, his chance for the heart-to-hearts. All because he'd been careless. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry.

He reached into his pocket, found a KitKat and wolfed it down, eating some of the wrapper with the candy.

Five agonizing minutes later Duncan returned, holding a wrinkled newspaper.