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#  Synopsis

Twelve rocking horses, ranging from medieval charger to mythological unicorn provide the sole means to unravel the twisted mind of a psychotic killer.

When the killer discovers that Sam, a criminologist, is on his trail, he taunts her. Frustrated by her ineptitude at reading the real intent of his messages, he is over powered by the urge to set her straight. He assaults her and takes her hostage. Punished, tortured, she is left to die in the basement of an abandoned church.

Four more women are murdered.

Four more rocking horses are delivered.

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, foretell the assassination of an important dignitary at an international women's equestrian event.

# Chapter 1

I looked up from my notes, closed the file folder, and resisted the temptation to raise my voice in spite of the microphone. A class of one hundred and eighteen freshmen was a test of wills. So I waited.

In about seven seconds they got the hint and I said softly into the mike:

"There'll be a short-answer quiz next class -yes, on Friday," I added in response to the back row. "The unit on Crime and Criminality. With particular emphasis on the sociopathic offender. Which reminds me, by the way, according to the papers, two young women have been found raped and murdered. I'm not an alarmist," I added, "but be careful out there. Especially you women." I looked at my watch. Five minutes remained and I had no intention of spending them listening to their groans. I swept the folder into my laptop bag, snapped the clasps, then strode to the door.

Like Pavlov's experiments on classical conditioning they responded, herding to the exit. I managed to reach to door before the crush and headed to the office I shared with a colleague.

"Dr. Milland..."

I stopped on the landing, turned and faced the young blond girl who had been trailing me.

"Oh, hi, Debbie."

"You know my name," she beamed. She clutched her sociology text and several wire-bound notebooks to her chest with both arms. When she spoke, she joggled up and down with adolescent excitement. Spare me, I thought.

"I like to get to know my students," at least in my seminar classes this was true enough. The only reason I did know her name was because she sat in the first row in front of me when I lectured, and her boyfriend who was so smitten by her charms did nothing for the whole ninety minutes except draw elaborate Cupid's hearts enclosing her name.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I keep getting the terms mixed up. You know. Sociopath and psychotic? And psychopath?"

"Well," I said as we continued up the stairs, "for starters, sociopath and psychopath are used interchangeably..."

"They mean the same thing?"

"Yes, that's right. A psychotic is someone suffering from a psychosis -which is a severe mental disorder."

"Like schizophrenia?" She beamed gleefully and joggled some more.

"Schizophrenia is a group of disorders -a psychosis characterized by a loss of contact with reality. Or a distortion of reality. On the other hand, a sociopath is a chronically antisocial individual. He gets into trouble and never learns from his experiences. But. The sociopath hasn't lost touch with reality." We stopped in front of my office, and I put my case on the floor so I could get the key out of my purse.

"Does that mean, Dr. Milland, that a psychotic is insane and sociopath is normal?"

I laughed. "I'm not sure I'd call a sociopath normal, but yes, he wouldn't be classed as insane. You're right.

"You see," I went on, "in regards to criminal behavior and the law, a sociopath is aware of his criminal behavior. He just doesn't control himself. Whereas a psychotic would not be considered responsible for his actions. Under the law psychotics are treated quite differently because their perceptions of reality are so distorted."

"Thanks, Dr. Milland. This helps a lot."

"Anytime, Debbie. If there's anything else, you know my office hours."

She thanked me again and dashed off, almost knocking over the elderly custodian. His stare was obvious as he watched the bunnies on her sweatshirt bobble as she struggled to regain her balance. I thought of the murdered girls.

"They seem to get younger every year," he said, shaking his head. The bunnies? I very nearly asked.

"Here, Miss. Let me get that. Before I could object, Bob had unhooked a bunch of keys from his belt and fished one out from the clump with a dirty finger, the yellow nail split and cracked.

I moved back a step; wise to the way he liked to rub up against me.

"There you are Miss. Have a nice day." He pushed the door open for me. I couldn't avoid brushing against him as I went in.

"Thanks, Bob, you too." Out of the corner of my eye I saw him touch the peak of his tweed cap. I kicked the door shut with my heel, closed my eyes, and leaned back. It had been a tough morning. The afternoon, I hoped would make up for it.

"When are you going to give in to that old Bugger and take him up on his offer?"

I dropped my bag.

"Damn it, Geoff, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on people? And get your feet off my desk." I left the bag where it fell and strode indignantly towards the desk to take my nameplate from him. He had rearranged the letters to spell DAMPS. Only after threatening him with extreme bodily harm did he relinquish the H. I restored the letters to read: S.A.M. PhD.

"I wasn't sneaking. I was waiting."

"Well next time wait in the hall, like everyone else. Who let you in anyway? Bob?"

He didn't answer.

"Damn it, Geoff, I see more of you now than when we married. What is it, I still know when something is eating you?"

He put his feet on the floor, stood up and put his hands into his pockets and ambled over to me. I was tall, but his six foot three frame towered over me.

"I miss you Sam. Thought I'd come by and see if you were free for lunch. How about it? My treat." A smile crept across his boyish face and I couldn't refuse.

"Sure. Why not. Give me a minute though, I want to fix my make-up."

I went to the washroom, wiped the seat with tissue, and peed. Then after a washing of hands, an inspection of make-up, a fresh application of lipstick, I was ready for lunch with Geoff. At the last second, I went back to the mirror to inspect my teeth.

Why was I so nervous, I asked myself? This was lunch with my ex-husband. Not a date. Well, not in the real sense. We'd been divorced a little over three years now. Actually it was three years, two months, and twenty-three days.

My door was locked when I got back. "It's me," I said, knocking on the frosted window. He opened the door and I went to the coat tree. He retrieved his trench coat from where he had carelessly thrown over the leather club chair and draped it over his arm. While I struggled into my suede jacket he stood at the door with my bag.

"Ready?"

"In a sec. I better take these papers home- theses proposals from my graduate students, which I promised to return tomorrow. I've had them a week, and I've yet to look at them.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded as if to say he understood how busy I was. I took it as a challenge and said:

"We've already conferrenced, I just have to go over them, maybe suggest additions in bibliography."

He nodded again, and I ignored his comment about how I worked better under pressure.

We left the university, headed towards Sherbrooke Street and walked west towards the Alcan Building. The day was bright, the September sun straining, a final effort before autumn relentlessly tugged us into another bleak Montreal winter. I was glad to have my jacket. Geoff didn't seem to be bothered by the cool gusts. The wind plucked at his reddish-blond hair and flapped the lapels of his jacket and with arms linked, like an old married couple, we walked silently for several blocks. I had to take big steps to match his strides.

He seemed morose; his good-humored, jocular self had suddenly crumbled when we emerged from the soft glow of the dark wooded interior of the university into the brightly sunlit city, but I was content to walk along quietly, enjoying the day, and the illusion of old, better times. I found myself squeezing his arm and leaning into him much the way I used to in a time that seemed so long ago.

I still loved him; that had never been the issue, and I knew he still loved me. But the split had been inevitable. My dogged pursuit in achieving first my master's degree then my Ph.D. had driven him more deeply into the bottle. He had wanted a stay-at-home wife, a mother for his children, and a house in suburbia with two cars -a compact for his commuting and a SUV for the little woman.

I wanted, and got, my Ph.D., an associate professorship and a lucrative sideline as a criminologist retained by several law enforcement agencies.

Geoff was enlightened enough not to stand in the way of my goals, but he was too traditional to be able to avoid being overwhelmed by my single mindedness. As I grew and opened my petals to the sun so to speak, nurtured and actualized by my goals, Geoff, to complete the metaphor, began to die and whither on the vine.

We stopped at the corner of Mountain and waited for the lights to change before crossing the busy intersection. An electric hum preceded the green signal; he took my hand and said, "Come on." He'd always been protective of me, like an older brother watching out for his kid sister. I liked that aspect of him, probably because I was reminded of how my brother had looked out for me when I was a child. I looked up at him and for a brief second he was my brother, grim and stern, intent on protecting me.

A horn sounded, startling me. Like shattered glass the memory fell away, the pieces pricking, a thousand stabs bringing back the pain. Close to thirty years had passed since he had disappeared.

When we reached the opposite side, I looked at Geoff again; he seemed younger, more vibrant. He had lost all of the weight he had put on during the six years we were married and even through his tweed jacket I could feel the strength and hardness of a muscled body. I thought back to that night when we had agreed to call it quits.

We were watching television, some dumb made for TV movie featuring Colombo unraveling yet another murder. During a commercial Geoff got up to get himself another beer. By now it had become pretty clear to me that our marriage was killing him by degrees. But it wasn't marriage as such that was doing it; it was being married to me. I followed him out to the kitchen and put my arms around him and said:

"Geoff, it's not working." His reaction, at the time, surprised me. He looked at me with a slightly guilty expression and said, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'll leave tomorrow." That was it. The next day he packed and was gone. We never even had an argument.

We went through the atrium and into the restaurant. There was a good crowd; the atmosphere crackled with the energy of busy, young executives trying to impress each other.

After checking our coats, we headed towards the rostrum where the maitre d' checked his list, melting into obsequium when he found Geoff's name. "Ah, oui, Monsieur London. Table pour deux." He snapped his fingers and a waiter in a too tight black vest materialized to show us to a table overlooking the atrium.

When we were finally seated, ensconced between a pillar and a pair of crimson-lipped blue hairs I said, "Just dropped by to see if I was free for lunch, did you?"

The waiter hovered and handed the beverage list to Geoff. "Perhaps Monsieur, -his Mediterranean accent made it come out mashoo\- would like to order aperitifs?"

"No thank you," then to me, as he held out the plastic folder, "unless you'd like something?"

"Thanks, no. Oh- maybe a Perrier." The waiter made a strained bow and slid away.

Geoff glanced impatiently at his menu and closed it abruptly. "Think I'll go with a salad."

"Me too," I echoed. He never did like eating a large mid-day meal, and I usually settled for a piece of fruit or yogurt.

My Perrier arrived on a small tray, and with a flourish, the green bottle, a glass with ice and a slice of lemon on the rim were placed on the table. I sipped. Geoff tapped the table, ran his finger along the inside of his collar, and shifted in his seat, first pulling his chair closer to the table then shifting it back trying to find that perfect spot.

"Geoff, what's eating you? I've never seen you so agitated." He was coolness personified; nothing fazed him. But today, he was as nervous as a back-alley cat.

"It's this case I'm working on. It's really got me." He continued to fidget.

"What case? What are you talking about?" I put my glass down.

"It's been in the papers, guess you haven't read about them. The rapes. There's some psycho on the loose and it's got me pretty spooked."

"What do you mean, a psycho? That's not what I'd call a clinical term."

"I know, I know." He sat back to let the waiter place the salad in front of him and waited until he had finished serving me before continuing.

"I know it's not a...clinical term -but whoever is doing -is raping these girls, he's not what I'd call normal, know what I mean?" He made quote marks in the air when he said _normal_. "You know what I mean by _normal."_

Okay, I nodded. "Tell me. What is it about this case that has you so worked up? Not such an unusual crime in a city of this size."

"Not like these." He shook his head and discarded his fork, tossing it on the plate. "Sam, I really need your help on this one. As a professional..."

"Of course, Geoff. You know that."

"I need to know what makes this guy tick. Maybe then I can get a line on him. So far we've got two victims, Sam. Both were raped, savagely. Then strangled."

"Geoff, I do read the papers," I said defensively, "but the details about the two rapes were pretty scanty."

"Of course the details were scanty- I managed to play that part down. But I tell you; the reporter is a hotshot just itching to report all the juicy bits. Christ! He wants it to be front-page news. If he strikes again -and he will Sam- I'm afraid the words _serial killer_ will be on the front page. And you know what that means. Panic."

I lost interest in my own food and shoved my plate out of the way. "Then you'd better fill me in from the beginning. I'll need to know every fact, every piece of information you have."

"I know that. I know that! But that's just it. There isn't a hell of a lot. I'm trying to prevent crime, but it's crime that provides the clues -the tools- to do my job. Talk about Catch-22. In order to get a line on him we need more information -read victims." He wiped his face with his hand and rubbed his eyes.

"What we've got," he sighed, "is this. Two dead girls. In their early twenties. One is twenty-three, the other twenty-one or twenty-two. Both very pretty, both blonde. One worked as a waitress part-time and the other worked as an exotic dancer, a stripper. Both had their own apartments."

"When did this happen?"

"The beginning of July and the second just a week ago."

"You've checked their backgrounds? Family. Girl friends.... Boy friends."

"Of course. You know that's standard procedure. In a homicide the odds are that someone close -a friend, a relative- committed the crime. But I've come up empty on that score. According to their friends and families, there was nothing weird going on. No crazy boyfriends. No wild parties. No drugs... At least nothing like that came out in the investigation so far.

"Boyfriends. You questioned them?"

"They had boyfriends, sure. They dated. Nothing serious. Nothing suspicious. The boyfriends are in the clear. Believe me they were turned inside out. No. That avenue is a dead end."

"Okay. So far we've got someone who seems to prefer young, blonde girls, presumably single and who live alone. Nothing unusual there. What else?"

"Like I said, they were raped and strangled. In the first case there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle, suggesting that perhaps, that the assailant was known to the victim.

"The second girl put up a hell of a fight, judging from her injuries and the bruises on her face. The bastard punched her up pretty good. Her lips were badly cut and two of her front teeth were broken." He pointed to his upper incisors.

"He gets violent, if they resist. So far typical. Rape is a violent act by its very nature. Rapists are selfish and aggressive and this guy gets mean unless he has his way!"

"I understand all of that. So far he fits the classic pattern."

"You said they were strangled. How?"

"Actually he smothered the first one with her pillow. The second was strangled. She was strangled so severely that her larynx was crushed. This guy is strong too."

"Anything else? Like tissue samples under their nails. Hair."

"I'm getting to that. Like I said, the guy is strong. The bruising shows there was considerable pressure on her neck, so much so that it crushed the cartilage in her throat. But she was a fighter, must've clawed his face raw. Forensic tells us that he's white, with brown curly hair, probably tall, around six feet judging by how he might have been positioned over her when he killed her. And of course that he's stronger than average."

"We're getting a physical picture. It doesn't narrow it down much, but it's a start."

"Yeah, but I was hoping you'd get handle on his mental state. That might be a lot more help."

"Why do I think you're saving the best for last?" As soon as I said it, I regretted my choice of words.

"Best? I don't know, but certainly weird." He paused and tapped the table with a forefinger then leaned towards me. "Sam. After he killed them, he tidied up. He..."

"He tidied up? What do you mean he tidied up?"

"I don't know how else to put it. He tidied up. In the first case he must've caught her reading in bed. When we found her, she was propped against her pillows, holding a book in her hands. The blankets were smoothed out, the radio was on low and the reading lamp on the night table was pulled close so she'd have enough light to read by.

"In the second, she had been doing her nails. In bed, would you believe and the polish had spilt. He beat her quite badly, and there was blood as well as nail polish on the bedclothes. But after he killed her he did the same thing. Propped her up against the head board and smoothed out the blankets. He even put the cap back on the bottle of polish and left it on her dresser.

"But the place was still a mess. Like I said, she had put up a struggle. Her nightie was ripped to hell and gone and her clock radio was broken. The plastic was cracked but the clock was still working so we couldn't fix a time."

"He put everything back in order there too?"

"Neat as a pin. Well, you know what I mean. Nothing appeared to be out of place or missing."

"Come on. Let's get out of here. We'll go to my place. I bent down to get my purse. The maitre d' appeared as if by magic.

"Problème monsieur?"

"Non, non. Madame est pressée. L'addition s'il vous plaît."

"Oui monsieur. A l'instant." He snapped his fingers and our waiter appeared with the check. While Geoff went to pay the bill, I rummaged in my bag for a tip and left what my father called folding money. The line at the cash was long, and I had time to fetch our coats before Geoff paid the bill.

In spite of the six plus inches difference in our height, he almost had to work to keep up to me. I was charged. The thought of a puzzle in need of a solution energized me. It gave me a chance to put theories to a practical test. That's why I hired myself out to police departments. I liked teaching, lecturing, giving conferences, but I loved a challenge -matching wits.

It was a short walk to my place on Aylmer Street, and in about fifteen minutes we were climbing the stone steps to my condo-apartment. I put my jacket in the closet, askew on a hanger, and while Geoff hung his coat carefully, I got paper and pencil from my study and joined him at the kitchen table.

"Shall I make coffee?" He asked.

"Uh, what? Oh yes, please. You know where everything is."

I divided a page into columns, one for each of the victims and another for their assailant.

"I didn't quite finish," he said, measuring the grounds. You got hot and wanted to leave. There's still something else."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Let me get it." He went to the vestibule and came back with a small, brown paper bag he retrieved from his trench coat.

He put the bag on the table, unrolled the top, and pulled out two objects which looked like Christmas tree ornaments.

"Rocking horses?"

"Rocking horses, Sam. He left one with each girl."

"You're kidding. Rocking horses."

"See what I mean?"

"Jesus, yes. We got a problem, Geoff. This guy, to use your word, is a psycho."

"What do you mean?"

"Off the top of my head, I'd say, number one, he wants to get caught. That's why he leaves a memento. And number two, the memento tells me he thinks he's too smart for us -for the authorities. That's why he's leaving clues. I'd say we are going to see quite a few more victims before he's caught."

"Christ, I was afraid of that." He got up, hitched his pants, and poured the coffee. I had a set of mugs decorated with the faces from a deck of playing cards. He used the king and handed me the queen of hearts; I'd have given him the Jack.

"Like they say, it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better." He leaned back against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankle. One of his loafers was missing a tassel, but they gleamed.

"I know this isn't much to go on, but can you tell me anything about him?"

"Like I said, Geoff, this is hardly better than a wild guess, but the horse tells me he has an identity problem. And sticking my neck out even further, I'd guess he's impotent. He can't get off unless he hurts his victims. The horse, or horses.... they're symbols of mastery. Of dominance. And that's what rape is about. Dominance. It's a violent aggressive act. He uses sex to degrade and abuse his victims. And assert himself. He's weak. Raping woman makes him feel strong. Superior." I picked up one of the horses for a closer study.

"This one. It's a charger. Something a knight out of the Middle Ages would ride. I'll bet you found this one at the scene of the first one, right?"

He nodded.

"And there's no rider. Why? Because in his mind he denies his own existence. He can't face who he is -that's why he wants to get caught."

"Christ, if he hates himself so much, why doesn't he stop?"

"Hah! That's it, isn't it? A psycho, as you call him, but sociopath would be more accurate. He's not insane, Geoff, he's a sociopath, highly impulsive, aggressive and anti-social."

"There's nothing impulsive about systematically raping and killing innocent girls."

"No. That's true. But add that to a personality that doesn't know or feel guilt and you've got a whopper of a problem.

"No, I'd peg him as a sociopath, with some schizophrenia thrown in for good measure."

"Schizophrenia, eh? Judging from the horses I'd say his delusion is one where he sees himself as some sort of conqueror."

"That's as good a guess as any. Pretty hard to tell just from these."

"What do you make of the other one?"

"I don't know." I turned it every which way inspecting it carefully then put it back on the table. Geoff gave it a nudge with his forefinger and set it in motion.

"Looks to me like he might be enjoying what he's doing."

"What makes you say that? I asked.

"The bright colours. Happy colours. Looks like a circus or carnival horse. He sees himself -I don't know- as flamboyant.

"Interesting supposition." I picked it up again. It too, was riderless.

"Or then again, maybe it just means that the guy's unhappy."

"How so?" He swirled the contents of the mug and drained it.

"Circus. Carnival. Fantasy. It might represent a state of mind that he feels he can't ever possibly achieve."

"Jesus. How can you get so much out these... these toys. And if there's any truth in what you're seeing, do you think he's consciously telling us?"

"It doesn't matter. The subconscious mind speaks loudly and clearly."

"Well, whatever he's saying, it's depressed the hell out of me.

"I told Ouellette, you remember Emile?"

I nodded. Both he and Geoff had started on the force together, and had been partners way back in the beginning. Geoff had moved up through the ranks quickly enough, but Emile had skyrocketed.

"I told him not to put me in charge of this. I wanted to stay where I was. I liked it in burglary."

"You know," I said, "breaking and entering is just another form of rape."

"Maybe so. But... I didn't have to deal with crazies."

"How is Emile, anyway ? And Georgette and the five kids."

"Seven."

"Seven?"

"The last two were twins. Said he was going to become a Protestant. He wouldn't be able to afford the grocery bills if he stayed a Catholic."

"A little late for that," I said.

"He claims they both come from hardy peasant stock. Georgette has seven or eight brothers and sisters, and Emile comes from a family of eleven I think. It's in the genes."

"Tell him he can stay a Catholic but should keep his jeans buttoned. Seven kids." And twins. I shuddered.

"And as for Emile," he said, "he'll be director someday- and not too far in the future either.  He's knows the politics and he's smart enough to play the game. Said he didn't trust anyone else to handle this business. By rights it should have gone to homicide, but no, Ouellette's got to corral me! Shit." He shook his head and refilled his cup.

"Know what he said? If anyone can crack this case it would be me. I know I'm good; I also know my limitations."

"Come on, Geoff. Don't put yourself down."

"Oh, I'm not, I'm not. But Ouellette's cagey enough to figure I'd get you in on it somehow. Like I said, he's a smart bastard. Figures if it works out, we both get credit. And if it doesn't, he's not left holding the bag. On the other hand, If he went through channels, you might get asked officially. Doing it this way doesn't leave him out in the cold if I screw up."

He grimaced, and added, "Just as well. Keeps the publicity down. And if I have to do the job, I don't want any fanfare, thank you."

He only half finished the second cup, spilled the rest into the sink and rinsed the mug, leaving it in the sink. He shuffled away from the counter and looked at his watch. "Guess I'll be going. You've got papers to read, and I've taken more of your time than I deserve. Besides, I want to pick up a couple of shirts at The Bay."

"Could you stay for dinner? Lunch was a bust, and my papers won't run away."

He looked at his watch again. "Still eat at six?"

"On the dot."

"I could get my shopping done and come back. That way it'll give you some time to yourself. Whatever."

We were on thin ice, and I didn't want the surface to crack. I understood the sacrifice he made in asking for my help. Take it slow I told myself.

"I'm sure we can find a way to kill a couple of hours." I got up and went to the sink, picked up his mug and put it in the dishwasher. I was standing beside him and I placed my hand on his cheek.

"I'd like you to stay, Geoff. Really. I do miss you.... but if you'd rather.."

"No, Sam. It's not that." He took my hand and held against his chest.

"Is it really what you want, Sam? You're not playing doctor, are you?"

I laughed. "That's exactly what I had in mind."

"What I meant was.."

"No, Geoff, I'm not feeling sorry for you, please don't think that." I put my face against him and added. "Actually I'm feeling sorry for myself."

He linked his long arms behind me and I had to lean back to look into his face. Deep lines were etched around his eyes.

"I don't want us to spoil anything, Sam. I think a hell of a lot of you, and I don't want to risk losing a friend.

"I know. I guess I feel guilty for messing up your life. But don't get me wrong. I'm not asking you to stay out of guilt."

"You've nothing to feel guilty about. It couldn't have been fun living with someone who preferred drink to you."

"I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I was too wrapped up with my school work. But in the last couple of years, I've had a lot of time to think. Maybe you drank because of me."

"Oh hell! That's bullshit!."

"Well you stopped drinking right after the divorce."

"Coincidence. The divorce woke me up. And as you know I love being a cop, so when Emile told me I'd be washed out if I didn't get a handle on my life, I had the shit scared out of me. There was nothing else I could do to earn a living. I was even slated for a couple of promotions but the booze had kept me out of the running. One more pass over, he told me, and I'd be washed up.

"That hit me harder than the divorce. Is that screwy or what?"

"No, it's not." Our jobs, it seemed meant more to us than we did to each other.

"Anyway I quit drinking."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah. Just like that. I guess I was lucky. Shit I know I was lucky."

"And it doesn't bother you? Not to drink? I've noticed the few times we've been for lunch you don't even have a glass of wine."

"I didn't want to scare you off. I have a beer now and again. But I don't get tanked. Maybe I grew up is all. Besides," he flexed his arm to make a muscle, "I'm in training again."

I leaned close and took a deep breath. His smell was an aphrodisiac.

"Will you stay?" I asked, afraid to look him in the eye.

He took my head in his hands and kissed me full on the lips. "Does that answer your question?"

I lay back against the pillows with the sheet drawn up, and watched him as he dried off after his shower. His body was lean and hard; the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled, his torso Hellenistic. Gone was the flabbiness, the beer gut, and the extra chin. With the exception of some graying hair at his temples, he looked as he did during the first years of our marriage. Actually he looked better. The cockiness was gone. And with it the arrogant strut he perfected the closer I got to completing my studies. Perhaps he was right; I hoped too, that I had matured.

He hung the towel on the rack and padded naked over to the bed and got in beside me. With his hands laced behind his head he looked at me smugly and asked. "Do you ever smoke after... you know?"

"Come on, Geoff. You know I don't smoke."

"Well," he said, sticking his head under the sheet. "I'll check to make sure."

Geoff grilled the steaks on the gas barbecue, and we ate them with McCain's microwavable French fries. I made a salad consisting solely of tomatoes and cucumbers in a garlic dressing. No lettuce -the iceberg had long wilted, and I had to chuck it. I didn't suggest wine. I must've had a good thirty or forty bottles nesting in the rack in the fireplace opening but I was afraid of opening Pandora's box.

Around eight o'clock, our inhibitions lessened considerably by our earlier escapade, we went back to bed. No smoke but a hell of a lot of steam! Reason overcame passion or lust and when he said he had to leave I didn't protest.

I felt warm, and happy, and full. I told myself to stop being silly. To enjoy the moment. Not to project. Clichés, like one swallow didn't make a summer, didn't help. I still found myself making wishes. Silly school girl wishes. Grow up, I told myself, he did. I was thirty-two for God's sake. And Geoff thirty-five. This is the twenty-first century.

He was in the bathroom, the door closed but slightly ajar, and I could hear him. Christ, he must have a tank for a bladder and I started to laugh

He finally left, reluctantly I think, around ten. I cleared the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher, then checked making sure that the terrace doors were locked after determining that the gas on the grill was off. That done I went into the study to read those papers. I gave them a cursory once-over and stapled a mimeographed bibliography sheet to each one, putting check marks opposite the authors I felt would be of benefit. Of the five candidates there was only one that I thought had any particular merit. They'd all graduate, but the Reverend Dr. Alistair Andrews, an Anglican priest working on his second doctorate was the one I was betting on. As former prison chaplain he had worked hard to initiate reform and had successfully organized the inmates of one prison into semi-autonomous subgroups. Basically it was a system of halfway houses between prison and the halfway houses on the outside. A transition to ease transition.

I shuffled the papers into a neat pile, fastened them with a trombone as the French say, and put them into my laptop bag. By a quarter to twelve, after an hour of going over my notes (very scant) and examining the rocking horses, I was no further ahead in developing any sort of personality profile on the killer. Crime had become democratic. Once we considered it a phenomena attributed to the lower economic strata -the poor, underprivileged. Today we recognized it as a moral corruption that infected the whole of society.

A lot more evidence would be needed before I could make any conclusions about this killer. Unfortunately, as Geoff had pointed out, the gathering of clues would be in proportion to the victims that drifted in the killer's wake.

I looked around at the shelves lining the walls -hundreds of books and files, academic publications, research from all over the world. From universities, prison authorities, independent groups, millions of printed words, and in spite of it all, nothing in those millions of words could tell me where to look.

In crimes of this nature, the physical evidence wasn't enough of a trail. You had to read the evidence, like pieces of a puzzle, to unravel the mind that plotted such horrific crimes. The trick however was to solve the riddle with as few pieces of the puzzle as possible. No doubt he was leaving a trail, but the path would follow no logical progression. By comparison three dimensional chess was easy.

I left the horses rocking on the blotter, heads butting, and turned off the lamp. After brushing my teeth and checking that my alarm was set for six a.m. I went to bed. Geoff's scent lingered on my pillow, and I fell asleep hugging him close.

# Chapter 2

No sooner had I fallen asleep, than the alarm went off. I struggled up through the cobwebs and reached for the button to stop the incessant electronic beep-beep; beep-beep; beep-beep then untangled my legs from the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed to make sure I couldn't give in to another cozy hour of hovering in the delicious limbo that always beckoned after the alarm sounded.

In a stupor, I pulled on my old maroon jogging suit, then stumbled around looking for my Reeboks. It had been a week since my last work-out. I slipped the shoelace that held my house key over my head and hit the pavement to jog over to my aerobics class. I left the Jetta parked in the back; I'd make better time on foot anyway. Besides by the time I found a place to park, I'd be further from the gym than I was now.

The sky was dull, pigeon grey, but the air was fresh, so crisp it seemed to crackle. I headed south, then west along Ste Catherine Street to my club. I loped along slowly to warm up, breathing deeply, rhythmically. I jogged on the spot while waiting for the lights to change at University Street and glanced up the hill between the glass and concrete lining the canyon. The fog on the mountain was so thick over the hospital that the skyway joining the Royal Vic to the Neuro was completely shrouded. On my right the Cathedral was sinisterly gothic, its blackened stonework oddly out of place in front of the tower of glass rising behind it. Eventually, the light changed and I continued at a steady pace, but several runners passed me like I was standing still before I got to the gym.

I rode the escalators and recovered slightly before joining the throng sweating to the beat of Paula Abdul's _Forever Your Girl_. I forced myself to last the hour, motivated by the recent memory of the slap-slap of flab against Geoff's leanness, but when the music repeated itself, signaling the end of the hour, I quit. The class was continuous, with people joining and dropping out when they'd heard enough music. I had worked up a good sweat and was soaked, so to avoid a chill I made it a brisk run back to my condo taking care not to get run down by the delivery trucks beginning to dominate the streets. The greater danger however came from the scores of cyclists proliferating the downtown area. These messenger services depended on speed for profits.

I got home in one piece, had a quick shower, a quicker breakfast of juice, cottage cheese with nectarine wedges sliced in, and a bran muffin; the modern woman makes sure she gets her fiber.

Before leaving for work I gave the place a quick once-over. Maria would be in later today. An old Greek lady, with steel grey hair and an enormous brown mole on her neck, did my laundry, vacuuming, and it wouldn't have done to have her find a pair of Geoff's underwear hanging on a lampshade.

On the way out I checked myself in the hall mirror, and brushed a few strands of hair behind my ear noticing bit of grey was creeping into the brown. Another couple of weeks of jogging and the skirt puckers over my hips should be gone. Nothing like a man in your life to make you feel self-conscious.

The fog had lifted and the day was shaping up beautifully, still cool though, and since I always I walked to the university I put on my sweater-coat. Why I kept the car, I don't know. It was a short walk, and I enjoyed it, even in the rain, and in the winter driving was impossible anyway.

But I kept the car. For security? Did Dr. Sarah Ann Milland have a yuppie image to uphold? Life was full of illusions. And delusions too. I thought of the rocking horses. Someone's fantasy was getting out of hand, growing beyond manageable proportions, twisting the illusion, warping and solidifying it into a horrific, palpable entity.

I had no classes scheduled but had promised to meet with my graduate students for an informal seminar that afternoon. The morning I spent sorting my notes in preparation for my lectures to the police tech students. I was part of a team of guest lecturers, and my tour of duty began next month. Besides I was officially obliged to spend three hours a week on general availability for the students. This way I killed several birds with one stone so to speak.

No one dropped by, except for the custodian on the pretext of checking the window. In this crazy weather, he said, I'd probably be opening and closing it a lot. I didn't bother telling him that I had never opened it in the four years I occupied the room. I sat with my feet propped up on the desk, but crossed my ankles when I noticed him trying to get a clearer view of my Calvin Klein's. They must have held his attention because it took him a full fifteen minutes, more than enough time for my legs to go numb, but I vowed stupidly to keep the pose until he relented and left.

He worked the goddam sash until I thought I'd have to get up and smash the window. Ruefully, I thought that I could probably mesmerize the whole of my freshman class, the male half at least, if I wanted to use the same tactic. He left, sullenly and suddenly, when my office mate put in an appearance.

Harry, a practicing lawyer, lectured part-time in criminal law. Harry was, fat, fifty and gay, with a mouth befitting a longshoreman, not a court room orator.

He took one look at me, glanced at the maintenance man and said, "Better open that window real wide, Bob. Flies are starting to gather."

Bob gave him his -fags are perverts- look and left in a huff.

"Hi, Sam, how are you doing?"

I swung my legs down and rolled my chair close to my desk. "Fine thanks. Except for the flies."

"Well, keep your knees together!" He laughed heartily.

"You are a pig, Harry, but a happy one I grant you."

"Gay, not happy." Now we were both laughing.

"Didn't expect to see you today, I was planning to use the office for a seminar this afternoon."

"Not to worry, my dear. Just stopped by to borrow some books." He pointed to the cluttered stack on my desk and on the floor. "I need some references. Insanity as a defense."

"Help yourself. I know I got something in this pile." I made a move to get out of my chair.

"I'll get it. Actually it's the red one." He pointed to it with the stem of his pipe, then resumed packing it with the foulest smelling tobacco.

I was closer so I fished it out of the pile and tossed it on his desk. He mumbled a thanks between puffs, blew out the match then sat down to concentrate on filling the small room with a dense, blue cloud.

"Thanks, Sherlock," I said, fanning at the smoke. "Couldn't you play your violin instead?"

"Come on, Sam, I wouldn't fiddle with you." This set him laughing again and choking on the smoke. I watched him shake and convulse, and when his face was crimson I got alarmed. He sensed my apprehension and waved me away when I offered to get him some water.

"Sorry, Sam, no problem," he said between spasms.

He took off the deer stalker and wiped his face and eyes with an enormous hanky he pulled from his lapel pocket. "I'll live," he managed, "only the good die young."

"That's just great then. I can count on smelling that stink for years to come."

He looked at me, his eyes twinkling, the pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. "Buy you lunch?"

"Jeez, Harry, that would be great. But I can't today." I looked at my watch. "How about a rain check?"

"Sure. Next week then. Tuesday or Thursday, after my class."

"Sounds okay. Can I let you know?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll see you here after my class. If we're on, we're on. If not...." He shrugged his round shoulders. "Let's leave it open."

His pipe had stopped drawing and he tapped the ash out into a heavy crystal ashtray holding down a sheaf of papers. Abruptly he said:

"Well, Sam, I'm off." He stood up and buttoned his jacket, the expensive fabric draped beautifully over his ample frame. "Got a big date tonight," he winked, "and I'm cooking up a storm. Coq au vin." He closed his eyes and kissed the tips of his fingers. At the door he paused and said, "I hate to give advice, but I _am_ a lawyer.."

"What is it Harry?" I asked perplexed.

"Oh, maybe it's nothing, Sam. But..." He furrowed his brow and added, "I wouldn't stay alone in the room with Bob. Know what I mean. An ounce of prevention like my grandmother used to say." He shrugged again, waved the red book and left.

Immediately I felt like a shit for fueling whatever embers glowed in Bob's psyche and resolved to heed Harry's advice and not tempt fate.

The morning had been productive so I stopped work and straightened out my desk, filing papers, shelving books, putting them in some sort of quasi order, resisting the urge to arrange them by the colour of their spines. That done, I checked the time -forty minutes to go.

After taking the apple from my purse and a few toonies from the wallet, I locked my purse in a drawer in the file cabinet, and went to the cafeteria. Black coffee, yogurt and Granny Smith would have to do me until dinner. I walked briskly, trying to ignore my jiggling thighs.

When I got home later that afternoon, Geoff was sitting in his car in front of my house. When he saw me, he flipped down the visor, to display the _police_ sign and got out. From the way he carried himself he was troubled or drunk.

He was troubled. I was relieved, but soon realized that there are worse things than being drunk. I crossed at the corner then angled over, cutting diagonally towards him. Our paths coincided at the bottom of my stairs.

"There's been another one, Sam. And it's a lot worse."

We sat in the living room, rather, I sat while he paced, and listened with paper and pen.

"In the first case," he said, "the victim hadn't been abused. Apart from the rape, I mean. In the second, we concluded that her physical injuries resulted from her struggle to resist the attack. But this third one throws the theory right out the window. It seems now, like he's on some sort of a progression. He tortured the third girl."

"What did he do to her Geoff, can you tell me?"

"He bit her."

"He bit her?"

"Yes. All over. Shoulders. Neck. Thighs. Breasts. Everywhere. Like a dog. No, like a lion or big cat tearing into their prey."

"Did he bite her before or after she was killed?"

"Some wounds were inflicted before. But most were done afterward."

"Was she strangled too? Like the others?"

"Yes. She was strangled." He sat on the couch, with his forearms on his knees. He laced and unlaced his fingers. "And like the others, he damn near broke her neck."

"How did he leave her?"

"Dead, how do you think," he blurted, then added, "I'm sorry Sam, you mean..."

"Yes. Did he tidy up this place too?"

"Yeah he left her in her bed, like the other two. All nicely tucked in." He shook his head in disgust and frustration and ran his fingers through his hair, curling over his ears.

"Her boyfriend found her. They lived together and he had been out of town -he's an airline steward. The poor bastard's a basket case now. I tell you, the one that gets killed isn't the only victim."

"No, I guess not. Did he leave his...?"

He looked up at me. "Oh, yes, he left his souvenir." He got up to get his attaché case and placed it on the coffee table.

"Another God damned rocking horse!" he said, handing it over.

"This guy is a real puzzle factory."

"What do you think?"

"Nothing yet. But it seems to fit the picture I've been formulating."

"I hope so, Sam. I sure hope so."

I handled it carefully. "Don't worry. It's been checked for prints. It's clean. He doesn't leave anything behind. Except the girls and these God damn horses."

Like the others it was carved from wood and painted. The decoration and embellishments were glued on.

"Think out loud, would you Sam? I'd like to hear what's going on in your head."

"Not thinking much of anything at the moment, but okay, here goes. It's a horse. Obviously. More specifically a picador."

"Isn't that the guy who rides the horse?"

"You're probably right, but don't interrupt!"

"Sorry."

"No rider. No picador. The picador's job is to goad -enrage the bull with his lance, and at the same time those lances weaken the neck muscles so the bull can't toss his head unexpectedly. As the contest progresses the bull gets a little wiser, so the lances keep the bull from getting too smart." I put it down on the table to view it from a distance. "Did you make anything of it?" I asked.

"You're the psychologist, I'm just a dumb flat foot. What do the blinders mean.?"

"Stow it Geoff, you know what they mean?"

He chuckled. "Sure. The horse is blind -he's blind. I got that far."

"Okay then. Let's go from there. He really is starting to open up, Geoff. Whether he means to or not he's telling us plenty."

"Such as.."

"Well here goes. Give me plenty of latitude. It might sound as if I'm reaching."

"I'm listening."

"The horse can't see, because of the blinders. That tells us he has no control over his actions. The rider has to control the horse, steer him. But like the others -no rider."

"But in a bullfight the blinders are to keep the horse from being spooked by the bull."

"That might be true, is true, I guess. But I think in this case it just means he can't see. Literally he's telling us that he isn't responsible."

"What about the padding?"

"Mmmm. I don't know. Protection I guess. But other than that.... I don't know." I kept scrutinizing the object, wishing something more would reveal itself to me. "I may be really reaching, but the risk of a bullfighter being gored is very great, obviously. That's why they have to continually weaken those neck muscles."

"So...?"

"The greatest risk is being gored in the groin. The bullfighter has his machismo on the line." I turned it around to look at it from a fresh angle. "But there's something else... Let me get the others." I brought them from the study and lined the three of them up on the table.

"Did you check their gender?"

"Are you kidding? Why would I ...?" He stopped in mid sentence, picked up each of the horses and looked beneath their hind quarters.

"No balls. Female I guess."

"I doubt it. I'd say they're gelded males. He's telling us he's castrated."

"Come on. Those women _were_ raped."

"I mean figuratively. It's a symbolic castration. He's castrated in the sense that he's impotent. The only way he can get it up is by doing something violent, something horrendous -loathsome. Like the biting and mutilation."

"Yes, but most of the biting came after."

"I know, I haven't figured that part out. Maybe he's punishing them -I don't know." I got up and went to the window. I could hear the swish-swish of cars. I turned to him.

"Geoff. I want to look at where these girls lived -get a feel of the places. I need to get into this guy's head."

"No problem for the last one, we're still investigating. But as for the others..." He shook his head. "I'm sure the places have long been cleared out. New tenants even."

"No matter. I'll start with this one and then we can try to work back. Maybe the physical sense of where they lived will tell me something. Maybe I'll see something in the places that draws him." I came back and sat down. "It might be a combination of things. Not just the girls or where they live. He strikes me as being very methodical - a real thinker. I doubt if he picks his victims, or places at random."

"When do you want to do this?" He looked at his watch.

"The sooner, the better. Is tomorrow good?"

"Tomorrow's fine. The lab boys will be done by then so you'll have the place to yourself."

"Can you pick me up?"

"Sure, if we do it in the morning."

"Ten o'clock?"

'What about your classes?"

"Not on Thursday."

"Good." He clapped his hands together, got up and went for his coat.

"Next week.... How about a movie. And dinner?" He asked tentatively.

"As long as I get to pick the movie."

"Oh, God! Is the film club holding a Monty Python festival?"

"How did you know?"

"Just a wild guess." He pulled on his coat, leaving it unbuttoned, with the belt ends hanging, and thrust his hands deep into the pockets.

"Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate..."

"Don't say it." I leaned up to kiss his cheek. With his hands still in his pockets he gave me a hug. I could feel the bulge of his gun pressing into my breast.

I stood with the door open and watched him go down the steps and cross in front of his car. He got in, started the engine, checked his side mirror, and nosed the sedan into the stream of traffic on Pine.

I closed the door and went into the kitchen to hunt up something for dinner; I was ravenous. While my head was in the fridge registering disappointment the phone rang. I let it ring three times, waiting for the answering machine n my landline to engage.

_Sammy! Answer the phone, I know you're there!_

"Hello," I said, casually.

"What's this I hear about you and Geoff?"

"Jesus Christ, Dad!. Are you spying on me?"

"Relax, Sammy. Take it easy, stress kills, as you should know."

"Well, if I have a stroke it's your fault. Answer my question."

"No, I wasn't spying. And I hasten to add that you're a might paranoid, for a psychologist. Tsk. Tsk."

"What did you expect..!"

"Easy Sammy. Maria told me."

"Maria. How the hell... That old woman is a witch." I could hear him laughing. I wanted to be furious with him.

"Have you eaten yet, Sammy dear?"

"Not yet. Why do you want to take me out?"

"Not exactly..."

"Didn't think so." I interrupted.

"Shut up a minute, will you? Maria's cooked me a pot load of dolmathis, you know..."

"I know what they are."

"Well get your skinny butt over here."

"I want to shower and change first."

"Well, make it snappy, I'm not waiting forever."

He hung up, and I foolishly yelled good-bye at the phone, so loudly that he probably heard me through the walls. He owned the building next door. Technically the deed to my building was in my name. He had owned both of them, but two years ago on my thirtieth birthday he had given me the condo as a gift. "You're working", he said to me, "time you paid the taxes, they're killing me!"

I laughed as I sudsed my hair. During the time I was married he never took a cent from us in rent. And nothing after the divorce either. Now that the place was mine, it was costing me plenty. Mind you it was prime real estate in the heart of the city. If I ever decided to sell, I could invest the capital and retire on the interest.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the tub and stood dripping on the mat. With a towel on my head wrapped turban-style, I brushed my teeth until my gums bled. I rinsed, spat, repeated the ritual, then wiped away a circle of steam on the full length mirror behind the door. I stood there, inspecting myself, sucking in my stomach and holding my breath. Not bad if I didn't breathe. I squeezed a pimple on my left breast then cupped both of them plumping them up. Ann Landers said you should wear a bra if a pencil held under your breasts didn't fall. I could support a broom handle. I slapped my thighs a few times and convinced myself that it hadn't reached the critical stage yet.

I kept staring at myself and watched as the mist cleared and my legs came into view. I thought of the girls, in particular the one that had been bitten and chewed, and shivered.

I rinsed the basin and wiped the taps with my wash cloth to polish away the toothpaste spatters and thought of Geoff.

After dressing casually in a sloppy sweatshirt and jeans, I put the horses in a paper bag, and went next door.

"It's about time, I was about to start without you." He ushered me into the dining room where he'd set places for two. He tossed his dish towel apron onto the side board then poured two glasses of Retsina, that horribly resinous Greek wine.

"Sit. I'll get the plates."

As he headed to the kitchen, I heard the beep-beep of the micro-wave oven.

We sat opposite each other bridging the narrow side of the long table; quietly enjoying Maria's cooking, sopping up the tangy lemon-flavoured sauce with chunks of fresh bread. Candles flickered, throwing crazy shadows against the walls. I loved this room, the dark wood wainscoting, the paintings, the prints. The portrait of my mother. In the soft light, the room was cocoon-like, a womb, and I felt very secure. Even the raucous antics of the couple in the Caiserman- Roth etching, with its bawdy humour, exuded comforting warmth. It was a beautiful room, with paintings now worth hundreds or thousands, maybe more. Jesus. I needed to convince him to get an alarm system. Why he kept putting it off I didn't know.

"So. You and Geoff seeing each other?"

"How much do you pay your spies?"

"Too much," he laughed, "too much. But for her cooking alone, it's worth it.

"He asked me to help him with a case he's working on."

"Oh?," he said off-hand.

"Don't say _oh_ like that -it's the truth!"

"The truth, my dear, comes in many guises. At least that's what Freud said."

"Oh, crap! That's not Freud, it's Gregor Milland."

"Relax, Sammy. Don't spoil your digestion. I was only asking."

"Sure. Hoping is more likely."

"Well," he said, reluctantly. "Maybe a little."

"I don't know, Dad. I don't want to upset the apple cart, know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do. But... since your divorce... well, you might as well have joined a convent."

"That's not fair!"

"I'm sorry, but you have to admit, there really hasn't been anybody in your life since Geoff. And I hate to see you like... you know?"

"Like what!"

He put his fork down and looked across at me. "What I'm saying, I guess is that I feel a little responsible. Maybe I pushed you too hard. I wanted the best for you, like any parent. You know that. But if I hadn't insisted that school and a good education were so important... well maybe you would have followed a more traditional route and still be married."

"You mean I should have learned to knit and sew and cook and scrub. Keep house, have one point two babies, live in the suburbs with a husband that works nine to five?"

"Well.... Maybe you'd have been happier."

"Look, Dad. I'm fine. And believe it or not, I am happy. I'm doing what I want to do. I like my life, I really do.

"And I know it was hard on you and Mom. You made sacrifices and I am grateful. But don't feel responsible for my failed marriage."

"Well, you have to admit, splitting up didn't make much sense. At least not in the way most marriages fail. It didn't have any of the earmarks of a traditional break-up."

"Well that's bullshit. It isn't only infidelity that wrecks relationships."

"No," he agreed, "I suppose not. How is he by the way?"

"He's fine. But if you mean has he stopped drinking -apparently yes."

"Apparently?"

"That's what he told me. And if you remember anything about Geoff, you know he's no liar."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Is it business or pleasure then?"

"Business."

"Well, Maria thinks otherwise."

"Maria! That...that... Greek Yenta!" I balled my napkin and tossed on the table. He grinned at me. When he smiled he looked like his name-sake, Ray Milland.

"Dad," I said emphatically, "I'm playing it by ear, okay? One step at a time."

"Okay, Sammy. But I hope you don't mind if an old man keeps his fingers crossed. Now tell me -what's this case?"

I told him. And showed him the rocking horses. His professional curiosity was piqued. As a psychiatrist (and a good one, if one judged merit and success by material wealth) he was fascinated by personality and its manifest behavior.

"Well, Sammy, so far I have to agree with you. But it's all supposition, you know. You can't paint a true picture."

"Truth," I threw back at him, "wears many guises."

"You're quick, Sammy, I'll give you that. But these rocking horses are only one facet." He studied them a bit. "They're beautifully crafted. Have the police -has Geoff made any attempt to discover where they come from or where they were made?"

"I don't think so. He hasn't mentioned anything."

"Might be worth a try, you know."

"I'll tell him. It's as good a place as any to start."

"On the other hand, maybe this guy made them himself. A fact that could shed some light."

"How do you mean."

"Well, suppose he did make them. That would peg him as an artist -of sorts. Someone with a creative bent. Agreed? He'd have special skills. Knowledge. Needs even. Might be an avenue worth exploring."

"I hadn't thought of that. Maybe there's a semblance of order," I almost said sanity, "in his twisted mind."

"Sanity is a relative term. And so is order. From what you've told me he seems very much preoccupied with order. The way he arranges his victims. I see a man obsessed, a man whose toilet training was probably...."

"Come on Dad! Don't get Freudian. That sphincter morality, I don't buy!"

"Okay, maybe I am a little old-fashioned. But I still think that toilet training is crucial to development and one's subsequent adjustment to the outside world. When the child violates the insistence for cleanliness, he experiences punishment for his transgressions. This is the beginning, the foundation of human morality. A criminal is like a child on his potty rejecting the demands of the outside world. When the child begins to apply controls to his sphincter, he is learning to adjust.

"Freud would have pointed out that any interference during toilet training may -and I stress may- have been cause for a disturbance in adjustment to the demands imposed by the social order."

"I'm not going to argue that point, we'll be here all night. But I do like your ideas about order and his apparent obsession to impose it. But I can't figure why he's so aggressive, so violent. Why does he mutilate his victims?"

"Again, maybe he's trying to impose order. Right a wrong. Perhaps he's punishing them for what he's done. Don't forget. A sociopath doesn't admit his own responsibility. In his eyes, the girls are guilty. They made him do it. Enticed him, whatever. If, and I guessing, so it's a big if- if he sees it that way then he has to punish the girls."

"Okay. That tracks. But sociopaths usually don't feel guilt, or remorse -not much at least. And they don't have feelings regarding the rightness or wrongness of actions."

"True."

"Then why leave clues? It's obvious he wants to be caught. He must be feeling guilt or some sort of regret at least, wouldn't you say?"

"Interesting point. But it's rare to have classic text-book cases. There is all kinds of over-lapping. Sure, he's sociopathic. But with overtones of other disorders. Off hand, Sammy, I'd say there are underlying psychoses. In any case I'd have to say that he's on the brink, and very unstable."

"So far from what we know or I should say from what we are guessing about him, it seems that his perceptions of reality are pretty distorted. I mean killing girls, punishing them. Murder in itself is extreme."

"Only to the sane! A psychotic might see it as the right thing to do. As the only solution. Don't forget, a psychotic doesn't recognize that his thinking is impaired. He believes in his cause however false that belief is. No amount of evidence to the contrary will make him see the situation differently."

"Whereas a sociopath knows right from wrong; he just doesn't give a hoot. To him, the moral distinction doesn't matter."

"Exactly, Sammy, exactly. I'd say you're involved in a hell of a case! What precisely is your involvement?" He divided the remaining contents in the bottle between us and raised his glass to me. "Luck," he said.

"I'm going to need all I can get." We clinked glasses, and I tossed off the bitter contents, trying not to taste it.

"I'm playing detective. Geoff thinks chasing the psychological aspects is the way to go, so tomorrow I play detective. I'll start by taking a look at the places where the girls lived. Talk to the neighbours, their friends. Try to get a physical feel for the girls, their lifestyles, that sort of thing. If I get to know his victims, maybe I can see what it is about them that attracts or fascinates him. It'll mean interviewing their friends and families. That I am not looking forward to doing."

"Yes, that will be tough. On you as well as their families." I imagined that his eyes misted, thinking perhaps of the son he had lost.

"But it's got to be done, Sammy. You might hear something or see a pattern. You never know what'll turn up. Maybe he's after a particular type. Who knows?"

"That's pretty scary, you know. It could mean that he pre-selects his victims -stalks them."

"Oh, I'd stake my reputation on the fact that he doesn't pick the girls at random." He twirled his glass, the wine twinkling in the candlelight.

"Make sure you take thorough notes." He said. "Write everything down. Better still, I'll give you my mini-recorder." He started to get up.

"I've got one, Dad, remember?"

"What about blank tapes?" He was standing, half out of his chair.

"It's a digital recorder Dad...."

"Oh, right. So be sure to keep a record of everything. No matter how trivial or insignificant you think it is at the time, it might just be the thing that later helps you nail this case shut. It's no different for me with a patient."

"Don't worry. You learned me good."

"Sure. The more information, the greater the data, and the better your findings will be. Data -data -data! That's the key to any thorough analysis." He stabbed the air with his finger making his point.

He liked to put in a couple of hours listening to tapes\- he hadn't gone digital- of his patient sessions before turning in, so I got up to leave, and started to clear the table.

"Leave them, Sammy. Maria will do it in the morning." I didn't argue.

He followed me to the front door and I leaned down and kissed the front of his bald head.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Whatever for?"

"For being here. For caring. About me and what I do."

"Go on. Get out of here. I've got work to do."

He watched as I went down the eight steps, made a sharp left and came up on my side. I picked up the plastic bag of circulars from the stone wall dividing the stairways then unlocked my door. Before going in I turned to him. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Let you know how it goes."

"I'm looking forward to hearing, but be careful playing detective."

"Don't worry. Geoff is picking me up. I won't be doing this alone."

"Ah," he said, as if making a discovery.

"Just business, Dad. Business."

"I didn't say anything. But business can sometimes be a pleasure."

"Dad, you're an old Yenta yourself. All you need is one of Maria's house coats, a _fustani_."

"You're getting Greek in your Yiddish, Sammy."

He always got the last word, so I shook my head and called out goodnight, as I went in.

Whether it was from the wine or the excitement of what I was about to embark on, I don't know, but I was too hyped up to go to bed so I watched some TV.

McCall seemed to make it easy. Got a problem? -call the Equalizer.

# Chapter 3

By nine-thirty I had returned from my work-out, showered and had a pot of coffee ready. Geoff, I knew would be early.

He was wearing a suit, a new one, light-grey with a slight herring bone pattern in the weave. His tie, a conservative blue with a diagonal red stripe, fit snugly in the buttoned down vee of the oxford cloth. The shirt looked new too.

He looked great and blushed when I told him.

"Time for coffee," I asked.

"Sure. Do I smell muffins?"

"You do. Blueberry. Want some?"

"Sounds good."

He draped his trench coat over a chair then sat down. I poured the coffee, put the muffins on the table, then took his coat and hung it in the closet before joining him. He was busy lathering butter on a hot muffin, and trying to keep it from running off.

After some small-talk and a second cup of coffee, he looked at his watch. Behind him the kitchen clock showed ten-twenty.

"We'd better get on with it, Sam. I told the super to meet us; I don't want to make him wait.

"Okay. I'll get my jacket."

Ten minutes later he was easing the sedan west along Sherbrooke Street.

"Where did she live?"

"Had an apartment on Benny Crescent, in one of those old fourplexes, you know, in the low-rent area. It's mostly students or old people in that area. Not far, but traffic's a bitch with all the construction that's going on.

The going was slow. Periodically a lane on either side of the street would be blocked because of debris or construction materials. Trucks blared and tires squealed as impatient motorists rocketed through the obstacle course. Geoff remained unflappable, coolly guiding the car along the street. Beyond Atwater the way cleared and we had only to contend with the traffic lights synchronized to thwart driving beyond the limit.

I sat back and closed my eyes thinking about the horses. The car lurched and I was thrust sideways against the restraint as Geoff turned right onto a narrow tree-lined street. The trees were old, as were the buildings. The grounds and buildings were reasonably kept, but there was a hint of neglect that pervaded the neighbourhood, as if all maintenance was a week behind schedule.

Geoff pulled up and parked in front of a sad looking building. There were three such buildings in the group, each set back about thirty feet from the sidewalk and facing the street. The painted trim was flaking and the brick-work was a drab brown, made even duller by the sudden cloud cover. I counted six balconies, two vertical rows of three on either side of the entrance. Three floors, plus the basement flats half below ground. The place depressed me. Dirty windows, tattered curtains, peeling paint, beggared the street and orphaned the buildings. In the next block the sun shone.

We got out of the car and when we closed the doors the noise echoed dismally in the quiet street. I waited until Geoff was even with me before striding up the walk to the entrance. The short walk seemed interminable in the gloom.

The entrance consisted of a vestibule with an inner door that was locked to outsiders. To get in, you rang the apartment and their answering buzz released the lock. Geoff pressed the buzzer labeled, SUPER. In the ensuing seconds I noted the chipped and broken tiles in the terrazzo floor. In the corner, neatly piled, were a bundle of circulars still with the wire binding intact. The place smelled of urine and unconsciously I held my breath. The buzzer sounded startling me.

The Super's apartment, number was down seven steps in the basement. It made the exterior of the place seem positively jubilant. One naked light bulb hung lamely from the ceiling, its faint glow struggling to light the corridor.

Geoff knocked twice and we waited. Seconds later the door opened. Geoff had his I.D. ready.

"Mr. Richmann, I'm Detective London."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Detective, you want to see number nine. The key, I have it". He stepped into the narrow hall, waved the key then closed his door, containing the harsh smells of disinfectant.

Richmann shuffled and panted ahead of us, his slippered feet brushing the tiles. Between landings he stopped to recover his breath before advancing to the next level.

The mantle of poverty weighed on him like armor. He struggled against it, but with a resignation acknowledging his defeat. Moments later we stopped in front of number nine, Richmann wheezed and fumbled and finally succeeded in getting the door open. A waft of fetid air greeted us. He shuffled in ahead of us and stood in the foyer.

Unlike the rest of the building, number nine didn't depress me. The stale air had dissipated through the open door like a malevolent spirit. We stood in the center of the foyer taking the place in. I turned slowly, all my senses and receptors testing the palpable atmosphere.

Richmann bowed, and handed Geoff the key.

"Please Mr. Detective, you will give back when you finish. I have work. I go now." He smiled and nodded to me and left.

I looked at Geoff and smiled, though at what I'd be at a loss to explain.

"Jesus, that poor bugger can hardly walk and they expect him to manage the building!"

"Sad, isn't it," I said, and began to wander slowly through the place.

Geoff's footsteps echoed hollowly, and from the kitchen he said, "Looks like she was making the best of a crummy situation. The place is bright enough. And clean too. Richmann told me she painted the place herself. Argued she do the job if they supplied the paint."

I continued to wander, trying to get a feeling about her through what had been her home. The windows were clean, and gleamed. Dust motes floated in the sunlight. The floors too were clean, inexpensive scatter rugs giving colour and warmth. The kitchen, facing east, was bright. Morning sun filtered through a small window curtained effectively, but on the cheap with hand towels.

The arborite counters were scarred with countless burn marks prevalent near the stove where hot pots would be abandoned. I checked the fridge. It still contained the last of her groceries and I couldn't help but feel she'd return at any moment. Yogurt, a half-full, (or was it half-empty) basket of blueberries beginning to show a coat of grey fur, a carton of skim milk, two eggs, Tupperware containing what might have once been soup.

The fridge was old, a model with round corners, the enamel worn down to the metal near the handle, but the inside was clean and I thought of the drips and splatters that somehow always decorated the inside of my own fridge. Continuing to look for areas of neglect, I went to the stove and opened the oven.

"Not bad," I said. "Cleaner than mine."

"Is that possible?"

I ignored the jibe. "She was a tidy housekeeper, alright. What did she do?"

"Student, I think. Either a full-time student with a part-time job or a part-time student with a full-time job. I'll have to check."

"She certainly seemed to manage well. Obviously she's living here because it's cheap and she's on a tight budget. But I'd say she's smart and sensible, judging by how she's decorated the place. I'd also say she's an _up person._ Cheerful. Happy. She did a good job making this place homey considering that the building is ..."

"A dump?"

"I was going to say seedy. But she seems to have risen above it. No it's a nice apartment even in spite of the dust that's beginning to settle. What's it been? A week?"

"Yeah."

From the doorway in the kitchen I could see into the bathroom. I walked over and peered in. Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom gleamed. No spots on the mirror, except where the silvering was gone. The sink was clean. No hairs. No discarded wrappers or tissues in the waste basket. Two pairs of panty hose on the shower rail long dry. I stepped in and opened the medicine cabinet. The usual stuff.  Tylenol. A box of band aids. A spare Colgate. Toothbrush, pink, standing in the glass. I moved the glass. It resisted, stuck slightly to a crusty ring. It's about time, I thought to myself.

I had put off going into her bedroom long enough. Geoff ambled along two steps behind me as I went into her room.

I don't know what I was expecting but nothing assaulted my senses. The room was ordinary, the bed was unmade and there was some disarray, the result of the police crew who had investigated the crime. The dresser, bedside table, and other surfaces still bore traces of finger print powder. I moved into the room cautiously, surveying and making mental notes. Bureau drawers were ajar. A bra, several pairs of panties and a spandex exercise suit hung out of them as if carelessly abandoned during a search. Whether she had strewn them or her killer, I couldn't tell.

The stripe on the exercise suit, yellow on purple, made a crazy ziggurat pointing to the bed. The blankets had been tossed aside diagonally when her body had been removed, and the pillow still bore the imprint from her head. The whole illusion was such that I expected her to return at any moment. The sensation made me feel like a voyeur, an intruder that had stumbled mistakenly into her boudoir. I moved in on the bed. Some brownish stains, oxidized blood, streaked the pillow and spotted the sheet. Geoff said she had been bitten. He didn't mention any other wounds, and judging from the few bloody smudges there had been no wounds severe enough to cause profuse bleeding. The killer was primarily a strangler, not a blood letter.

It was a typical young woman's bedroom consisting of a continental bed with a wooden headboard and matching night table, a vanity bureau with mirror and chair, and a plastic clothes hamper. Simple, inexpensive, plain. I checked the dresser; nothing odd or unusual there. A small satin covered, heart-shaped box held her jewelry. Cheap stuff mostly except for a couple of pairs of good earrings. I went next to the night table and looked at Geoff. He nodded, so I opened the drawer. Pencils, a ball-point pen without its cap, a half-burned candle, paper matches and an unopened twelve-pack of lubricated condoms.

I left her bedroom having intruded enough into her privacy and went into the front room.

The entryway opened into the living area. I wanted to see what her reading and music tastes were. She had no stereo or sound system, no music that might reveal her character. But her books, forgive the pun, spoke volumes. Mostly paperbacks on archeology and sociology with a few hard-cover texts. I opened one of the texts, a book plate with the university crest bore her name and I.D. number.

Mary Ellen Jones, it said, and I laughed.

"What is it?" Geoff asked.

"Nothing really. Just her name." I repeated it to him. "It's so ordinary, so like her. She's no one and everyone at the same time. I see nothing here that says she's outstanding in any way, someone who stands out in a crowd."

"I know. Apart from the fact that she was pretty, very attractive actually and with a knock-out figure."

"Are you suggesting that her good looks were her downfall."

"Well... Something like that I guess."

"Sex crimes. Those nuts aren't interested in a pretty face. Something else motivates them."

"Yeah. And don't I wish I knew what it was."

"That's what I have to work on. So far I can't see what it is, which is no surprise. This nut is turned on by something that is meaningful only to him. It might be something as weird as...as, I don't know - a birth mark.... or a tattoo.

"By the way -did her body have any distinguishing marks or features?"

"No. Nothing like that. At least I wasn't told anything. I'll double check with the coroner, just to make sure."

"Can we go now?"

"Huh? Oh sure. You've seen enough?"

I nodded. We left and headed down the stairs. At the bottom landing I went into the street to get some air while Geoff returned the key. The wind had picked up and sent bits of paper eddying. Grit stung my face whipped by a sudden gust. The sky too had darkened, creating that kind of atmospheric condition where the lighting has that surreal quality just before a major storm breaks.

No sooner had we got into the car when drops the size of quarters splattered down. Seconds later the splatters were a wall of water. It was so dark, the rain so heavy, Geoff didn't chance driving, so we sat claustrophobic in the tight, damp, car.

A white streak crawled across the sky, followed immediately by a sharp crack. I jumped, and gripped the dash. We both laughed. I hated storms, and I hated the smell created by all the electrical energy in the air. Sweat erupted from every pore and my blouse stuck to me like a translucent skin.

"You okay, Sam? You're white as a ghost."

"Fine," I stammered. "That thunder spooked me -and it's so hot in here." He opened the window a crack but succeeded only in letting in the rain.

As abruptly as the storm started, it stopped. Clouds parted, letting a pale sun struggle through the breaks in the sky. After he circled the block and turned back onto Sherbrooke we could see the dark line in the sky as the storm moved eastward, keeping just ahead of us.

We had overtaken the storm, so sat in the car a few minutes in front of my house, waiting for the rain to abate. The gutters, awash, sluiced debris relentlessly towards the sewers. A MacDonald's container struggled against the current, clinging valiantly to the grate, but the onslaught was too much and it tumbled out of sight. I stepped out of the car carefully. Geoff called to me and said as I went up the steps to my front door:

"I've got to get back to my desk -piles of paperwork. Will you call me if you come up with anything?"

"Count on it. I plan to spend the afternoon making notes of my observations on the apartment. The horses too. You won't forget to get me a copy of the coroner's report?"

"I did forget. Thanks for mentioning it. I'll do it as soon as I get to the office. Thanks, Sam."

"I'll do what I can, you know that. But I can't promise anything."

"I know. I appreciate all you're doing."

"Call me tomorrow. Like I said, I can't promise anything, but I'll share my thoughts."

I went in and took a shower as hot as I could stand it. I scrubbed away the smells of decay that clung like skin. My sheltered existence left me ill prepared to deal with the realities of the real world. In a jungle where people scrambled to pay the rent, fought roaches and vermin, I was wrapped in a cocoon, protected, barricaded against the onslaught assaulting them daily. I was privileged. I knew it. But once in a while I had the guilts when I was reminded about how easy my own life was. I didn't know what it was to go hungry, or to miss a meal for reasons other than trying to lose a few pounds. This morning's brush with poverty had shaken me, and I didn't like the feeling. I thought of Richmann, in his worn slippers, shuffling along, the cuffs of his pants frayed and ragged, trying desperately to please in order to survive.

I rinsed and soaped my body again and again, and tried to shut out the image of the old man. The short, squat, fat from poor diet immigrant was so polite to authority, not from good manners but from fear.

I finished washing, then dried off and dressed in tattered jeans and worn sweat-shirt as a kind of penance. Poor justification for my good fortune. In my den, I sat down to think about the horses, the victims, the killer. Perhaps if I helped stop this madman I could contribute in some way to improving the world and justify my own existence.

I sat at my desk, my feet propped up on an open drawer. I didn't think any of the crimes had anything to do with poverty or the disadvantaged. This wasn't about the haves versus the have nots. At least not in any a material way. No, I was sure the killer suffered from a severe character disorder. He wasn't acting out his aggression because the world failed him materially. He was a sociopath, and definitely out of touch with the world in the sense that his responses would be abnormal. He'd lack the discretionary ability to sort out right from wrong -he'd know the difference, but to him the distinction wouldn't matter. He'd satisfy his drives impulsively, regardless of the consequence. I looked at the horses, examining them. Definitely symbols of his sexuality representing an individual who no doubt was promiscuous. In spite of his promiscuity, sex would lack emotion and be unfulfilling. His search for satisfaction finally pushed him over the edge.

Of course cases that followed text-book classifications didn't exist. The killer was a complex puzzle. I suspected he also suffered from some form of schizophrenia -his thinking would be disordered. He'd have perceptual disturbances, suffer perhaps from delusions. There was a host of problems that could drive him to commit bizarre acts. Drawing a profile of his character and personality was impossible except in very general terms -and general terms could be applied to fit almost any normal person. I thought of my own compulsions, scrubbing and washing to rid myself of the taint of the lower classes. I laughed at myself, got up quickly and went into the kitchen. I poured a cup of cold coffee, heated it in the micro-wave, and drank it black. I hated black coffee.

The phone rang.

I picked it up on the second ring.

"Hello."

"It's me. Can't talk, but I want to tell you there's no point going to see the other places. They've been cleaned up and rented so we're S.O.L. on that score."

"Well, at least I can take a look at the buildings. See the neighbourhood."

"You could do that. But I don't see how it'll help."

"I know. But still... maybe... Hell, Geoff, it can't hurt."

"Go ahead then. But I don't have time to.."

"I can manage it on my own. Actually, I'd prefer it that way. If you can give me the addresses."

"It's against my better judgment, Sam. You won't do anything..."

"Jesus, Geoff. All I want to do is look around."

"I don't want you knocking on any doors. I'm talking as a Cop now. You don't have any official status on this case."

"I know that. Don't worry."

"Okay, then. Got a pencil?"

"Yes." I jotted down the addresses and said good-bye. I hadn't answered his question, perhaps I would knock on some doors.

I grabbed my pocketbook, put on my Reeboks and went out the back way. I hadn't used the Jetta in several days and it was covered in a fine layer of inner-city grime. I unlocked it, got in and fired the diesel. The lane was narrow and backing out was a neck wrenching experience. I wended my way down to Sherbrooke and headed west for the second time that day and by the time I reached the west-end of the city, my nerves were shot. The three victims lived reasonably close to each other, reasonably meaning about a fifteen or twenty minute walk. Victims one and two lived south of victim three in an area called St. Henri. I parked in a small lot on Rose de Lima, left a twenty dollar deposit with the attendant, and started my trek. The area had the look of an old pair of shoes with too many coats of polish that failed to hide the cracks. A perpetual layer of dust cloaked the neighbourhood. A gust of wind tangled a remnant of newspaper around my ankle. I kicked it free and crossed the street checking my note-book for the address.

Victim two lived in a flat over a dry cleaner's. There were no trees, no grass; the buildings stood resolutely against the sidewalk. I stood back from the storefront and looked up. Above the dry cleaner's was a balcony flush with the facade. A little girl, seven or eight, I guessed, sat with her doll in a rocking chair. She was eating a popsicle, a little too slowly judging by the front of her tee-shirt. At her feet, against the railing was a window box. The geraniums were the only bright spot in the block. I continued walking west of Atwater, marveling at how man strives to overcome bleakness, and recalled a childhood memory. A school friend, of Italian descent, had me over. Her family wasn't poor, but they weren't what I would call well-off. They lived in an area pretty much inhabited by Italians, most of them immigrants; their children were the first generation to be born here. Every single family in her block had planted a garden. If a square foot of dirt existed, they planted something. I remembered the small green jungles that yielded bushels of vegetables. That box of geraniums was an affirmation of life.

I walked back to the parking lot a little depressed. I studied the building and learned nothing except that the victim's flat had to be reached by the outdoor spiral staircase. All I knew was that the victims were young, in their early twenties, blond, pretty, single, and lived alone in relatively modest circumstances. Not much to go on. The only way to learn about them would be to knock on some doors, in spite of Geoff's wishes.
Geoff, knowing me as he did, was reluctant to tell me where victim number three worked. His 'look but don't touch' philosophy could be tedious. If he wanted my help, I told him, I would need a free hand to investigate in my own way. I tried not to show my anger, but his 'me Tarzan, you Jane' attitude raised my hackles.

Vera St. Germain was an exotic dancer at the Metro on Ste. Catherine. Exotic dancers weren't strippers. Strippers, he informed me, took off their clothes to the beat; exotic dancers started their routines already bare-assed. He didn't want me poking around what he called sleaze-joints. I'd be asking for trouble, he said. Most of those joints had a connection to organized crime. I argued that all I wanted was to talk to the girls who worked there, to get a lead on Vera.

"Look," I told him, "I can't help you if I can't talk to people and ask questions."

"You don't know what you might be getting into. I don't need it on my conscience, if you get into trouble. Know what I mean? Besides we've already interviewed the girls."

"All the more reason for me to talk to them too. You know damn well they wouldn't have opened up to the cops. There's a good chance they'll talk to a woman. The weaker sex, know what I mean?"

He relented finally but not without warning me to be careful and not provoke anyone.

"Just be careful, Sam. But you're right, as a woman you'll probably have an edge."

Saturday was bright, sunny with a sharp wind that didn't deter the shoppers. The sidewalks were clogged with people laughing and talking, blocking each other's way. Horns blared at jay walkers and tires squealed. I walked with slow determination to Club Metro. From a half block away I could hear the muffled rhythmic thump as the music rolled into the street announcing the start of another 'show'. The club occupied the top floor over a novelty shop. Posters under glass beckoned; smiling faces and silicon breasts foretold of the delights that awaited only one flight up.

I went in through the open door, past a heavy man, his blond hair obviously dyed. He smiled and gave me the once-over as I eased by him. I had worn a blazer and slacks not wanting to be mistaken for one of the dancers. But It didn't take me long to realize that fashion didn't matter; in a joint like this a woman alone was a slab of meat.

At the top of the stairs, another enormous man eyed me and held out his palm. I gave him a twenty and he walked ahead leading me to a table. He even held the chair for me. The table so was small. The ashtray and the tulip shaped-glass thing with a guttering candle left little room for more than a couple of drinks. I looked around and wished I had listened to Geoff. Coming here this early in the day, I wouldn't be thought of as a habitué, but I had figured wrong.

Time here was of no consequence; men filled all of the stools that ringed the U-shaped dance platform and pretended to be involved with their drinks. A few other men sat at tables, some with their girlfriends or whatever.

When the music started, a dancer with purple, spiked hair, and enormous breasts, at least by my standards, came out from behind a curtain and began to gyrate. Her eyes were vacant and expressionless, her breasts fighting gravity in counterpoint to her body's movements. She wore a belt of gold-colored links. Nothing else. The men whistled encouragement and reached up to tuck bills in the links. Oddly enough it was the men who were the real performers. She swayed and dipped and bent forward brushing a young man's face with her breasts. He fumbled with some bills trying to tuck them into her belt. Without missing a beat she secured the bills, backed away and turned to another patron to repeat her performance. The young man drained his glass, staggered up and disappeared in the direction of the rest-room and not yet noon.

A waitress finally came over to my table to take my order. At least this one was wearing panties. I asked for a beer and when she turned to go to the bar I noticed that her panties consisted of hardly more than a black string to keep a frilly triangle positioned. I wondered if Geoff would find me sexy in such an outfit.

She returned, placed the glass on a cardboard coaster and proceeded to pour half of the beer into the glass, creating an enormous head.

"That'll be eight-fifty, Miss."

I gave her a twenty. She started to fish for change in the coins on her tray.

"Keep it," I said, "thanks". She nodded, raised her eyebrows, and walked back to the bar to sit on a stool in front of the cash register where she could see both me and the dancer. She watched me; I watched the dancer. The show changed, one exotic dancer replacing the other as each musical number ended and another began. I don't know what it is that attracts men to these places. The girls were all the same. Blond, mostly died -and as James Bond might have said, the collars and cuffs didn't match- and rather large breasted. They were pretty enough, but so heavily made-up they wear clownish.

Sexy, I thought, should be shrouded a little in mystery. Sexy kept something hidden, a delight held in reserve. This wasn't sexy; it was just sex -no mystery, no surprise, nothing in reserve. Genitals flaunted and paraded like slabs of raw meat reminding me of Mark Prent's sculptures of bloodied and butchered torsos arranged for human consumption.

I sipped at my beer barely wetting my lips when the waitress reappeared. She picked up the bottle to encourage me to finish, reorder or get the hell out. I had managed to make enough room in the glass for her to empty the bottle.

"Same," I said. She looked at me and a hint of a smirk entered her eyes. She put the second bottle on the table and picked up the twenty placing it under the vinyl mat on her tray. Before she backed away I said:

"Do you know Vera? Vera St. Germain?" She checked herself, but not before I caught the surprised look in her eyes.

"Who?"

"Vera St. Germain," I repeated.

"No. Sorry, Miss." She started to edge away.

"She used to dance here. I'm a friend," I lied.

"Who are you? Police?"

"No, not police. I told you, I'm a friend." She hesitated and I watched her face, deciding whether to back off. She had stalled too long and was sharp enough to realize that she had given herself away.

"She was my friend too. She doesn't work here anymore."

I caught her use of the past tense, and pressed. "I know, it was terrible. If you were her friend maybe you can help me."

"I don't think so." She glanced towards the cashier who was watching us too intently for it to be casual.

"Look," I said, "it's important. If you were really her friend, if you knew her at all, then you know that she'd want you to help me." I hoped this was true. I was figuring that girls who worked these joints would share some sort of bond, like 'it's us against them, so let's look out for each other'. She stared at me trying to decide if she could trust me.

"Two other girls died. Like Vera."

"You sure you're not police. You sound like a cop."

"Did I show you a badge?"

"Okay," she whispered. "One o'clock. Dunn's."

I nodded my thanks. She went to the bar, took her place on the stool and concentrated on the dancers. At that point I left the beer, and the dancers still vibrating to the music. I went home, walking quickly, to formulate a plan, a check list of questions I should ask. I'd probably have to trade some of what I knew, and I had to decide what I could divulge without jeopardizing Geoff's investigation.

At twelve-thirty, I headed for the restaurant I was early, not wanting her to get there before me and think I had stood her up. I went in and picked a booth as close to the door as I could and sat facing the front. I could see the window but it would be a chore to make anything out in the street; the view was obstructed by jars of pickles and mounds of deli products. I ordered a diet Coke and nursed it with as much relish as I had for the beer. The waitress kept giving me the eye so I gave in and ordered a smoked-meat platter to justify using the space. At a quarter past one she came through the door. She recognized me immediately, came over and sat down. She looked different, not just because she was clothed, but because the daylight was kinder to her than the lighting in the club. In the bar her features seemed coarse, hard. Daylight eliminated the harsh shadows and softened her looks. She was about my own age, perhaps a bit younger, and attractive, her face not as puffed-looking as I had first thought. In the bar I would have put her a good ten years older. She was wearing close fitting Levis, and a denim shirt. The sweater she carried was hand-made with a cable pattern giving her a homey look. She also wore a gold wedding band.

I offered to treat her to a meal but she declined and settled for a cup of coffee. I pushed my platter aside knocking the menu down from between the salt and pepper shakers. She picked it up, glanced through as if she was reconsidering, then closed and replaced it abruptly. Her coffee came and while she stirred in the cream and sugar substitute I realized that we still hadn't introduced ourselves.

"I'm Sarah. Sarah Milland."

She looked at me. "You finished?" I raised my eyebrows,

"Your lunch," she added pointing to my untouched sandwich.

"Oh, yes. Go ahead." She picked up a French fry and nibbled at it.

"You're not a cop." It was a statement.

"No," I agreed, hesitated, then added. "I'm a teacher. At the university."

"Friend of Vera's?" Her tone implied that she knew damn well we had not been friends.

I didn't say anything and she stared at me a moment before asking, "So what's this got to do with you?" She reached for another fry and twisted it in the ketchup before putting it to her mouth.  She had good teeth.

"Can I ask you some questions?" Her hand paused in mid-air, then proceeded to deliver the fry to her mouth. She took her time, chewing it thoughtfully, weighing the situation, still trying to decide whether or not to trust me. In her place I probably would have left. Someone she knew, a friend, had been killed, and if as Geoff said, many clubs had links to the underworld, she'd do well to be wary.

"Okay. Like I said, I'm not a cop. And I do teach at the university. I'm a criminologist. But a friend of mine is a cop, and he's investigating Vera's case. And the others. He happens to be my ex-husband, and he's asked me to help him." Jesus, I thought, here I was telling her my life story.

"Your ex? You're helping your ex-husband?" She shook her head, incredulous at such a thought. "I wouldn't give my ex the time of day."

She saw me eyeing her ring. "It's the only thing he gave me that's worth anything. Providing the damn thing really is gold and the diamonds are real. It hasn't turned my finger green yet." She laughed wryly. "He's a trucker. Long haul. He's still not back from his last trip. That's over three years now." She laughed again and coughed choking on the smoke she hadn't entirely expelled.

"I'm Jeanine," she said when she recovered. "I knew Vera like that." She put her hand out flat and waggled it. She worked at the Metro about eight-nine months. Before the Metro she was on the circuit, you know, going from club to club. But Vera was okay, you know. She didn't do drugs. Made extra bucks turning tricks, but she didn't do drugs. We went out together. Had some good times, some laughs. Ever try to live on what a waitress makes?"

"Did she have any enemies? Any guys that would want to hurt her?"

"In this business? Who doesn't? The place crawls with weirdoes. You were there, didn't you see them? The only friends the girls have are each other. The men..." She contorted her face and stubbed out her cigarette in the Cole-slaw. "The men...they are after one thing and one thing only. I'm not just talking the customers. I mean the boss. And the guys who work for him. If you want a job, if you want to dance, first you got to let them sample the goods, know what I mean? Me, I'm not what you call dancer material so I could say no. But the girls. The dancers. The money is pretty good for showing your tits. So they do it." She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess at first they think it's a small price to pay in exchange for such big money. Eventually they realize they're not in control. If they want the money they got to do more than dance. And if they get turned onto drugs -c'est fini- they own you. Vera, didn't do drugs. She was a good person." She shrugged again.

For Jeanine, 'good' meant not doing drugs. I couldn't argue that.

"Do you think any of the men at the Metro had it in for her. Enough to see her dead?"

"Like I said, in this business, the men aren't your friends, but as far as I know she didn't make anyone angry, know what I mean." She paused to like up another cigarette. "Didn't your ex tell you that the cops spoke to everyone at the club?"

"Yes. Apparently no one connected to the Metro would have reason to want her dead. But you never know. That's why I'm asking questions. I figured, being a woman - and not a cop- maybe I'd have better luck, you know, in talking to you. And the other girls."

She watched me. I couldn't read what she was thinking.

"Well you're right. I answered their questions. But that's all. They didn't learn anything from me. Not that I know anything anyway. I'm talking to you, but don't ask me why, maybe it's just that I want this guy caught, put away. Shit, I'd cut his balls off myself. Men think just because the girls dance and show themselves that they're free for the asking. Or the taking"

"What was Vera like? Was she easy?"

"What the hell does that mean? Easy! What do you know about us, College Teacher. Look at you. Bet you've never been hungry. Or had to sell yourself just to have someone hold you close. Make you feel wanted, alive. Easy. Shit!"

I thought she was going leave, she was so angry. Instead, she fished another Rothman's from the pack and jabbed it between her lips.

"Sorry," I said. "You're right." I had no idea what motivated these women other than what I had read and studied -not exactly primary source information. I tried to chose my words carefully, and said, "I won't apologize for what must seem my privileged background, but I'm not blaming or judging the girls. Circumstances, more than free will determines the kind of life we can have." I stopped, afraid of sounding like I was giving a lecture. "Vera was first and foremost a human being. She did not deserve to die. Not like that, and certainly not because of her lifestyle. But what I meant was, just that if you're not careful, if you're not choosy about whom you go with -well you're taking an awful chance."

"Yeah? You take worse chances when you cross the goddam street. There's a lot worse than -like the song says- 'looking for love in all the wrong places.'"

"You said you're divorced." She reminded me that I too, had obviously looked in the wrong places.

"No one's immune." I said, trying not to sound bitter. "But what about Vera, the men she dated. Was there anyone she saw regularly?"

"No. I would have known. No one guy in particular." She leaned towards me as if anticipating my next question and said, "And no one that had a habit of beating up on her either. I guess she was lucky." She laughed. "What I mean is that she was lucky none of her dates ever roughed her up. Not until the last one." She shook her head. "Look. I've got to go. I can't help you. Thanks for the coffee. She got up and put on her sweater.

"Can I have your phone number? I might want to get in touch with you?" Her look told me what she thought of my idea, so I said, "okay, okay. I'll give you my number. You call me if you think of anything that will help." I scribbled my number in my notebook and tore out the page and gave it to her.

"In case. If you remember anything. Call me. Please. If I'm not there, leave a message where I can reach you."

"Okay, College Teacher. If I think of anything, I'll call. I want this guy off the street."

"So do I. We have that in common."

"That's the only thing," she said, then left.

She was probably right, and it made me feel a little guilty. From her point of view, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I hoped I wouldn't choke on it. The waitress came over and put the bill in front of me and went on with her work. I checked the total then calculated the tip, conscious of not leaving too much lest I be seen as member of the condescending and privileged class, but if I left too little, I'd be a rich, selfish bitch.

Walking home, I thought about Vera and Jeanine, and the others. And I thought about my own set of circumstances and good fortune. Did trying to decide the amount of the tip indicate I had an identity conflict? The girls. They knew who they were. And what they were. They were survivors, doing what they had to do in order to get by. Life was a struggle. My first reaction was that they were exploited. And far worse, I blamed them for allowing themselves to be ruined. Perhaps they were just using the system to their own advantage in the only way they knew how.

Was I the prostitute? Had I sold myself to a world that traded in material worth at the expense of human sacrifice?

Superficiality is deceiving. I realized, because of Jeanine, we acted or reacted because of our particular needs and circumstances. Environment dictated. Reality had to do with perceptions. What we saw wasn't necessarily real; it was the fantasy that was real, the mental picture engendered by the acts that we were driven to commit because of our interpretation of stimuli. The fantasies became reality and shaped our identity, made us who we are. It depended then on how we viewed the results. If we coped with, justified, accepted who we were, we kept our sanity. If we juggled, balanced what we did to achieve our goals and satisfy our needs we could face ourselves in the mirror. Balancing our deeds and misdeeds, seeking harmony, that was the secret. It's easy to condemn, accuse, far easier than trying to achieve a measure of understanding of the other person.

I climbed the stone steps, radiating the sun's warmth in spite of the coolness in the air. Inside, my eyes not yet accustomed to the gloom, the place had an eerie quality that mocked me. I had too much to think about. Fantasy versus reality. Stimuli, the force controlling behavior. All of it contributing to how we perceived ourselves. This was the seat of all our problems, this image one had of one's self, what the books called 'self-worth'. Whoever was torturing and killing these girls was still trying to establish his own identity. His perceptions- his world and his reaction to it, was as Geoff  put it, totally fucked-up. He couldn't separate fantasy from reality, reacting abnormally, unrealistically to his environment.

I called Geoff.

He wasn't in his office, so I left a message that he contact me as soon as possible then I went to my den to read up on 'personality and its disorders'. I'd barely begun making my notes when the phone rang.

"Just got your message."

"That was fast!"

"Yeah. Come up with anything?"

"Not really. Went to the club. Spoke with Jeanine. She's...."

"Jeanine? Who's Jeanine?"

"She works at the club. The Metro. You know. Where Vera worked as a dancer. Listen, Geoff, Can you come over? Tonight. Or now." I didn't want to discuss my ideas over the phone. He hesitated. "I'll ask my father to join us. I'm sure his input will help." I also figured that with my father there, it would make it 'three's a crowd'. I didn't want Geoff thinking I was pushing a relationship.

"Sure. Between seven and eight okay? My reports will keep me here a while; you know how well I type."

"Fine. It'll give me time to get my own notes in order. See you later. Bye."

Three-thirty. I knew my father was home; the curtains had been drawn in his consulting room. I'd wait until five o'clock then go over.

"So, Sammy. How's the detective business?"

"Don't say it like that; you're a glorified detective yourself."

"Humph," he acknowledged grudgingly. "You've got a point. I guess we're both in the clues gathering business."

"Humph," he repeated, and took another sip from his wine.

"What time did you tell him?"

"You've already asked that. Twice. The answer's still the same."

He looked at the stove clock.

"He's not late, so you can stop watching the damn clock!"

"Take it easy, Sammy." I stirred the spaghetti sauce to keep it from burning. I wasn't much of a cook, but spaghetti I could do, and with salad, good Italian bread and wine, what more could they ask for. I took a sip of wine and looked at him. He twirled the glass between his palms, his blue eyes mirroring the action. He brought the glass to his lips with both hands reminding me of the Anglican Priest from my childhood. To complete the image, he tore a hunk of bread from the loaf and stuffed it into his mouth. Amen, I thought, just as the bell chimed.

"About time!" He stopped celebrating the Eucharist and went to the door. I brought the salad and bread into the dining room and heard him greet Geoff like the son I knew he missed.

Again I was a awash with guilt. One son, missing, presumably dead, the other in a kind of limbo, snatched away by a daughter's divorce. I could hear how joyfully he greeted him. Now he was pumping his arm. I felt guilty, but oddly enough, good at the same time. I knew their affection for each other was mutual. Hell, I was the bad guy.

"Go on in, and sit down. I'll be right there."

They both ignored me and squeezed into the kitchen, Geoff ushered ahead by my father's gentle prodding. He immediately got in the way and washed his hands in the sink.

"Will you two give me a break?"

"Relax, Sammy. Take it easy. Fill the plates. We'll carry our own."

"I brought wine." Geoff held up two bottles. "Shall I open it or leave it till later?"

"Open it. Here give it to me." My father grabbed the bottle, then changed his mind, mumbling something about two open bottles on the table.

"It's okay," Geoff told him, "It'll keep." Geoff looked in my direction and winked. My father was trying desperately not to look embarrassed. Serves you right, my look told him, you should feel uncomfortable.

They each took a plate and went into the dining room and sat down. Geoff shared three ways what was left of the wine and said, "Looks like I better get that other bottle."

My father never batted an eye, just continued lathering the garlic butter on his bread.

Geoff returned with the uncorked bottle and topped up my father's glass. He raised the bottle to me and I declined. Placing the bottle on the table, he then sat down and dug into his meal.

We ate heartily. A pot of coffee and an apple while I did my research had left me ravenous. For the most part we didn't talk except for some idle chit-chat -'thankyous' from them and 'your welcomes' from me. Geoff, I noticed, as did my father who I'm sure filed the information away in his computer brain, had only the one glass of wine. The second bottle still held almost half its contents.

"More wine, Sam?" I shook my head and mumbled through a mouthful of salad.

"Gregor?"

"No thanks," he answered holding up his hand. He replaced the bottle, pushed his plate ahead of him, then sat with his fingers laced and his forearms leaning on the table.

"So," he said, looking at me. But before I could answer my father asked, "Cigar, Geoff?"

Normally, Geoff doesn't smoke, but when my father offers cigars he always joins Dad in polluting the atmosphere.

"Jesus," I said, as they played with their toys. "Talk about your oral fixations."

"Listen, Sammy, as Freud said...."

"I know, I know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"Well," Geoff asked, " Who said a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke?"

"I don't know, but it sure as hell wasn't Freud!"

I couldn't help it, and I had to laugh with them. My father was having a good time and lately there had seemed to be too few of them. I watched as they puffed, my father genuinely savoring the cigar and Geoff pretending to enjoy his. I even admitted to myself that I enjoyed the aroma as they filled the room with clouds.

While they puffed, I got the coffee. I hadn't prepared a dessert. During the time we had been married, we never ate desserts and my father was indifferent towards sweets. Except, of course, for Maria`s baklava. By the time I'd finished with the coffee, got my notes, and sat down again, their cigars were glowing like hot coals.

"Let's have it, Sammy. Tell us."

"Don't think I've solved the case, Dad, I haven't. But I do have some ideas about the type of person we should be looking for."

"Good enough to start off with," Geoff said.

"First off I want to say that we all go through life trying to adapt to our environment, trying to fit in so to speak. We're inundated with all kinds of input from the moment we're born, and we spend our life sorting and sifting all this information, trying to fathom and make sense of it." I looked at them. Geoff nodded. My father had his eyes half closed and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach.

"As children, we're guided and steered by our parents. A system of punishment and reward reinforces acceptable patterns of behavior."

"Sphincter morality," my father interjected.

"You can call it that." I acknowledged.

"I know that you don't entirely agree, Sammy, but there's a strong argument for it. Simply put, the child hangs on to it, or to be blunt, shits all over the place. If he learns to deposit his feces in the appropriate place- great! He's rewarded. Gets a hug and learns the routine. But if he doesn't, if he rebels, or resists the conditioning process -and it is a conditioning process- if he decides to make a mess, then punishment usually follows. Of course you are aware that the soiling of one's pants is an assertion of one's independence...."

"In essence," Geoff interjected, "he's saying 'fuck you!'"

My father loved it. "Aptly put, Geoff, aptly put."

"And," Geoff continued, "in adult terms, the dirty diaper is transformed to other forms of anti-social behavior. Is that what you're saying, Gregor?" He knew damn well that's what he meant.

"Yes. That's it exactly. So that now we have an individual that has taken his rebellion a little too far."

"It's more than a rebellion," I said. "Don't forget, this person is no longer functioning in - for lack of a better word- a normal way."

"Let's just say, his behavior does not conform to acceptable patterns." My father always had to reshape what I said.

"But I'd say from what little we know about him, that he's either a sociopath or a psychotic- he's predominantly one or the other but certainly with overlapping characteristics. On the one hand, he commits these horrid crimes dispassionately, then quite lucidly he leaves us a trail to follow. A socio-path feels no guilt, makes no distinction between right or wrong -not that he doesn't know the difference. Yet this guy leaves clues -he wants to be caught."

"That's right," Geoff said, "If he wants to get caught, he must harbor some sentiments about what he is doing. He has to know that he shouldn't be doing these things. Wouldn't you say then, that he should be feeling some sense of remorse?"

"I'd be inclined to agree." My father leaned forward and was about to tap ash into his plate. I reached for an ashtray on the buffet and handed it to him.

"You know," he continued, "I don't have to tell you, but human beings? Our minds are incredibly complex. There are no cut and dried text book cases, at least none that I know of. Just when you think you've encountered one - bang!- aberrations appear. I've learned over the years not to be surprised by surprises."

"So, "I continued, "he wants to get caught and he's helping us."

"Yeah," said Geoff, his cynicism showing. "But can we afford it? His kind of help means more victims."

"I know, Geoff. But at this point.... at any rate he does want to be stopped. In a way that's a good sign, I suppose. But I'm afraid he'll continue to taunt us. We have to read his clues and stop him before he piles up too many more victims. And we follow-up on your idea, Dad. On this sphincter morality theory, we're talking about someone with such a pent-up rage, he's symbolically defecating in our faces. The face of society at any rate. He's getting his own back, revenge. And I've got some ideas on that score."

"Terrific, let's hear them!"

"Don't get too optimistic, Geoff. Like I said, they're only ideas."

"Go on, Sammy, I like the way you think."

"I believe that our killer is someone suffering from a very strong Oedipal Complex - a wish for a kind of sexual possession of the mother. This in itself is not what you'd call abnormal." I looked at my father, his eyes were half closed again. He nodded and murmured for me to go on.

"The forbidden desire is powerful which is countered by a fear of reprisal from a powerful rival. The father. Often the punishment feared is that the father will cut off the penis, the guilty organ responsible for the forbidden desires. Hence the gelded horses. He leaves behind a symbolic gesture of his castration for his evil deeds."

"You mean, Sammy, a gesture of his symbolic castration." He did it again.

"Right. Normally -I hate that word- normally the conflict gets resolved when identification with the parent of the same sex occurs. The child, in this case a male child, identifies himself with his father, he says in essence: 'If I am my father, then he can't hurt me.' Through this process of identification, the child takes on those characteristics and values of the parent. Instead of fearing castration from the father for ah, unnatural urges towards his mother, at this point he adopts the morality of society, and will hopefully develop into a healthy adult. Usually it works pretty much as it should."

"What happens if the conflict is unresolved?"

"If it's unresolved, Geoff, or if it's incomplete then.."

"Then," I interrupted, "a variety of things may occur. The individual may become promiscuous; he may be impotent, or homosexual. Actually a strong case for homosexuality could be made, in my opinion."

"Why do you say that, Sammy?"

"Consider it." I knew he had. "His violence. It's directed towards women. He denies his homosexuality two ways. Promiscuity and violence. The more women he tries to have sexually, the more he's trying to deny his unnatural urges, his homosexuality. But by doing so, he's confronting his deviance. Sex with women reminds him of his aberration. He can't face it, so he hurts them, kills them."

"Interesting, Sammy. Very interesting. What about this. The women represent his mother, symbolically. He possesses them, and according to the theory of Oedipal Conflict, he then has to punish them, his mother again, for tempting him. For making him do the unspeakable. The ultimate taboo.

"He tells himself, I am my father, therefore he can't hurt me. So he rapes those young women. Read -has sex with his mother in order to possess her. Of course, he is aware of his behavior even though he is powerless to control it. He then projects blame on the women and has to kill them. Destroy that which is making him perform the unpardonable. Incest."

"Of course, relating this to your theory of Sphincter Morality, sex is just another weapon used to degrade and abuse. Rape is the ultimate defilement of women -his mother. An act performed to gain mastery."

Geoff, having sat motionless, his attention riveted to our analysis, stirred and shifted in his chair. "This is some heavy stuff, way beyond what I took in college. But how the hell is knowing all of this going to help us catch him? Besides, according to the two of you, at best, this stuff is all supposition."

"That's true, Geoff. That's true. But don't despair. Up to this point it's all you've got!"

"I don't know, Gregor. We seem to be working in a vacuum. It's like he's watching us but we can't see him."

"We will see him. It'll take time, but we'll get a picture of him, don't worry." Geoff was about to say something but I cut him off, "I know what you're going to say, but we can't do anything except wait. The police are doing everything they can, I'm sure.... But the fact remains, as horrific as it is, he's going to kill again. All we can hope for is that his clues, his need to be stopped, bring us to him before to many more girls are killed. I don't mean to sound insensitive, but those are the facts." He didn't say anything, but the muscles in his jaw twitched as he clenched and unclenched his teeth." Finally he did speak:

"Anyway. Give it to me in note form. What is he? Who is he?"

"In note form?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. He's young. Under thirty. White -serial killers usually stay within their own race group. Presumably intelligent, but probably not with much formal education. I doubt if he went past high school or even graduated it. I'd even go on record and say he's from a broken home, maybe abused as child, beaten by his father. The beatings representing symbolic castration, wouldn't you say, Dad?" I looked at my father, his eyes were closed again and he nodded. "Mother weak, stood by when the father roughed him up. Didn't intervene. Mother too, might've been physically abused. He kills the girls for corrupting him and also because they are too weak to stop his aggressive assaults. Like his mother who was too weak to prevent the beatings. Don't forget, mothers are supposed to protect their young. Father probably abandoned them or was away a lot. Away could also mean out of touch through indifference. Or alcohol. Drugs. I'd say the old man ridiculed him. Called him a sissy. Things like that. Then punished him. Beat him to toughen him up while the mother stood by. Son then feels betrayed by her. Abuse cases usually follow this kind of pattern.

"And I'd also say he's bright, articulate with a highly imaginative mind. As a child he read a lot. You know, comic books. Batman. The X-Men. Blackhawks. And it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he turned out to be an artist, you know, like an illustrator or something. Probably working free-lance. His fantasy life, which is considerably over developed, spills over into the real world. Hence his preoccupation with the rocking horses."

"Jesus, Sam. I read all that stuff as a kid myself!"

"I'm sure you did. And most kids do. But like you, most of them are able to keep the fantasy side of their life in its proper perspective."

"Well, at least, I hope I did." He looked at me.

"I read the comics too. Mostly Archie and Caspar the Friendly Ghost. But the boys I went to school with read the ones you mentioned. Pretty normal, I'd say." My brother, I vaguely remembered, read the Blackhawks.

"Anyway, to answer your question, that's who I think he is, in note form. Dad?"

"I agree, Sammy." He got up, laced his hands together and stretched them out in front of him cracking his knuckles.

"I better get back. I've still some notes to write up on a couple of patients before I turn in. It's almost eleven. You know," he said on his way to the kitchen, "all of this reminds me of a work by Edvard Munch. The Swedish painter? It's called 'The Scream'. It's a woodcut. Very powerful. Dramatic. Munch had his share of problems too. He was never able to sustain a meaningful relationship with a woman himself, if you believe what you read, apparently, as a child he had hidden in a closet and spied on the amorous antics of his older sister. When he was discovered he was beaten. As a result he suffered considerable emotional trauma. The thrill of sex, and the associated beating negated one of the ultimate pleasures. The price Munch paid for his voyeurism was incredibly high. Fortunately his dark side was manifested through his art. His art, if it didn't resolve his conflict, at least provided an outlet for whatever rage or anger roiled within him. I don't know if it helped him achieve a level of mental stability, but at least he didn't go around killing women. Except symbolically, perhaps, through his art. Maybe I should have another look at his work. Something to think about, isn't it?"

I saw him to the door and we said goodnight, and he knew by my look he had better say nothing about Geoff or any impending relationship. When I came back, he had cleared the table and was stacking the dishes in the dishwasher.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know, but when they're out of the way you don't see the mess." He rinsed his hands at the sink, dried them and discarded the dish towel on the counter. Then with a sudden realization he picked it up, folded it in half vertically and hung it on the rack.

"It's time I left too. Thanks for the meal and your help. And I enjoyed seeing Gregor again."

"You're welcome." I almost said that it was like old times.

"He enjoyed seeing you too. I'm sure you didn't find that hard to tell." He chuckled and went to the closet for his coat. He shrugged into it, letting it hang open, and thrust his hands into the pockets.

"Well, thanks again." I opened the door and hoped that the next few moments wouldn't be awkward. Did I want him to stay, I asked myself. The answer was a definite yes, but I resolved not to ask, not to pressure. Play it cool, I told myself; let it unfold slowly. On the threshold he said:

"I'm working tomorrow, but, if you like, we can take in a movie tomorrow night. We could have dinner first. That is.... if you're free?"

"I'd like that."

"Great. I'll call you. We can decide on the time then."

"Sure." I knew he couldn't commit himself this far in advance; such was the life of a police officer.

He bent down and we kissed briefly on the lips, then he left. I closed the door softly then went around checking the windows and turning off lights. Ten minutes later I was in bed. It was eleven thirty-three. At twelve thirty-three I was still wide awake, my eyes as wide as saucers. The bed was rumpled, the pillow a rock, and the green glow from the clock too bright.. Too much coffee, too much cigar smoke, too late at night. And those horses. They kept rocking back and forth in my mind. Eventually I fell asleep and dreamed I was riding on a carousel at a fair, and like those fairground horses in the 'Mary Poppins' movie, we left the carousel to gallop the countryside. But like all dreams I could make no sense of the queer reality. First I rode the carousel, then I was riding along Ste. Catherine street and finally, I ended up dancing naked at the Club Metro.

I tossed and turned most of the night and by the time I finally drifted off into a deep sleep, the alarm went off. I hit the off button and cursed for not remembering to turn it off the night before. I was awake, so I lay there awhile. At six-thirty I stumbled out of bed and went to the kitchen to put on the coffee. To hell with jogging I told myself, and went to the door to get the paper. At least I could spend a leisurely hour reading the news.

I thought I had conditioned the paper-boy to leave it in the rack under the letter box. It wasn't in the rack and it wasn't scattered on the steps. I looked over on my father's side. His paper was stuck in the corner between the house and the stone divider that separated our two flats. The pages flapped weakly, desperately trying to escape. I scissored over the wall, retrieved it, scissored back and went in. To ease my guilt, I told myself I'd be through with it before he'd miss it. Over a breakfast of coffee, yogurt, and a banana I read the news, nothing particularly interesting. News was obviously slow and the front page showed a picture of a couple of 'campus cuties' enjoying the last dying rays of Indian Summer. I turned the pages slowly, scanning headlines, half reading a variety of reports on international affairs. I stopped abruptly when A headline caught my eye. "Serial Psycho Stalks Students". Mickie Manfield, the crime reporter, the same one Geoff had tried to discourage, had written an article on the murders, focusing on the graphic horror.

He went on to say that the police department had enlisted the help of a local criminologist currently lecturing at the university. He didn't name names, but it wouldn't be hard to find out to whom he was referring. Geoff would be furious. I was furious. His report was irresponsible. He'd argue, no doubt about freedom of the press and public's right to information. I knew the rhetoric, but I felt he had crossed the line separating what the public needed to know from what could actually threaten or even cause public harm. I cursed him vilely, unsure if my reaction was due to his report or his oblique reference to me.

I flipped through the rest of the paper, but I had lost interest. Even the "Far Side' didn't get a laugh out of me. I cleaned up the kitchen, made a grocery list and noted the other messages that needed doing. That done, I got dressed then went next door to bring back the paper. After a brief argument with my father, I convinced him to let me pick up his grocery order while I got mine. It was a ritual we went through regularly.

On the way to the supermarket I thought about Geoff, and hoped he hadn't seen the paper, but there was little chance of that. By now he'd be in an absolute rage.

Actually, he had accepted the news with considerably more grace than I had expected. He was even philosophic about it.

"I suppose," he said, "it had to come out eventually. Fortunately he doesn't know all of the facts. It won't do us any damage. But I'll bet we'll need someone full-time just to answer the crank calls from the idiots who confess to every crime in the city. At least we'll know whether the calls are from cranks or not, Manfield doesn't have any details about the horses."

"That's one secret your department had better keep."

"Yeah. Cops don't usually talk though." He smiled ruefully realizing the unwritten code of secrecy cops subscribed to had contributed to the demise of our marriage. Communication, the lack of it actually, destroyed relationships. He had never come home with "Guess what happened at work today, Honey?" I supposed that dealing with the morass and detritus was more than enough without having to relive the unpleasant experiences again in their telling.

"Good thing," I said. "Won't complicate things for us." And that was the end of shop talk.

We had dinner at a small, family-owned, Hungarian restaurant, where we'd been patrons for years. The Czardas had one teen-aged son in school who had to help out in the business several hours a week. Joe handled the kitchen with help from a cook and his wife took care of money matters behind the cash register. Bill, our waiter, brought us a carafe of the house wine to go with our dinner, compliments of his father, he said.

We took our time, enjoying the old European ambiance and the two Gypsy violinists. Geoff delighted them with a request to play something by Brahms.

It was after midnight when we left the restaurant. Geoff had left the car in front of the house so we walked back. The evening was cool, with more than a hint of autumn in the night chill. One of the perks for living so centrally put you within easy walking distance of everything you needed. Theatre, restaurants, museums, all were close at hand, as was of course, urban blight. Between the tops of the tall buildings, the sky was a velvet strip, and I recalled an article in the morning paper. City council had adopted another by-law, this time raising the maximum height restriction for new construction. The cost of progress measured in losses to the human condition wouldn't be evident for another generation. By then it would be too late. Man, it seemed, raped everything.

We reached my place and stood on the sidewalk next to his car. Someone had tucked a flier under the wiper blade. He reached over and plucked it away. Before he crumpled it, I managed to read 'Discount Furs and Leather Goods -fifty percent off.' He was about to toss it into the concrete container that held one of the cities few surviving trees. I took it from him.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll see you in."

We went up the steps and I said to him, "I know it's getting late, but would you like to come in?"

Before answering, he bent down and picked up an object. In the dim light, I hadn't noticed it.

"What's this?" He held a small, square package, about the size of a tissue box.

"I don't know." I reached for it, but he pulled his hand back, holding the package gingerly. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. My name was printed on it, the hand lettering, bold and crude.

"A bomb?" I laughed.

"Not funny!" he said harshly.

"Let's get inside. I want a good look before you open it."

I opened the door, then snapped on every light on the way to the kitchen. He followed, holding the package carefully and placed it on the counter next to the sink.

"It's no bomb, Sam. Want to bet?"

"Not against you, that's for sure." He laughed.

"Don't worry, I'll open it."

"Go ahead. If you're sure it won't explode."

"Get the scissors. I'll cut the string and we'll have a look."

I opened the drawer and handed him the kitchen shears.

"Great! I doubt that it's a bomb. The box is so light. Not that bombs have to be heavy, mind you."

In spite of his confidence, I was scared, and held my breath. He cut the string, but when he started to peel away the wrapping I couldn't keep my bladder from leaking.

"Shouldn't you save the paper so the lab can check it for fingerprints?"

"Yes, but I don't think there will any prints. He is one careful psycho."

When the box was exposed, he carefully raised the lid, using a knife.

"I'm not surprised," he said. I moved closer and peered at the contents. Another rocking horse, a unicorn this time. The tip of its horn painted blood red.

# Chapter 5

He stayed the night.

Neither one of us got much sleep for worrying about the significance of the new acquisition. At first I treated the case academically. I didn't know the murdered victims; I was detached, indifferent. Studying the clues, interpreting the symbols was an intellectual exercise, even fun, a puzzle that wanted a solution.

That had changed.

I felt violated. I realized that sending me the unicorn was simply a gesture, but it served to make me feel vulnerable, exposed. I was no longer just a bystander. That unicorn thrust me into the arena, forcing me into a role I preferred not to play, changing me from a spectator into a participant. Or combatant.

I was also enraged. More at my impotence than receiving the unicorn. My anger was self directed because I couldn't direct it anywhere else.

A little before nine, after a fitful, sleepless night, we got up. And after a good hot shower we both seemed better able to face the new day. Figuring a change of routine would do me good, I prepared a breakfast of cruelty. The bacon was a good two weeks old but smelled okay, so I fried up about fifteen strips until they were almost cinders. After draining away most of the fat, I broke four eggs into the pan cooking them until the whites were firm. I slipped them onto our plates before the yokes became a hard mass. Geoff had made a stack of crisp, brown toast, buttering each slice generously as it came out of the toaster.

"Listen to me," he said between mouthfuls. "It's a threat. If it's his idea of a joke, I'm not laughing. I want you to be extra careful and don't give me that look. Your doors, the windows, you double check everything. And I'm putting a man outside to watch the place."

"You don't need to go that far."

"Look!" he said, pointing with his fork. "We're not leaving anything to chance. Three women have already been killed." He bit into his toast, tearing at it. "Jesus, I'd like to get my hand on that son of a bitch!"

"It's not going to be easy. He's playing a real cat and mouse game."

"I mean that bastard, Manfield."

"You can't really blame him, can you?"

"Damn right, I can." He mistook my look for a reproach.

"Don't give me any bullshit about freedom of the press. I know all about the access to information laws. But there is such a thing as responsible reporting. He knows this is a sensitive case. He should have waited. Or at least checked with me or the department before running that story."

"You know what the answer would have been."

"Yeah, I suppose.." he admitted grudgingly. He was as much a hard-liner for withholding information as Manfield was about learning the news and publishing it. As a cop, Geoff was forever concealing information from public scrutiny. He didn't see it as withholding the truth.

He did have a point. Generally, I couldn't help myself and would argue for the underdog simply for the sake of defending another point of view. I shrugged, and went on with my breakfast. He put his fork down and looked at me.

"Sam. I know that you're more liberal than I am about certain things. A lot of things. Like this business. I mean about releasing information. But I'll tell you something- there was a case, I don't remember where - out west I think. Apparently the press had some pretty damaging information about a judge. It concerned his lack of -how can I put it?- his lack of discretion regarding his extra-curricular escapades. Bluntly put, this guy went to a whore house on a regular basis. Anyway he found out that the newspaper was going to run this story about him. The judge, obviously, is pretty shook up by this news. It could ruin him. Completely. His career is on the line. His family life about to be devastated. So he calls the paper. Explains to the editor who he is, tells him that the story will finish him. Furthermore he tells the editor that if they run the story he'll commit suicide." He paused and drank some coffee.

"The paper ran the story. And the judge killed himself. In the editor's goddam office!" He paused again and put his finger to his temple. "BANG! Splattered his brains all over the walls."

"That's awful," I said. "But you can't expect the paper to back down whenever someone threatens to kill themselves because a story might ruin them."

"You're right. I know that. I'm not arguing that point. It's just... well.. sometimes the cost of news comes pretty high."

"I can't disagree with that, considering how this story has exposed me."

He pushed himself away from the table. "Jesus, I haven't eaten a breakfast like that since I don't know when. It was great, thanks."

"Me too." I had eaten too quickly and it felt stuck in the middle of my chest. I sipped at my coffee trying to encourage it to go down. He balled the paper napkin and tossed it on his plate and stood up.

"Are they in your study? The horses?"

"Uh huh.. On the desk. The unicorn was still on the counter. I got up and brought it over. Geoff returned with the horses, pushed the plates to one side, and lined the four of them up facing him.

"Technically," he said, "if I remember correctly, a unicorn is not really a horse."

"They only exist in mythology."

"I don't mean that," he made a face. "They have the head and body of a horse, but the feet of a deer and a lion's tail. A composite of sorts.."

"Mmmm. That might mean something. An animal that is something other than it appears to be. He might be telling us he's a complex person. A hybrid. Which, by the way," I added as an aside, "doesn't have the ability to reproduce."

"Or something, someone in the midst of a kind of transformation."

"Good point. Very good point. Fits in perfectly with my theory about his identity crisis."

"Yeah, but there's no mystery about what this one means. That's why I want to put a guard on you and the house. And maybe someone to shadow you. You don't need to be a goddam psychologist to figure out what the blood tipped horn means. Even I can see that it means rape."

"Yes. I suppose it does." And murder.

"I've been reading up on this stuff." He pointed to the horses, meaning symbols. "The department is big on theory too, and Emile must have about every publication, book, whatever, that's been written on criminal psychology. But these horses... this unicorn. It stands for a male. A male aggressor. We don't have to explain the horn. I see it as representing a deflowering, symbolically, I hope. A kind of loss of innocence. According to your Carl Jung, as I understand him, the symbols strive to explain something that exists in the subconscious. The trick is to try to discover what it represents. All this bullshit we're going through. Maybe we're all wet; these horses might mean something completely different."

"That's true," I agreed. "But, nevertheless, the symbols do have inherent value. The fact that a person chooses a particular object, is indicative in itself. I'd agree with you if we had only one horse. With the one object we might be entirely off base. Hell, there'd be no telling what the one symbol could mean. But we have a series of objects, each one a link in a chain, and he's stringing them together with a purpose. You can be sure of that! We can read them like, oh, chapters in a book, part of a narrative, an on-going narrative unfortunately. He's telling us that we have to read the clues as a series of events. Events that have occurred. And events to come."

"Okay. I can buy that. You think, then, that we're on the right track?"

"Geoff. It's the only track we've got!"

I continued to study the unicorn. He didn't have to remind me of the significance of the horn. And I knew full well what the blood-tipped point stood for, in real terms and symbolically. Red. Passion. Violence. Blood. My life draining away. The unicorn. A mythological animal. Horse-like. Strong. Dominating. On a quest to attain the unattainable. To do the unspeakable.

I suddenly felt very weak. I got up and stood behind him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Hold me, Geoff. I'm scared. Really scared."

We stayed in bed laughing and playing, trying to dull the sharp edges of fear that pricked us. It worked for a little while anyway.

"I've got to go, Sam. But I'd like you to stay home, at least until this afternoon, until I arrange to have a man outside. Then if you want to go out, you'll have an escort, a safety net."

"Is he going to follow me, or what?"

"That's up to you. How do you want to play it?"

"I don't know. I think I'd feel silly if he's hanging behind me."

"Think about it. He can follow or accompany you. It doesn't matter. We're not playing spies. It's not supposed to be a secret. Quite the opposite actually."

"I know. It's just..." I shrugged my shoulders. "Anyway, I don't need to go out, but I do have to teach tomorrow."

"That won't pose a problem? He can sit in on your classes, can't he?"

"Sure. That's fine. Jesus," I shivered, "What if...?"

"What if the unicorn is one of your students?" I nodded.

"I thought of that too. Anything is possible, I suppose. But no one stands out in my mind. The subject of mythology has come up on occasion, but I can't remember anyone making an issue of it." He was gently stroking my breast with the tips of his fingers.

"Look, Buster. Don't start something you can't finish." I looked under the sheets and said, "I thought you left the unicorn in the kitchen?"

Twenty minutes later he got dressed.

"You'll be alright?," he asked, buttoning his shirt.

"Yes. I'll be fine. Like I said, I'm not going out, except maybe next door to my father's. Besides I've plenty of school work to do."

"You going to tell him?" I shook my head.

"Don't blame you. But he'll be pretty pissed off when he finds out."

"Tell me about it. I'll have to tell him, I guess, but not right away. He'll want to hire a fleet of private eyes."

"Yeah.. well..." He finished dressing, stuffed his tie into his jacket pocket then went to the hall closet for his coat. I pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around myself like they do in the movies. I damn near fell when I tripped on the tangled folds.

"Anything. Anything at all, Sam, you call me. The office to get me immediately.  And don't worry. I'll have a man outside the place within the hour." He kissed me, not as a lover, but on the forehead like my protector, a father. I closed the door and leaned back against it. We lived our whole lives communicating through symbols. A touch, a gesture, a simple pat on the back, or behind, carried with it volumes of unspoken words. I pulled on my jeans and sweatshirt and started to clean up the kitchen. Just as I turned on the dishwasher the phone rang startling me. My father. No doubt he he'd seen the car parked in front of the house overnight and wanted an update on my love life. I answered the phone and said a little too loudly:

"None of your damn business!"

"Whoa, Sammy. Take it easy! What are you trying to do, give an old man a heart attack?"

"Well? What do you want?"

"Can't a father call his daughter to say hello? My God, but you are touchy this morning. Get up on the wrong side of the bed?"

I almost took the bait, but I could hear his muffled laughter.

"Come over, Sammy. I need your advice." That's a switch, I thought, somewhat unkindly. Actually he was very good when it came to listening, it was one of his strong points as a parent. And as a psychiatrist too.

"Sure. When?"

"What do mean, when? Now!" And he hung up. I held the phone away from my ear and said to it, "I'll be right over. Good-bye."

"What's up?" I asked when he opened the door to me. He didn't say anything. I followed him into his living room.

"What do you think?" He gestured with is head to the framed painting on the wall.

"Danby?" He beamed and nodded, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

"You like it?"

"Yes. I like all his work. Must've cost a bundle.

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?" I stepped closer for a better look and noticed that it wasn't a painting but one of his serigraphs.

"A print," I said.

"No, It's a reproduction, I.."

I interrupted, "A reproduction? You? You bought a copy?"

"Now, now, don't go on like that. The gallery let me have it. So I can decide if I can live with it. If I like it well enough, he'll get me the original."

"You had me scared for minute, Dad. A reproduction." My sarcasm was wasted; he wasn't going to bite. "I'd have no trouble deciding, like I said, I like all his work."

"I was hoping you'd approve. I'll tell them to get me the original. If I can't get the painting, there are several original prints that I like, again subject to your approval." He was absolutely sincere which made me all the more feel like a heel for making fun of him. He stood studying the reproduction then turned and faced me.

"You know," he said, "there are several paintings at the gallery. Incredible. It's not like seeing pictures of them in catalogues. Or even slides. When you see them, actually see them hanging there in front of you.... they challenge you.... Defy you to deny the reality they represent. Danby's work..." He shook his head, "it transcends reality, yet it keeps you... I don't know exactly how to put it."

"It's seductive," I offered.

"Mmmm, I don't know. Colville's work is seductive. A kind of surreal surrealism. But Danby, on the other hand, hasn't entered that other dimension. His paintings exist in real time."

"That's aptly put, Dad." He rubbed his hands again.

"So, Sammy. Thanks for your input. Are you busy, or can you stay a bit?"

"No, I'm not busy." He seemed preoccupied. Lonely?

"What have you got in mind?" I sat down, so as not to look impatient.

"Nothing special. Thought I'd watch some T.V. There's a Peter Sellers' movie on. I could make some popcorn?"

"Sounds great. Which one is it?" I called. He had already gone to put on the popcorn.

"The Party," he called back, "you know, the one where he plays the Indian actor."

I knew it and started to laugh.

# Chapter 6

Nothing much happened for the next two weeks. I tried to resume leading a normal life and got on with my business. Geoff had arranged to have someone watch over me, and I was finally getting used to the idea. Actually it wasn't that inconvenient. The officer assigned was a policewoman, a young Filipina. I tried to hide my surprise when we were introduced; most Filipina's I'd encountered either worked as domestics or nurses. I'd never met a male. Joan, I went so far as to guess that she had anglicized her name, was an attractive dark-haired girl of about twenty-two or three. At five feet five she wasn't much shorter than I but had a sturdier build, which seemed untypical for her race. The nurses I could remember were all ninety pounders. Geoff assured me that Joan could handle aggressors twice her weight; at the academy she was at the top of her class in martial arts. Her class mates, he said, called her Ninja, and that's how Geoff addressed her. In the past two weeks we had become reasonably friendly, and I found myself beginning to like her enormously. She did her best to remain unobtrusive in spite of being stuck as close as Peter Pan's shadow. Short of sharing the same cubicle in the lady's room, Joan was constantly at arm's length. She sat in class when I lectured, or waited patiently outside my office reading while I worked. When I went home, she spent what was left of her shift watching the house from her car. Geoff agreed that I'd be safe at home, but didn't want me left unattended when I was out of the house. I certainly wasn't going to argue the contrary, as the past two weeks did little to ease my anxieties, the threat still hanging over me. It wasn't so much the threat as the cowardly anonymity of it. Anyway, Joan's shift ended pretty much by the time I got home late in the afternoon on a teaching day, and since I didn't often go out in the middle of the week anyway, it wasn't a hardship to stay in at night. As yet I wasn't suffering from cabin fever.

Today, being Thursday, I had more than enough to keep me busy; the stack of theses proposals from my graduate students beckoned.

I was particularly interested in Alistair's. The Reverend Andrews had some interesting ideas on socioeconomic theory suggesting that environment was the prime factor controlling and directing human behavior.

"You can't blame it all on socioeconomic causes. If man isn't responsible for his behavior, in particular, the evil he does, then by the same token the Mother Theresa's of the world can't take credit for their good-works either. We are ultimately accountable for our actions, evil or otherwise."

"Do you experience any conflict?" I asked him. "You know, relative to your theological beliefs."

"What do you mean? The Devil?" I nodded.

He laughed and shifted in his chair recrossing his long legs.

"It's too easy to blame the Devil. Or some other intangible malevolent force. Or to say that the good we do is God inspired.

"No, Sarah, I don't buy that stuff. Mind you," he sat forward quickly and pointed for emphasis, "I'm not discounting the spiritual side of man, not by a long shot, but that's getting into metaphysics and we'd never agree on a definition of what God or spirituality is. No, religion aside, man has free will. He chooses, ergo, he's responsible."

"Okay. But in your work experience. With the correctional facilities. Are all those men, and women, behind bars responsible for what they've done?"

"Yes, absolutely. For the most part," he qualified. "But an awful lot can't see it that way. They hang the blame on society. On school. Their teachers. Their home. A lousy mother. You name it, it's been used as an excuse!

"A big problem in trying to rehabilitate criminals is getting them to realize that they have to accept responsibility for their deeds. And misdeeds. I don't use the word 'blame' with them- I say 'responsibility'."

"You don't think environment plays a role, that it's a driving force influencing how they respond to the world? Their world."

"Of course I do! There's no doubt that poverty and lack of opportunity contribute to the overall fabric of crime. But. Not everyone born in the ghetto becomes a criminal. Sure it's tough to surmount those obstacles. But let's face it; it's not an excuse, a justification for crime."

"What about the immediate environment? The child's parents, the family unit?"

He raised his eyes and expelled a large breath of air, then got up to help himself to more coffee. He stood at the window and looked out over the campus. He turned to me and said pointing to a group of students sitting on the grassy slope.

"Look. See them. The couple at the edge of the group?"

I followed his finger and saw a young boy and girl holding hands, nuzzling each other.

I said: "That's a display, a healthy display of... what would you call it?- sexual behavior. Foreplay. A kind of healthy foreplay?"

He came back and sat down at Harry's desk across from me. He put his coffee on the blotter, and began to draw doodles around the dark, wet ring swelling out from the edge of the mug.

"You ask some tough questions, professor, but those two," he pointed to the window, "do seem to have things in perspective. Their display of courtship ritual, just from our brief observation, mind you, seems to follow the norm. Acceptable patterns. And it does appear quite typical among college students, wouldn't you say?"

I nodded, but his question was rhetorical.

"From my experiences -and as a priest, I've amassed a helluva lot in family counseling- I'd say the most important ingredient necessary to contribute to the healthy development of a person is love." He threw his arms wide like an evangelist. "Oh, I don't mean that bullshit the Moonies try to sell you. I mean real love. A hug when you fall and scrape your knee. A hug for no reason other than for its own sake. Physical contact is a necessary ingredient. Touching. Squeezing. Nuzzling, like those two out there. I've seem criminals from all classes of society. Some who had no idea who or what their parents were, and some who came from the best homes." He made quote marks in the air when he said 'best'. "From my interviews with them I discovered that to a person, they all had this missing ingredient- this 'touching' hadn't been part of their upbringing.

"Economics, as a contributing factor to the development of the criminal mind, in my opinion, has been overplayed. Much more important is identification with parents. Bonding is the word people throw around today. Call it bonding or call it giving the kid enough attention- it's the same thing. Treat him like a human being."

"This lack of bonding. Would you say it's an important contributor to the breakdown of personality?"

"No doubt about it. Personality disorganization. Self disintegration. Lack of identity. It's all confusing to the organism." He shrugged. "Of course, it's not simple. We haven't considered diet or nutrition, a host of other variables.

"Often though, not much happens to these people. They're born poor, they live poor, they die poor. And in between they scramble for their Daily Bread. With few exceptions that's the pattern." He laughed wryly.

"Most of them," he went on, "just suffer along. Some get involved with petty stealing. Or drugs. Some move on to a life dominated by crime. Those who graduate to the Big Time, are relatively few, thank God!"

"Amen to that," I added.

I enjoyed talking to Alistair. He was bright, sensitive, and practical, and his ideas thought provoking. There was an awful lot that could turn a personality sour. But the subject in my case wasn't just a personality gone sour. It had become totally transformed into something completely and utterly loathsome.

I read his proposal and looked at his bibliography. It was extensive. I had nothing to add or suggest. On the contrary, I reversed roles and jotted down titles to add to my own reading list.

I glanced at my watch; it was a quarter to seven. No wonder I was hungry. I got up about to go to the kitchen when the phone rang.

"Sam. It's me. Geoff."

"Hi, I was...."

"Listen, there's been another one."

"Oh no. Geoff, where are you?"

"At the scene. Look. Do you feel up to coming down here? If you can handle it, I want you to see firsthand. Don't worry, it's not messy."

"Sure, Geoff. But how..."

"I'll have the dispatcher get Joan, the Ninja can drive you over."

"She's gone. Her shift's finished."

"Shit! I forgot. Okay, hang on a sec..." He must've have put his hand over the phone; all I heard was muffled noise.

"Yeah. Sorry, Sam. There'll be a car at your door in five minutes."

He rang off before I could say anything. I had no idea where, what, or who. All I knew was that it had occurred close to home, less than five minutes away. Too close. By the time I put a comb through my hair and pulled on my jacket the car arrived, its red flasher creating eerie shadows in the living room. The driver was out of the car and holding the rear door for me. I got in and glanced at the windows on my father's side. Open curtains, good!

He peeled away, the tires screaming, and the siren wailing. In moments we were there. He jumped the curb and cut across the well-kept grass in the park and stopped and parked on the gravel walkway a few yards from the statue. Quite a throng had gathered and stood cordoned off from the forbidden zone by the yellow 'police line do not cross' tape.

"We're here, Miss. That's Detective London, over there." When he saw I still hadn't located him, he started to get out of the car to escort me over.

"I see him now. Thanks." He settled back into his seat to wait impassively for new instructions.

Mid fall, and in spite of the clocks not yet having been pushed back, it was already dark. The gloom of darkness, the intermittent flashes and kaleidoscope lighting from the shops surrounding the square created a carnival atmosphere. Geoff saw me approaching and came over, his face garish in the light.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I guess so." I didn't know if I was okay or not, and I was unsure how I should act or react . I swallowed hard and followed beside him as he ambled towards the statue.

She seemed at peace, as if sleeping. She lay there on her side, the breath gone from her. Her clothes were neat; her skirt pulled down and anchored between her knees against the wind. On her feet was a simple pair of sandals. The strap on one had slipped down under her heel. There didn't seem to be any marks on her, at least none that were visible. I suspected a medical exam would prove otherwise. I looked at her face- her expression, one of repose. Except for some lipstick she didn't appear to be wearing make-up and her face had a waxy appearance, which might have been due to the harsh, portable lighting brought in by the police. My eyes followed the contours of her head and face down to her neck. Darker marks showed, indication no doubt, that she had been strangled. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"We found her here, at the base of the statue. Like the others, she was strangled I'd guess, but for the moment we can't tell if she's been brutalized. No visible marks. He looked at me, watching my face.

"Looks to me," he continued, "like she was dumped here. He killed her somewhere else then brought the body here." He held my arm by the elbow as I looked at this young girl, slumped over on her side, her hair covering her face. Half sticking out from under her ribs was a book. I looked at him.

"Some kids reported it. Scared shitless. Apparently they were playing frizzbee on the lawn. The girl was sitting here reading, or so they thought. The frizzbee took a wild spin and struck her. She fell over. When she didn't get up they got scared and came over to check. Then they really panicked and ran over to that store to report what they found." He pointed across the street. "Well, you can imagine the man's reaction. He told them to bugger off or he'd call the cops. Here we are."

His coat hung open and he stamped his feet to ward off the chill. It wasn't the cool autumn air that made him shiver.

"You're saying he propped her up against the base of that statue and tried to make it look like she was reading a book?"

"That's right. Like the others, he tried to make it appear she was doing something perfectly natural."

"Why here? In the park." I asked.

"Look at the statue."

I took a step back and looked up.

"Oh, my God, Geoff." He reached for my arm afraid I'd keel over.

"I'm okay," and careful of the gravel, I took another step back to get a better view.

A man on a horse. His right hand brandishing a sword, in the other a banner.

"Jesus," I said, and looked away. "Can you get me copies of the pictures?" A police photographer was extravagantly shooting pictures.

"No problem. You'll have them tomorrow. Tonight if you need them."

"Tomorrow'll be fine."

"Well, that's it, Sam. I wanted you to see things for yourself. Hope it's not too upsetting."

"Less for me than that poor girl. What I mean is, I am upset but it won't keep me out of the case."

"I am sorry to put you through this. It's different for us, it's our job." He didn't add that they got used to it.

"You don't need to explain." Job or not, I knew it bothered him. Too much, I thought. And at that moment I suddenly felt that I knew him so much better. Sharing the experience with him, I hoped, might in some small way ease his burden.

His persona, his tough-guy exterior was a facade, a shield against these onslaughts. His coat, open to the elements, armor to fend off, parry blows, was a second skin, ready to be shed at a moment's notice when the crust of dirt became unbearably heavy.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go. I'll take you home."

He ushered me away from the scene, squeezing through the crowd, ever present to view the remains of human litter.

"What do you say we go for a big piece of cheese-cake?"

"Cheese-cake?"

"Yeah. Cheese-cake!" He slapped the steering wheel. "I've an incredible urge for something rich and heavy."

"Sounds great. Let's do it." I'm the one who usually craved sweets. But lately I hadn't been getting enough exercise. I pinched myself below the ribs. To hell with it, and I told myself I'd exercise in earnest when this was over. I thought of the girl; tonight was no time to practice self-deprivation.

We ate at Franny's, famous for its cakes. Only the best ingredients used. Real butter, real cream, and as I looked at the girth of the patrons, real people. The food was so sinfully rich you could hear your arteries harden as you ate.

"That was terrific!," he said, and pushed himself back from the table. I must be a pig, because I'd have no trouble handling a second piece."

"You're kidding?"

"I am not!" he insisted, and laughed.

We finished our coffee and he paid the bill. At the cash he purchased a cheese-cake to go.

"You weren't kidding."

"What? Oh. I figured when we got back to your place, Gregor might like some. Don't worry I bought enough to go around."

"My, but you are considerate."

"That's me." He laughed and said, "But seriously. I figured it might serve as sort of a peace offering."

"Peace offering? Whatever for?"

"You didn't tell your father yet about the uh, the little present you got?"

"No. I'm too much of a coward."

"I thought as much. I don't think you should put it off. He's only going to find out anyway. Maybe we can bring it up while he's quizzing us about tonight. The cake might soften him up, take the sharp edge off his anger."

"If you think you can bribe my father with a piece of cheese-cake, you don't know him very well."

We rode the rest of the way in silence, and as we pulled up I saw the curtains flutter. I knew he'd be watching the street for us. No sooner had we gotten out of the car he was on the steps gesturing and asking questions.

"What happened? Is everything alright? Are you okay? I saw you leave in the patrol car."

"Yes, I'm fine. Both of us. How could you have seen me leave, you were out."

"I was out getting cigars. On my way back, I saw you get into the car just as I came around the corner. Glad you're both okay, I was worried."

"We're fine, Gregor. We'll fill you in as soon as your daughter opens her door."

I gave him a look. "You're presumptuous all of a sudden."

"Come on, Sammy. It's cold out here."

"Too bad. You'll have to wait." I fumbled in my purse for the keys. I wasn't making them wait intentionally, though neither one of them would have believed that. When I finally got the door open, my father squeezed by me to get ahead, and went into my living room and turned on the lamps.

"Just make yourself at home, Dad!"

I watched as they gorged themselves on the cake sure that Geoff couldn't possibly eat anymore without making himself sick. I was wrong. They ate like there was no tomorrow. I settled for coffee and listened to Geoff as he told him of the evening's events. Of course he included in great detail, the story of how I came about to receive the unicorn.

"You didn't tell me, Sammy?" His question carried the weight of over thirty years of parenthood summed up in a few seconds. The hurt in his voice was genuine. I shrugged, and answered smugly, "I didn't want to worry you." But by his look I knew he wasn't buying, so I added, trying to make amends.

"I didn't tell you for a couple of reasons. I knew you'd be worried, and I didn't want you to be in jeopardy." Even as I said it, it sounded feeble. He kept looking at me, his expression a mixture of hurt and disappointment at having been excluded from something so important and perhaps potentially dangerous. I wondered how he seemed not to have noticed the police woman that had been dogging me the past two weeks. His days, I knew were full, but he was far from a recluse. Three mornings a week he worked at the hospital, leaving the house and walking the short distance. He should have seen her parked in front. It was possible that our schedules happened not to coincide.

"You know," he said, wagging his finger at me, " I should have known something was fishy. That young woman I've seen waiting for you outside in the car. The one looks a little oriental. She's not one of your students."

"No, Gregor, She's a cop."

"Hah!" He turned away from me and folded his arms across his chest. To Geoff he said, "This business tonight. With the statue. It's another message."

"We know that. The problem is figuring out what it means. Any ideas?" Geoff asked him.

"Mmmm. Maybe. Maybe." He fumbled in his shirt pocket and brought out two cigars. I rolled my eyes. Geoff declined but my father went on with his ritual, licking it, sniffing it, biting off the end. He stuck it halfway down his throat and rolled it around to wet it evenly. It was obviously more than a cigar. I almost gagged. Finally when he got it right he lit it with the lighter on my coffee table, puffing and drawing until it was burning evenly. Geoff waited patiently through all of this until my father was ready to talk.

He crossed his legs and smoothed the fine fabric of his trousers, the gesture, a caress.

"I think," he said, "our man is desperate. He's getting bolder. First he sends you the unicorn," he pointed to me with his cigar. "And now, he parades his latest victim out in the open. I'd say he's telling you to get on with it. Catch him quickly. You don't have any details about how she died, do you?"

"Uh uh. Apart from being strangled. We'll have to wait for the autopsy." He looked at his watch. "I won't have that until sometime late tomorrow. Maybe the day after."

My father leaned forward in a gesture of intimacy and said in a hushed voice, "My guess is that he hurt her badly before she died. His deterioration is escalating and his desperation is beginning to show."

"Then why the hell doesn't he just turn himself in? How many more is he going to torture and kill?" Geoff got up and paced.

"That's two questions," I said. "I think I can answer the first one. First of all, that's not how his mind works. He's driven to do this. Confession doesn't enter in to it. Don't forget, he's denying responsibility for his actions. He's punishing those he blames. The girls for making him do it, and us -me for being so inept."

"Inept?"

"That's right," my father told him. "You see, he projects. Blames the girls for corrupting him. And blames the police for not catching him, in effect allowing him to continue. In his mind he thinks he's doing all he can to help you apprehend him. You're failing him. Think. The horses. The unicorn. And now tonight, the girl at the base of.... what was it, an equestrian statue?"

"Yes." I said.

"Of who? I know, a man on a horse, but it must be significant. He didn't chose the place at random, be sure of that."

Geoff stood at the window staring into the street.

"I'm inclined to agree, Dad. Our next step is to find out about the statue."

"Right, Sammy." He was talking to me again.

"For starters, I noticed that he was a soldier. He was brandishing a sword and carrying a lance or flag."

"And he had a rifle slung across his shoulder." Geoff said.

"Phallic symbols? Soldier? Crusader?"

"More like an avenger, Sammy. Soldiers are not only liberators. Sometimes they're looters and rapists. They plunder. Burn. Think of history."

"True," I admitted. "He certainly seems consistent."

"Sammy...?"

"Yes?"

"What about your interviews? Did you turn anything up."

"Well first of all, there was only the one interview. With a girl who worked at the club with Vera. She wouldn't let me tape our conversation, so I can only give you my impressions." My father liked to rely on repeated listenings of sessions with his patients, claiming it gave him greater insight on how their minds worked. I gave him a brief run-down of our conversation in capsule form.

"And since his present I haven't talked to anyone else."

"There's nothing she told you that can be followed up?" He shook his head telling me that I should have taped the interview.

"No, I don't think so. Jeanine wasn't any help. As far as she knew, and she claimed to be close to Vera, no one had it in for her. When I suggested perhaps some of their male contacts- they were both part-time prostitutes- might want to hurt the girls, she claimed that this was part of the risk. But in spite of that she denied it had ever been a real problem."

"Mmmm. Interesting," he mused.

"How do you mean?" Geoff was sprawled out on the sofa now.

"I'm not sure. You'll have to check the background of these girls. It may mean nothing, but if the girls are prostitutes, or if the killer thinks they're prostitutes, it could shed light on his character and motivations."

"Explain, Dad."

"Think of it. Sex for money. Sex. Taboo. Who knows at this point what his sense of morality is? First of all. Is he hetero or homosexual? His mother, again back to that, what was she like? A loose woman? Immoral? Amoral? What? And another thing, the prostitution angle opens up a whole new area. These girls who sell themselves. What about them. What are they like? Their character. Motivations. What is it that makes them become prostitutes? And... what is it that makes men go to them. I know it's for sex. But why prostitutes, and why our killer?"

"Maybe they aren't prostitutes," I said.

"You might be right, Sammy. But what have we got to lose by checking it out?"

"I'll get the department to work on it. Tomorrow. If anything turns up, you'll know about it." He checked his watch, and said, "It's getting late, and I've a feeling I won't be getting much sleep until this is over, so I better be going." He struggled to stand but fell back into the sofa exhausted. With a grunt he succeeded.

At the door, he warned me to be extra careful.

"I don't want to be an alarmist, but you heard what your father said. This guy's near the end of his tether."

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. Joan sticks to me like glue."

"She's our best. But still.... I'd like you to stay close to home. Okay?"

"Okay," I agreed. I kissed him lightly on the lips then he left. When I went back, my father got up deciding too that it was time he went home.

"You know, Sammy. I'd feel better if you came to sleep next door."

"Come on Dad. Don't do this. I'll be perfectly fine here." The look on his face didn't hide the fear or despair he felt. I thought about my brother and mother.

"Okay, you're right. Can you wait till I pack my toothbrush at least?"

He smiled, his eyes moist, and I felt like a shit.

# Chapter 7

The next morning I was aroused by the smell of coffee. I opened my eyes slowly, arched my back and stretched. The bed was large and comfortable, and it made me feel like a little girl, safe and cozy. I got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen yawning.

"Morning," I said, squinting in the brightness. I yawned again and admitted to him that this had been the best night's sleep I had in days.

"Me too," he confessed. He stood at the stove, a dishtowel for an apron. Men must have a special gene that programs this trait into them.

"Have some coffee. Breakfast in two minutes. Still like pancakes, I hope."

"Sure do." As a child it had been my favourite breakfast. I poured myself a cup and replenished his. The table was already set so I sat down and yawned again, not tired, just incredibly relaxed. Sleeping over, had rid me of all my anxieties. I was his little girl again.

I ate with relish, using generous amounts of syrup, real maple syrup, and washing it all down with his great coffee. Why is it food tastes so much better when some else does the cooking?

After breakfast, I offered to help clean up but he insisted on doing it later. I knew Maria would be left with the mess so I at least cleared the table and put things back in the fridge. She wasn't his slave. With that done I went to my room for my clothes.

"Thanks, Dad, I'll go back now. The sooner I get to work the better.

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I had my clothes over my arm.

"Don't look like that. I'm not going to walk the streets, you know." I left him mumbling and wiping the splatters off the stove with the dish towel.

No sooner had I opened my door than I realized the key had moved too freely in the lock. With the door open about a foot and a half, I could see that someone had been inside; a trail of clothes extended from the door into the interior of the house. I shouted frantically. I had closed his door, and he couldn't hear me. I straddled the wall and pounded until he answered.

"What is it, Sammy? What's wrong?"

I pushed in and flung my arms around him. "Someone broke in.... I think it's him."

"What? Where's that police woman? Wait here."

"No! What if he's still there?" That slowed him. With one hand he reached behind me and closed the door, then led me to the kitchen.

"Where is that police woman?" He said again, as he picked up the phone and dialed, reading Geoff's number from a card stuck on his message pad.

"She doesn't come on duty until eight thirty." I looked at the stove clock, still forty minutes to go.

Geoff was already at his office and in less than ten minutes was with us in the kitchen along with a crew of plainclothes men.

"You didn't touch anything, did you?"

"No. Just the door. I didn't go in."

"Good." He was standing in front of my door, my father and I huddled on the front landing. Three men waited for his instruction to enter. Geoff stepped inside, and I got a glimpse of him pulling out his sidearm before he disappeared from view. The three followed likewise, holding their guns two-handed and pointed to the ceiling. My heart stopped as we waited. Long moments later he reappeared, his gun holstered.

"It's okay. No one here. We checked everywhere. The basement, storage area under the back stairs and the yard. Don't worry, Sam. He's not hiding anywhere. I went down the steps and back up on my side. He stood blocking the doorway.

"You don't want to go in. At least not now, Sam. He made quite a mess."

"Bloody right I want to go in," and charged ahead. Geoff didn't want to let me by.

"Geoff!"

"I don't think, it's a good idea, Sam."

"It's my home! I want to see what the bastard's done!"

He relented, but it was against his better judgment, but I didn't care. It was my home, and I wanted in.

"Don't touch anything," he cautioned loudly. Softening his voice he added, "We have to preserve the scene for the lab boys."

I'm not given generally to emotional outbursts. Nor am I given to hysterical behavior, but seeing my home in ruins, my clothes destroyed was too much for me. I sat at my father's kitchen table sipping my second brandy. The first shot I'd knocked back in one swallow. He had wanted to give me a sedative, but I chose booze over barbiturates. I remained rational, that is I wasn't ranting and raving.

I was angry and enraged. I breathed deeply, filling my chest and exhaling slowly, checking my fury.

I remained cool, detaching myself from the outrage. My father didn't say anything; he seemed to need something to steady his own nerves and was working on a rather large brandy himself.

I sipped and stared ahead, seeing nothing but the shreds of ruined clothes and my soiled bed. My father, who had followed us in, cursed. I had never heard him utter such oaths.

I started to laugh at how he had combined all those expressions. I laughed at how out of character it was, and then the tears flowed. He poured more brandy, but I waved him away.

I wiped my eyes and said, "I'm okay, Dad. Just tears of rage." I laughed again and said, "Jesus, I never, ever heard you call anyone a goddamned son of a whore."

He laughed too, which got Geoff to chuckling. Tension eased.

"Well, he probably is."

"What?," said Geoff, "Goddamned?"

"Hell no. The other." I reached over and put my hand on his. He could say easily, hell and goddam and even slut, but he wouldn't repeat the other.

I sat there with them, still in my pajamas and shoes, a ridiculous sight. I looked at Geoff. "Goddamit, Geoff, the bastard didn't even leave me a pair of panties. All I've got is these." I pulled my nightie angrily. "Plus the shirt and jeans that I came over with. Jesus!"

"Never mind the clothes, Sammy. Thank God you did stay over." I looked at him and he took another sip."

"I guess so. What the hell. Christ the way I feel, I could kill the bastard myself. Cheerfully. You know what he did to me, don't you?

"He raped me! Pure and simple, that's what he did. He raped me. Don't give me any of that symbolic bullshit, Dad. Rape is rape."

"You're right, Sammy." His own reaction proved it, the reaction of a father who'd seen his daughter violated.

"I could kill him," I said again, pounding the table.

"So could I, Sammy."

" I guess I had better stand in line, you two would probably botch the job." We understood the sentiment but didn't laugh.

"Seriously. I think what you said about rape is true, Any 'break and enter' is a kind of rape. At least that's what we learn in police psych. But why ruin your clothes like that? What's he trying to prove?"

"Provocation, Geoff. He's laughing at me. He's telling me he can have me any time, any place. That I'm his for the taking."

"You saw what he did to her clothes," my father told him.

"Yeah, I saw."

"He destroyed her, at least in his own mind. That's what he's saying. Ripping her dresses, destroying her femininity, her sense of womanhood. And her pants, all her jeans, cutting out the crotch like that. Castration again- a symbolic removal of her sexual organs."

"And don't forget what that bastard did on my bed. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what those stains are."

"No, I suppose not. But let's wait for the lab report." I gave him a dirty look. "Geoff. We both know..."

"Hey, I realize that. All I'm saying is... well maybe we need- you need- a cooling off period."

That was like waving a red flag at a bull. "Cooling off! I don't want to cool off! I want to stay mad. Otherwise I'm liable to start feeling sorry for this guy. Jesus. Sometimes you.. you ... really piss me off!" My father looked at me. He knew if he tried to calm me or if he took Geoff's part I'd turn on him too.

"All the man is saying, Sammy, is that we shouldn't let our emotions get in the way of our judgment."

"Aw, shit! Don't I know that? I'm sorry, Geoff. I'm not angry at you. Far from it."

I reached across the table and took both his hands in mine, and said, "But we better get our heads together on this and soon, if we intend to get this guy. Maybe we should be thinking how we can draw him out. You know, set some bait. Make him show himself. I don't like being a sitting duck."

"Excuse me, Detective London." One of the technicians had entered. He gestured to Geoff that he wanted to speak to him privately. Geoff went with him to the front room. He was gone no more than a minute when he returned holding something in his right hand.

"Here's something else to add to our paranoia." He sat down and put the object on the table. It was a small wooden replica of the Trojan Horse.

We looked at it for some moments, a little stunned. My father was the first to speak and he said, "The enemy within." He picked it up and studied it thoroughly.

"It was a gift," he continued. "and as we all know the story, when they had hauled it inside the fortress soldiers erupted from it and did their dirty work." He inspected it carefully, turning it every way. Like the others, it was meticulously crafted.

"A gift they thought. But that was just an illusion. The reality destroyed them."

"Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," I said. "But you know, the tide of that battle changed. During the ensuing fight, the Trojans disguised themselves with the armor of the fallen Greeks, and they were able to defend themselves a while longer. But what the hell can I do? How do I fight back against some .. some sadistic..." I left the thought unfinished to control my rage.

"Yes, but in the end, Sammy, the Greeks overpowered the Trojans. Their ruse with the wooden horse worked.

Geoff picked up the horse, and said, "That trick worked well the first time, so forewarned is forearmed, as they say. I suppose there is a message here, but what the hell it is, I haven't a clue."

"Maybe," I offered, " he's telling us not to rely too much on the appearance of things."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we've been trying to figure out what makes this guy tick- studying the horses, trying to relate what we see to the type of mind that would do all of this."

"You don't think we're on the right track, then?"

"Not that so much. Sure, there's a significance. These horses are clues to who, or what he is, but I'm still willing to bet there's more to it than that."

"You're taking this somewhere, Sammy, I know you."

"Look, Dad. I know you tend to see things more Freudian than I do. But I don't think we can afford to see these clues- these horses- as separate entities. They're part of a gestalt, and we have to look at the whole. We should see them as related pieces of a puzzle."

"I don't have a problem with that. Go on."

"Well, maybe they represent parts of a trail as well as clues to his personality. Suppose he wants us to follow them- they could lead us right to him."

"Mmmm. I don't know, Sammy. I don't know." He nodded his head from side to side thinking deeply.

"Dad. We're not dealing with some dumbbell. He's smart! Really smart. We're also dealing with a very big ego."

"I'll give you that, Sammy. But a trail?" He shook his head.

"Go on," Geoff said, "sounds like you're already on the scent."

"I wish! I just think as well as revealing what's in his mind, he's also telling us who he is. Not his name, of course, but something more important. Like his work maybe, what he does. His profession even. Like I said, he's bright. I doubt very much that this guy works as a flunky somewhere."

"You said though, the other night, that he probably didn't have much formal education. Kind of hard without training to be a professional."

"Yes, I did say that, but..." My father interrupted.

"There's all kinds of education, training." He tapped the wooden rocking horse with his forefinger. "It doesn't necessarily have to be academic. Like the others it seems to have been hand-crafted. And very well so. It's not some plastic mass-produced novelty."

"That's what I was getting to. If he made them, and I think he did, that makes him some sort of artist. Aren't artists ego centered?"

Geoff couldn't hide his cynicism and said, "So we've narrowed the number of suspects down from several million to just a few hundred thousand."

"Come on, Geoff. It's a start. Let me get the others." I went into my study and returned with the other four horses and put them on the table. I also brought out paper and pens.

"Here." I said, handing them out. The horses I lined up facing Geoff.

"We'll start at the beginning. With the first horse." My father picked it up and inspected it yet another time.

"A charger," he said. "A knight's horse. From the Middle Ages."

"Right," said Geoff. "A knight. Sworn to be true and faithful. To protect the weak. And women. The Age of Chivalry. Now what?"

I was jotting down for the umpteenth time key words and phrases.

"Yes," I said. "The age of chivalry. A knight, a man who swears to uphold those values. But the key word is man. Since we've deduced that he is not a man , I don't mean in the physical sense, then this horse and all it represents is a contradiction. What we interpret on face value, we should perhaps turn around. You with me?" I looked at them.

"So far," Geoff said. My father nodded. His eyes were shut.

"This horse is riderless, without guidance. Our man is without guidance, has no control over where he's going. Meaning his actions, behavior." I put it down and picked up the circus horse. Geoff reached over, and I handed it to him.

"Didn't you say, Sam, that you thought the bright colours could represent a particular state of mind that he couldn't achieve? That the circus and carnival are fun places? Perhaps he's telling us that he's not having fun, that he's tormented."

"That's good. Exactly how I see it. And look at the third one. The picador's horse. Again no rider. No steering or controlling force."

"You know what the picador's job is, Sammy?"

"Yes. To goad the bull."

"Right. And who is the bull?"

"Hell, Gregor. We're the bull. He's taunting us."

"Yes. He is taunting us. More specifically, he added, "He's taunting authority, society. The whole fabric and structure of the social order."

"Okay, what else?" I was writing furiously. Their pages were blank.

"The Unicorn, Sam. Number four."

"And, let's not forget. There was no victim with the Unicorn, thank God! Same with the last one."

"Hold on, Dad. One at a time. The Unicorn." I felt a shiver and goose bumps rose on my arms. "We know what it means."

"Sammy, the Unicorn and the Trojan Horse are both mythological. Write that down. The other horses were paired with victims."

"I hadn't thought of that." Actually I did consider myself a victim and would never have looked at it his way.

Geoff pointed to the number five I had drawn boldly on my paper and said, "The fifth one was in the park. It seems that he's deviating from his pattern."

My father, who was patting his pockets looking for a match, gave up the search and said, "Not so much as you'd think. My guess is that he's opening up the game. Making an outrageous move. But he's still within the limits of his own parameters."

"I guess I'm a little out of my depth, Gregor."

"It's my job, don't forget. I'm not entirely unfamiliar with this sort of thing. But I work in the dark most of the time like you detectives."

"Okay, Sherlock," I said, wanting to get back on track. In another minute they'd be maudlin, crying about who had the worst deal cleaning up after humanity. "The sixth one is the Trojan Horse. It stands for deceit and subterfuge. You agree?" They nodded consent. "In a nutshell, that's pretty much what we've got. And we do know quite a lot about how his mind functions. He's clever. He's tormented. He's got skills- creative skills, at least. And he uses those skills to send very meticulously detailed messages. Witness the horses and the puzzle he's created. He has problems with women, forming relationships. And we know what kind of background contributes to that. Still we have no idea where to find him, and that's what we are supposed to find out from these horses."

"Back to horse number one." Geoff poked it, setting it rocking. "You know? Maybe we should try who, not where."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He poked it again, and it toppled.

"If we can figure out who, then we might know where. Seems to me we have a lot more information about who he is than where he is."

"Good point," my father acknowledged. "We know a bit about his intellectual capacity. Make a list of the jobs or kind of work someone like him might do."

"That's a pretty tall order. How in hell can we narrow the field enough to begin looking?" Geoff drew a large zero on his paper, tracing the lines over and over.

"Not so large," my father said. "From what I've learned about him from the two of you, I'd say for starters he'd never work where he'd have to take orders or follow instruction."

"He'd be a loner," I said. "I doubt he'd be able to hang on to any job that demanded his full attention or reliability. Or anything requiring he work under supervision."

"He's certainly not a cop then." More zeros.

"He probably works out of his own home. Like an artist. Maybe as a carpenter or handyman. Something that lets him control his time. And I doubt that he's very well off financially. This adds to his instability. If he's successful, or let me say, if he sees himself as a success he'd have, as your generation puts it, his shit together. My guess is that he lives at the subsistence level. Another factor labeling him a loser.

"Look for someone who's on his own, isolated. An artist is too generous. I'd say he'd be more likely to work as a handyman or something menial. Something with absolutely no status. Because of what he came from, he can't seem to do better. He believes that he deserves better, but it's not in his cards, and this just piles frustration on top of frustration."

"Gregor that really narrows the field!"

"One step at a time, Geoff. One step at a time. Like peeling an onion layer by layer."

"I apologize. You're right. This case has me strung out."

He sighed, spread his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "The lab boys should be finished, and I do have to make an appearance at the office."

"Sure," my father said, "maybe we should all leave it alone for a while. We seem to have bogged down. Let it percolate. Solutions often present themselves when you least expect them."

"Right," he answered then turned to me, "Sam... when the lab guys are finished..."

"Don't worry. I'll get someone to clean up her place."

"Well, yes, but.  You're going to need to replace a few things. You might not want to back there just yet."

"She'll stay here, with me. There's plenty of space," he said with dignity. "And I promise to keep out of her hair. I can even take her shopping."

"Stop talking as if I wasn't in the room! Dad. I accept your offer to put me up, but I think I can take myself shopping. Besides, I was planning to ask Claire to go with me."

"The girl from your dance class?"

"Aerobics, Dad. Not dance. For a psychiatrist sometimes you're not too with it." I rolled my eyes and Geoff laughed. At me.

"I'm going. You two fight it out on your own. By the way, all your clothes and stuff will be removed for further analysis."

By stuff he was referring to my bedding and I felt my anger returning.

"I know, Geoff. They're just rags now anyway. As for the rest of the mess, after it's cleaned up, I just might decide to have the whole place redecorated."

"Sounds like a good idea, Sam." He left us in the kitchen and saw himself out.

"Sammy, is that all you have to wear? The jeans?"

"I think so. That bastard ruined everything else!"

"You stay here. I'll go see if I can salvage anything for you. You don't mind?" I shook my head. He patted my hand, got up and went next door.

After having been violated, and exposed, having my father find me some panties and a bra wasn't going to embarrass me. I hoped though, that this wasn't going to upset him. He put up a good front, but I knew damn well he was hurting for me.

When he returned, he was almost jubilant.

"Here," he said, handing me two grocery bags. It looked worse than it was. Most of your under things are ruined, but your wardrobe didn't suffer too much."

I looked in the bags. One contained underwear and toilet things, the other some blouses, sweatshirts and another pair of jeans.

"You know, I didn't check to see if he took anything."

"I don't think so, Sammy. Nothing apart from the clothes seemed to be disturbed. I looked in your bureau, I hope you don't mind, your mother's pearls are still there. I don't think he wanted to steal anything."

"Nothing other than my virtue."

"You can replace the clothes, Sammy. That's nothing."

"I know, Dad. I got off easy." He didn't answer, but his eyes misted.

"I didn't bring anything from your study, do you want me to go back?"

"No, no. I'll get that stuff later. If you come with me, I think I can handle it."

Of course, Sammy." He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I stood up and hugged him. Something I hadn't done in a while.

"What about your patients. I'll be in the way."

"Don't worry. Some I'll cancel. The others... well you'll have to stay out of sight. Besides my office is private enough, so don't give it a thought.

"Thanks." I kissed his cheek and said, "Think I'll have a long, hot shower. Scrub myself raw." He patted my back. I broke our embrace and went into my room with the bags. I fished out clean panties, a bra and the jeans to go with the 'save the whales' sweat-shirt' and headed for the bathroom.

# Chapter 8

Claire was busy. The only other person who could possibly be free would be Sue. She'd been recently divorced and had won an enormous settlement from her ex-husband who had made a fortune in real estate. We'd known each other since high school, drifting in and out of friendship over the years. We had stayed in touch and occasionally met for lunch. Socially, Sue never considered that I was on her level. During the time Geoff and I were together, we never breathed the rarefied atmosphere that Sue had become accustomed to through her own marriage, which I long suspected had been one of convenience - convenient for her to lavishly spend her husband's fortune. George Yannakis, true to his heritage was a Greek immigrant who started out in the restaurant business but soon gave up working in kitchens in exchange for owning the hotels that housed them. He shed his apron, but according to Sue, hadn't shed his old-country attitudes about women. Apart from letting her shop, he wouldn't allow her any breathing space.

"Enough is enough," She told me. "It was alright for him to carouse till all hours 'making deals', but he expected me to spend the day shopping or waiting dutifully at home for him. Not on your life, I told him. Not when I figured his 'deals' were probably with blondes or red heads."

So she decided to put a detective on him. "Not red heads or blondes," she said. It was a dark, curly-haired boy, no more than eighteen. She laughed when she told me. I would have been riddled with self-doubt, but not Sue. She took him to court, and now lives from the settlement. "I'm the one who won handsomely, if you'll pardon the pun."

And now that I was Dr. Milland, she found me socially acceptable and considered me worthy of her company. So I called her. What the hell. She did have good taste, and we would have fun shopping. I suggested we meet someplace downtown, but no, she insisted on picking me up. I knew she wanted to impress me with her new car. Admittedly, the mint-green Mercedes did impress me. And it was a full-sized model, not the small yuppie version. I played along and made the appropriate noises, pleasing her, enormously. As we headed downtown towards the 'best' shops, I told her the story, just about the break-in, leaving out the parts about the dead girls and the horses. Her turn now to ooh and ah. But when I told her I was under constant police protection with Joan dogging my every move, the look on her face said she wished it could all be happening to her.

"Oh, you poor thing. You poor, poor thing," she kept repeating. The poorer she made me, the richer my story got. She insisted on hearing every detail. The bit about my ruined clothes and the stains on my bed absolutely enthralled her, and I was afraid she'd have an orgasm right on the spot. At that point I wasn't sure who was more perverted, the narrator or the listener.

Oddly, in the telling, I experienced an immense release; a burden had been lifted. It was more cathartic than spilling it all to a shrink, even in my case, with the family discount, and I felt no shame at having used her. I felt clean. Fresh. I transferred the load to her shoulders, but she wouldn't mind; she'd be the toast of the town in her social-circle.

We shopped, and I spent a king's ransom, more than I would have, had I shopped alone. But everything has its price. Sue, the bitch, made it her life's work to bankrupt me, insisting that I shop only at the most exclusive boutiques. This meant tramping along Sherbrooke Street, not Ste. Catherine's as I had originally planned, and my ego demanded I not only keep up but go a step further. If she said I needed two pairs, I took three. If she said the brown goes better than the green, I bought both.

Eventually I exhausted myself. Sue, on the other hand was energized; spending someone else's money might have affected me in the same way. By late afternoon, I had enough and called it quits. We struggled to the parking lot, stowed my bundles in the trunk, and she drove me home. I made three trips unloading the car, while she sat in the car with the engine idling.

We said good-bye, each promising the other to stay in touch. And we would too. I went up the steps with my last load.

Inside, the boxes were piled helter-skelter, and when my father saw them he laughed uproariously.

"What did you do, Sammy, rob a bank?"

"When the bills come in, I'll probably wish that I had!"

He shook his head and laughed again. "Your ego make you spend more than you intended?"

"Yeah. But it was worth it. Remember Sue, the girl who..'

"Sure. The girl married to ...what's his name. The real estate Greek?"

"Was married."

"Right. He dumped her, didn't he? Was in the papers. Seemed he had a taste for young boys. Well you know the Greeks." He ignored my look and picked up some of the boxes and carried them into my room. For a psychiatrist, supposedly aware of and in tune to the diversity of the human condition, he sometimes astounded me with his asides. He put the parcels on the bed, and sat down beside them pushing himself well back so he could lean against the wall and watched me as I began to unpack the treasure, putting the blouses and shirts on hangers and hanging them in the closet.

"What now, Sammy. What's our next move?" I stopped and sat down at the vanity. "I wish I knew. I'm scared and I'm confused. I just wish all of this never happened. I want things to be normal again." I got up and sat on the bed beside him, feeling foolishly childlike and vulnerable.

"I wish to hell I had never got involved with this... this shit!" I wanted to cry but my anger rose and took over.

"I know, Sammy. Believe me, I know. But we can't go back. We can't undo anything." I was about to interrupt but he raised his hand. "I'm not going to lecture you Sammy. I just want to point out that we have to face front on this. I'm scared too, you know. You're still my little girl, no matter how many birthdays you have."

"Right now, that's just how I feel." I almost told him that I wished he could make it alright again, but he didn't need me laying a guilt trip on him.

"I'll tell you what I think, Sammy. You stay here. Until it's over. Shouldn't be a hardship, Maria will cook for both of us. As a matter of fact, when she cooks for one, it is for two. You've got that nice police lady looking out for you, and Geoff is on top of things. As for your work, I'm not crazy about you going out but -no, don't interrupt- I have to be realistic too. Life goes on." He paused and sighed. "It's one thing to give advice, quite another to practice what you preach. Physician heal thyself." He laughed mirthlessly.

Here we were, two doctors, neither one of us with a cure worth a damn.

"I'm beginning to get cabin fever. I can't move without an entourage. I didn't think it would bother me."

"Get used to it. I know it's no fun, but try to accept. Don't let it get in the way of your daily routines."

"How the hell can I do that?"

"You need a diversion from all of this. You can still go out. To a movie . A play. Just accept that you have to have a police woman for company."

"That's no problem. I can handle that, but Geoff gets worked up if I want to go out. Has if he doesn't trust his own people."

"He doesn't trust himself, Sammy. He'd never forgive himself if something happened. You know that."

"Yes. I know it, and I get it. I really do. But it doesn't make feel any less of a prisoner."

"I've an idea. Why don't we go out to dinner. Make an evening of it. See a play or a movie. You. Geoff. That police lady. And I'll tag along too."

"Dad! And I thought you had my interests in mind."

"I do, I do." But he couldn't keep from laughing.

"Tell me then, that you think it's a bad idea. Tell me."

I couldn't.

"It's a great idea. But you'll have to sell it to Geoff."

"Leave it to me, Sammy." He scrunched his face and winked.

"You're a dirty old man, you know that, don't you. My father! I don't believe it."

"Hey, have some respect. We'll combine a little business with pleasure. What's the harm?"

"Sure. Her business, your pleasure. I've heard that line before." He laughed in spite of himself.

"I warn you, she's an expert in self-defense."

"What am I, Sammy? Jack the Ripper?" I looked at him and shook my head.

"Tomorrow, Sammy. I'll take care of everything. I'll even talk to Geoff. You be ready for seven-thirty." He slapped my thigh, and it stung.

He had dinner reservations at Fado's, in the old part of town, not far from the theatre. We left the small parking lot near the theatre, originally the old stock exchange, and drove to another lot equally small, but close to the restaurant. We could easily have walked.

The place was crowded with the after-theatre crowd, but our table, a good one near a window, had been held for us. We read the menu, made appropriate noises, and when my father ordered for us in French, no doubt to impress Joan, Geoff gave me a nudge. With a little lipstick and a hint of eye-shadow to bring out the green in her eyes, Joan was a knockout. She wore a conservatively cut green blouse in raw silk, under a loose fitting cream blazer to accommodate the gun holstered high on her hip. She sat leaning forward with her forearms on the table, the cuffs of her jacket folded back and pushed half-way up. I noticed too, that her shoes were flat, cop's shoes, but fashionable none the less. I watched her as she checked out the place, managing to handle conversation and at the same time be vigilant. Geoff too, stayed alert, his eyes, all his senses, taking everything in.

We took our time, enjoying the evening, the company, and the food. It didn't work for me entirely. I was tense, keyed up. The idle chitchat was beginning to get to me, so I steered it, rather clumsily, to the events we were trying so hard to forget.

"Did you identify that girl yet, the last one?"

"Huh?" I caught him of guard. "Oh, yes. She works -worked in a bank. Computer programmer. Cathy something..."

"Wilkens. Cathy Wilkens," Joan offered.

"Right, Wilkens." He frowned and resumed eating his strawberries. He didn't seem to want to elaborate; like the others I figured this victim too had been abused.

"Family?"

"Yeah. And pretty shook up. They're taking it real hard. Who wouldn't ?" He kept at the strawberries, not raising his head.

I didn't press him; he wanted the subject dropped.

"So far," my father said, "the victims have been ordinary girls, wouldn't you say? Seems like he picked them at random."

"So it would seem." Joan again. Geoff was scraping the cream from the dish, the strawberries long gone.

"You don't see a pattern?" I asked Joan.

"I don't. No. But that doesn't mean a pattern doesn't exist. Of course, I don't know all the facts." She had her hands folded in front of her, and she shrugged looking at Geoff. "But if this guy is some kind of wacko, maybe there's something common to his victims that triggers him."

"Interesting," I said. "So far we have an exotic dancer, a student who worked part-time as a waitress, a full-time waitress, and this last one. I can't make a connection based on their vocations."

"No, maybe not. It might be something quite different, but like I said, I don't know the whole story, so I should keep my two cents to myself."

"No, not at all, Joan." Geoff said, suddenly alert. "We need a fresh point of view. The three of us are stalled on this thing. Any light you can shed is more than welcome."

"Do you know about the horses?," my father asked her.

"What horses?"

He looked at Geoff who nodded. The next half hour was spent filling her in. She was captivated and seemed privileged at being taken into our confidence.

"You know, Sam," she said, "there's a detailed message there."

"How do you mean, detailed?"

"Well, besides all of what you've told me -and I agree with your deductions- unicorns are complex beasts according to mythology and legends. They're composites of a several of animals."

"Go on my dear." No matter how hard he tried there were times when my father sounded condescending.

Joan looked him in the eye and said gently, "Unicorns, were once considered to have supreme powers. Their single horn had the concentrated energy of animals with two horns. It's shown as a spiral, probably two horns entwined. And the equine unicorn -you did say it was a horse?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"The equine unicorn, called a Caprine, is considered superior to the other, which is goat-like. In heraldry it represents the most perfect knight. And this is what might be significant. The only way a unicorn can be tamed is by a virgin maiden. In legend, the unicorn goes to a maiden in the forest, rests his head in her lap and she strokes him asleep. The sexual significance is quite overt."

"Where did you get all this?" Geoff asked.

"I have a degree in classical studies."

"A virgin maiden, you say?"

"Figuratively speaking, of course, Dr. Milland."

"Gregor. Call me Gregor." He patted her hand. "Figuratively or not. This throws new light on it, for sure. Looks to me, Sammy, that he expects you to bring him to bay."

"Well, I can tell you guys, I don't much like the role he's cast me in."

"I wouldn't like it either," she said. "But he has accorded you the highest, if not dubious, honour. And another thing. According to Chinese mythology, the unicorn is both male and female."

"Male and female?" said, Geoff.

"Right. They call it ch'i lin. Ch'i is male, lin- female."

"If it's both male and female, then it is also neither female nor male. Again it looks like we're back to de-sexed imagery. Consistent with his identity crisis." I sipped my coffee; it was cold. I signaled the waiter.

I was totally dejected. Now I had a new role to play, one in which I had no script nor knew any lines. The clues should reveal his mental state and according to my father, should also tell who he is, but for the life of me I couldn't see anything in the horses that told me what I should be looking for.

"Joan. Let me ask you. What or who do you think this guy might be? You know as much about him now as we do. We thought we could follow a trail from the horses, that they'd tell us who he is, where he might be, his job or profession even. But so far it's a mishmash, a hodgepodge. All we have is supposition. Our best shot has been in trying to figure out what is going on in his head. Maybe we do have him figured out, but we're no closer to knowing who he is."

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

"That's pretty tough to say. He could be a celebrity. Or someone in the media."

"Interesting, my dear. Why do you think that?" Father was intrigued.

"He's clever and intelligent -you know that. And in spite of how gruesome this is, there is an element of the theatrical, a kind of black humour about it. He's clever and inventive, and if he's artistic as you suspect, he might be the kind of person who works behind the scenes. I don't know. Like in television or film, maybe."

"Or theatre, like stage design." I offered.

"Yes. Sets. Costumes. Stuff like that."

"Possible. Very possible." My father was rubbing the side of his nose with an index finger. "Just the kind of work he might be able to handle. Steady, but the work is intermittent. He'd be able to sustain the structure and demands. Sort of job that requires a lot of energy but for short time periods. He'd get totally immersed in it, but when the task was over he'd enjoy the respite. You know, Joan, you could be on to something."

Geoff, ever the cynic, said, "All we have to do is interview all the set designers, and stage crews in the city."

"Maybe not," I said.

"What do you have in mind?" Geoff looked at me, his brow furrowed.

"I think we're on the right track. I mean in trying to discover what it is he does. But like you, I'm considering that maybe there is nothing about the victims that...that intrigues or draws him. He may very well choose them randomly. We should focus on the clues, the rocking horses. Joan could very well be right about his profession. And in spite of what you think, it does narrow the field. But I think we should be using a different strategy. Tracking him down is next to impossible, even if we do unravel the clues. Besides it's too damn slow. Who knows how many girls he'll kill before we can catch him that way.

"We should be trying to draw him out. Using what we have surmised about him, we should bait him, taunt him. If his ego is so big, let's put it to work in our favour."

"Why do I think you've got a plan in the works?" Geoff drew himself closer to the table.

"Like Joan said, a virgin maiden."

"No way, Sam. You're not setting yourself up as bait. No way." He waved his finger at me and shook his head.

"Listen, Geoff. What choice do we have- I have? How many more corpses do we need. You heard Joan. And it makes perfect sense. He already believes that I have to be the one to 'tame him'. To put an end to him."

"Forget it, Sam. It's out of the question. You must be nuts to even think of it."

"Listen to me. Can't you set it up, so I'm protected? Surely with all your manpower, resources and surveillance equipment, surely I can be adequately protected? I'm no hero, but I am willing to stick my neck out."

Geoff shook his head, looked at my father and said, "Gregor? I think your daughter is certifiable!"

"I'm not too keen on it either." He reached into his shirt pocket. Time for cigars. "But like she said, with all your resources, surely you could set it up so she'd be safe."

Geoff sat back in his chair, tapped the unlit cigar on the tablecloth. "Yes. I can arrange it. But there are no guarantees. Are you still willing to gamble? Because that's exactly what this will be. A gamble."

"Hey, do you two mind? I think I can speak for myself. That's a question I have to answer."

They looked at me and I said, "I'm willing to take that chance. I know there are no guarantees. But who said life was about absolutes. We have to stop this guy. In that there is no choice. And if it means that I have to go out on a limb -well..."

They didn't say anything, just sat there looking crestfallen, realizing that it was pointless to argue with me. I didn't have a death wish, not did I consider myself indestructible. I didn't have a choice; it was something I had to do and they knew it.

It was pretty late, after two, and the place was thinning out. I looked around; the empty tables added to my depression.

My father saw me checking the time and said, "I think they'd like us to get moving." He nodded towards the cash register where a couple of waiters were sorting cheques. He motioned to the one who had served us. When he came over with the cheque, my father handed him five one-hundred dollar bills. He returned shortly with the receipt and change. My father counted the change, shrugged, reached into his pocket for some additional bills and gave the man his tip.

We left the restaurant and headed home; the city was deserted. He drove up University turned right on Prince Arthur, made a left a couple of blocks later and stopped in front of my door. I'll let you two off. If you're still up when I get back, maybe you can tell me more about your plan."

Joan swiveled around in her seat and said to me, "If you're going to work on your plan, I'd like very much to be a part of it."

"We certainly could use all the help we can get," I said. "But I don't think I can be much use tonight. I'm whipped."

Geoff was standing on the sidewalk holding the door for me, and the interior light in the Jag made crazy shadows on her face. I could see the disappointment on my father's face. He was like a dog with a bone; once his teeth were into something he hated to let go.

My father eased away from the curb and I watched the tail lights disappear as he turned onto Pine Avenue. Geoff and I went in.

"Wish you were in your own place," He had his arms around me and squeezed.

"Mmmm. Me too." I hugged him back and rubbed against him. "Can you stay till he gets back?"

"Your father? He won't be back tonight!"

"Geoff! What a thing to say," I scolded. "And don't laugh like that either."

"How do you want me to laugh?"

"You men. That's all you think of." I gave him a dirty look, but he couldn't see it in the dark. I was sitting on his lap with my arms around him, as we used to long ago. Twenty minutes later my father returned, and seeing the place in darkness he headed straight to his room. I gave Geoff a triumphant look.

"Maybe she doesn't kiss on the first date," he whispered. As I got up I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. We stood in the porch a few minutes kissing then he left. I watched him from the window, and he waved before pulling away. I knew he couldn't see me, but I waved back anyway then went to my room. It was late, and I was tired, but sleep came slowly, my mind in a turmoil thinking of the role I had to play in this surreal drama, this theatre of the absurd. I slept fitfully, dreaming, then waking abruptly unable to remember the visions except that they left me feeling weak and drugged. I flopped around between the covers like a fish in a net, and when I awoke the next morning, it was as if I hadn't slept at all.

I struggled out of bed and got dressed; today was a workday. My father was still asleep, and as I was in too much of a stupor to bother with breakfast I crept around stealthily, gathered my things, and quietly left.

Joan was outside waiting in the car, looking none the worse after a very late night.

"You make me sick," I said. "No one has the right to look that good after a night like we had."

She laughed and answered, "I'll pay for it later, believe me."

I managed to get through my morning freshman class without succumbing to sarcasm, tolerating their adolescent prattle with more understanding than was my nature. At the end of the interminable ninety minutes, my lecture was over, I could seek refuge in my office, providing I could avoid being accosted to answer a barrage of questions. I made it to my office and closed the door, locking the catch. Joan was reading the latest issue of _Lawyer_.

"How did it go, or need I ask?"

"You needn't." I kicked off my shoes and threw myself onto the sofa. It was too short to lie down on so I sat sideways with my feet up.

"I've been thinking," she said. "You know, about what you said. About being the bait? I've got some ideas...."

"Shoot. Let's hear them. I'm certainly open to suggestions, if it means protecting my ass."

"Okay. Here goes. I've been thinking a lot about those horses. Mind if I go through the list?"

I lay back with my eyes closed and waved my arms inviting her comments, too bushed to answer. She listed them off one by one, and I listened carefully if somewhat detached.

"The first one is the charger, he's an initiator, takes action. The second, the circus horse is in the realm of amusement. The picador's horse? It's his job is to goad, to enrage. And I'd say our killer is certainly doing that. Number four is the unicorn."

I opened my eyes and shifted in my seat to face her. She was ticking them off on her fingers.

"This is where he digresses, in my opinion. With the unicorn he's addressing you directly.

"The fifth one. The soldier. His job is to defend, and to protect. His actions, of course, can be pretty cruel when he's dealing with the enemy. And don't forget, a soldier is also a destroyer as well as a defender.

"Number six. Here again we don't have a victim, but I'd say he's trying to communicate to you. He's telling you to watch out. The Greeks used that horse to trick their enemy. In spite of having chosen you to tame him, you're his virgin maiden, he's telling you it won't be so easy. You've got to be wary. On your guard."

"Okay," I said, fully alert. "I'm with you."

"Now what you have to do with this information is turn it around somehow to entice him, bring him out into the open."

"You said you had some ideas, let's hear them."

"Obviously this guy is no fool. And he thinks he's playing some sort of macabre game. And in spite of whatever is wrong with his twisted mind, he does have one hell of an ego. "

"But not much of a super ego or conscience."

"No argument there," she agreed. "I thought, since he thinks he's got a direct line of communication with you, that you could get into some kind of dialogue with him."

"How?" I said a little too loudly.

"Hang on a sec. The newspaper. You use the personal column."

"Jesus, Joan. What the hell makes you think he's going to read the paper looking for spy messages."

"Let me finish. I hate to say this, but he's watching you. Or at the very least he's aware of you and the way you lead your life. I'll bet he's waiting for you to get in touch with him. He knows who you are, what you do, and where you live. In other words, Sam, he knows a hell of lot about you. And he's not guessing like we are. Sam. He wants you to reply to his... his.. " She snapped her fingers looking for the right word.

"Overtures?" I offered.

"Yes, his overtures. He knows you can't just call him up. And you're not going to use a skywriter. The newspaper is the obvious choice, don't you think?"

I looked at her. I didn't consider it all that obvious. When I didn't answer she said, "All you've got to lose is the price of the ad."

"Okay. We place an ad," I said skeptically. "What have I got to lose?"

"Like I said, nothing, except a few bucks."

"So let's hear the rest of it. Sounds like you've already got the message in mind."

"Well, sort of. Something like... I don't know... something like Unicorn wishes to meet..."

I sat bolt upright. "Unicorn wishes to meet mutual equestrian."

"Yeah. That's it. He'll love it!"

"And then what? Leave my number?"

"You're inviting him to reply so you've got to give him the means."

"Okay. How about, Equestrian call Unicorn. MOUNT UP."

"That's great!" she said and reached for the phone on the desk to match the digits against the spelling of MOUNT UP. "Terrific. I can arrange with the phone company to have a phone with this number connected to your place. Be ready by tomorrow. We place the ad today for tomorrow's paper and we're in business.

""You don't waste any time, I'll give you that."

"Sorry, Sam. Am I moving too fast? You want time to think it over?"

"No. I guess not. Waiting will be counter productive. Besides if I think about it, I'm liable to chicken out." My Id said, go for it, so I put rationality aside and ignored my Ego.

She was already asking _information_ for the number so she could call the paper. I watched her. Cool. Professional. Competent. And as excited as a schoolgirl.

"You're no ordinary Cop, are you, Joan. You're a long way from patrolling a beat."

"It shows, does it?" The paper put her on hold so she hung up and redialed. It happened again so she resolved to wait, cradling the phone between her shoulder and chin and fumbled in her purse. She brought out a small leather-bound note book.

"Damn," she said and impatiently slammed the receiver down . "I hate being put on hold."

"Especially when they plug you into the local radio station. You were saying?"

"Actually, you were asking." She stared at me, appraising. "I'm with the anti-terrorist squad. That's my specialty."

"The anti-terrorist squad!" I said wide-eyed.

"Mostly I'm in the research end of it. All paper work. Not very exciting, no action. So when Geoff briefed me on this case, I wanted in."

"This isn't exactly in your field, though, is it?"

"More than you might think. This guy is a terrorist. The worst kind because he's playing a head-game. He works under cover, and on the sneak. He's dangerous, cowardly, and a hit and run expert."

"I never thought of him in quite that way, but it does make perfect sense."

She tried the number again, finally got through and placed the ad. "Okay. Done. Now we go back to your place, and I'll set things up with the phone people."

# Chapter 9

The ad ran for three consecutive days with no response. On the fourth day he answered, not by way of a telephone call, but with another victim.

I was in my office at the university when Geoff came by to deliver the grim news. Joan was with me, as was Harry who had come in for something or other pertaining to a case he was defending. He was also complaining about the number of times I had stood him up for lunch dates.

"He's getting a helluva lot bolder! His arrogance is outrageous!" Geoff couldn't contain his fury. He paced erratically, darting ahead then quickly reversing direction, bumping into things in the small room. I was inspecting the latest souvenir that had been left with the victim, who had been found in the early morning in the Old City, sprawled against one of the columns of the theatre we had been to on Sunday. This one, also a young girl in her twenties, had been strangled, and according to the medical report, she too had been sexually assaulted prior to her death. There were marks on her body showing she'd been savagely bitten both before and after being strangled.

I toyed with the object, fascinated by it and repulsed at the same time. Like the others it was small, made of wood, and meticulously crafted, and had it not been associated with crimes so heinous, I would have considered it quite beautiful.

Harry got up from his desk, came over and picked it up. He had more than a passing interest as I'd had to explain to him who Joan was and why she was dogging my footsteps. He turned it over and over inspecting and appraising it carefully.

"A centaur, isn't it? "

"Yes," I answered him.

"Sagittarius, more precisely."

"Sagittarius? I don't see what this has to do with wisdom. Nothing smart about..."

Harry interrupted me and said, " Oh, not Sagittarius for sage. No, no. Sagittarius from sagitta. Latin for arrow. The hunter. See the bow he's carrying?"

I felt a rush of embarrassment flood my face. "Hunter of course," My face was still hot. I took slow even breaths. "It's obvious, isn't it? What he's hunting I mean. What I don't understand is why the hell he didn't call me to answer my ad?"

"I'd say he has, Sam. He has. This is his answer." He was intent on the object. His pipe, clamped between his teeth, had gone out. "I'd say this is his answer," he repeated, keeping up his inspection.

"How do you mean?" Geoff asked.

"Well? Didn't the ad conclude with MOUNT UP?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well then. Kind of obvious, don't you think?"

None of us seemed to get what he was driving at.

"MOUNT UP." Harry repeated. "A centaur.. Man on a horse -not a horse exactly, but close enough."

Light dawned. I put out my hand and Geoff passed the centaur from Harry to me. As I looked it over Harry leaned back in his chair and said:

"You know, if I remember my Greek mythology, I'd have to say that it's not Sagittarius, but Cheiron."

"Come on, Harry," I said, "Give us a break. Don't be so damn pedantic."

"Me? Pedantic?" He closed his eyes. "Moi?" His eyes twinkled and he laughed, enjoying himself at our expense, or mine at least. For all I knew I might have been the only one confused. I decided to spare myself another embarrassment and let him continue. He took his sweet time and repacked his pipe, tamping the fresh tobacco carefully into the bowl before striking a kitchen match to it and sucking until it was drawing the way he wanted. He'd get along terrifically with my father.

Finally he said, "Cheiron, in Greek mythology, was the only centaur who was immortal. The others were wild and brutish, but Cheiron had gentleness and wisdom. So you were close in your deduction about that. Close but no cigar. Cheiron was also tutor to Achilles. And I'm sorry to say, Sam," -he closed his eyes and put a pudgy hand over his heart, "if I sound pedantic, but I think there is a profound significance here. In choosing this particular object, "he pointed to it with the stem of his pipe, "which as I said represents Achilles' tutor- I'd bet my collection of French cookbooks, that he's challenging you. And I do mean you, Sam. Specifically."

"Why?" I asked. "Why me?"

"You're his Achilles -his weak spot. And he's your tutor. Don't you see?"

"I'm beginning to. We already know, or surmise he's communicating with me. At least through the horses. The unicorn and the Trojan Horse."

"Well, yes. But it only started after he had already killed those three women."

"That's right!" Geoff told them. "It was after those murders that he started sending messages to Sam. And after the story appeared in the paper."

"Quite so," Harry said, "Quite so. Now he's directing everything at you. With the first three murders, he left the horses in the hopes they'd be seen as clues. And they have, haven't they? More to his satisfaction, I'd say. Now he has a real audience! A personal one. And you are it, Baby." He pointed his finger at me and added, "Good luck."

"Thanks a lot, Harry."

"Anytime dear girl, my pleasure." His eyes twinkled and he sucked furiously at his pipe. When Joan started to speak he butt in, "I'm not finished.... Want the rest?" He looked at Joan and a hint of a smile entered his face.

Joan spoke, asserting herself, and asked, "Did you forget, Mr. Zacaib, how Cheiron met his downfall?"

"No, my dear, I did not. With your permission, however, I'll get to that now." He puffed and blew a series of rings.

"The centaurs, apart from Cheiron, were a crude bunch, given to enjoying wine and good food, and of course the ladies. At a wedding, some god and goddess I suppose," he waved his arm to dismiss as unimportant any facts he didn't know, "were getting married. The centaurs got drunk and in their centaurian way decided to have some fun with the ladies. A fight ensued. Their assault was repelled. Incidentally, this is in keeping, I'd say, with our killer's intentions. Anyway, back to Cheiron. He was killed -correct me if I'm wrong- killed accidentally by Hercules." He looked at Joan. "The wound was fatal. So Zeus allowed Cheiron to die rather than live forever in pain." He ended his narration by tapping his pipe on the ashtray.

"What am I? Or should I say, who am I? Hercules or Achilles?"

"Take your pick." Joan murmured. "I don't think it matters much. Achilles or Hercules, he considers you the one to stop this madness."

"I wish to hell I knew how! I'm starting to feel responsible for him. If I'm too dumb to understand his messages and stop him, more girls are going to die. What the hell am I supposed to do anyway?"

"Stay cool, Sam. Try not to let it get to you. You're not responsible for him."

"Jesus, Geoff. It's a lot easier said than done."

"I know, but keep in mind that he's responsible. Not you. He's projecting don't forget."

"Yeah, I know that.... but like I said."

"You're a victim too," Harry said, his voice full of understanding. "More so perhaps than any of the others. Saddling you with this burden makes it a lot harder. The added stress keeps you off guard, makes you less able to function, think clearly."

"Oh, I know. Intellectually, I can see it, and understand it. But emotionally? That's another story."

"You know," Joan said, "solutions present themselves when you're relaxed. Clear headed."

"I can't relax. That's just the point. This has me so keyed up. I'm tight as a piano wire. What I need is a good hard workout!"

The morning was shot to hell and I felt miserable. My classes were suffering. I hadn't prepared my lectures adequately and when students asked for clarification I found myself fumbling for answers. To make matters worse more students had been coming to the office for advice and I'd taken to closing my door indicating that I wasn't available. I hadn't exercised in ages, and I felt fat, bloated and out of shape.

"It's quitting time. I'm going home." I looked right at Geoff and added, "I'm going for a run."

"Probably a good idea," he agreed to my surprise.

It was one thing to be mentally, psychologically exhausted, but a good workout drained me physically, yet at the same time, improved my mood. I needed the rush the endorphins gave.

An hour later, after going home and getting into my sweats, I was slowly jogging along Pine heading up to the mountain to run the trail up to the cross. Joan came with me. I was in an ugly mood, but I knew enough not to push the pace to punish her; she could run rings around me, and she loped along matching me stride for stride. A half hour into the run my mood changed, and I was surprised at how easy I managed the steep grade, considering my long lay-off. I was drenched in sweat, moving at a comfortable, steady pace. In spite of the lay-off I cruised, my feet skimming the trail. I tried a few uphill surges; Joan stuck like glue. We looped the cross once then started the return. The trail wound through the woods then took a right and dipped sharply down, parallel to Park Avenue. We passed behind the statue with the lions and the dirt trail ended. Hitting the sidewalk we continued down Park to Pine and passed in front of the stadium. At University we stopped, both of us breathing heavily. I felt great. We crossed the street and walked back to the house, the cool wind plastering my shirt to my back.

It was still relatively early after we showered and dressed, so I invited Joan to stick around rather than baby-sit me from her parked car. My father was home, and Maria had made baklava. So over coffee and Maria's delicious pastry we killed another hour or so, filling my father in with the latest events. He listened thoughtfully, hardly commenting except to ask a question or two. At the end of it all, Joan's shift was over and she left. I felt relaxed for the first time in what seemed like months. Relaxed and filled with a warm glow.

However, my euphoria was short-lived.

I spent the evening alone in my father's study; I had brought home some books and papers and I tried to prepare a series of decent lectures. I couldn't do it. I couldn't concentrate. The damn horses kept intruding. I suddenly realized that I had before me enough information to draft a series of lectures for a full course based on the case. But until I had solved the case, there was no way I could use or introduce the material. I grabbed a pen and started to draw up an outline for a program anyway.

I listed the victims in the order they occurred and provided a brief biography; their age, status, work, background, and education to the extent I knew. I also included in the summary where and how they had lived. I also wrote myself a note to complete my research on the girls whose homes I hadn't yet checked out. I hadn't quite given up on the idea that something about the victims had led to their demise.

I carefully wrote out the information on the horses, meticulously describing them and emphasizing in particular the ones I had personally received, pointing out that no victim, at least no murder had accompanied them. I also put down our thoughts and interpretations of the objects and how we thought they might bear on the twisted mind who had plotted such a scheme.

It was well after two in the morning when I had completed the outline after writing and re-writing it a half dozen times to put it in meaningful order.

The act of writing it all down was cathartic. It also put things in a different light. As yet I hadn't developed my own perspective on the case. I had been constantly inundated with all kinds of input -data, as my father preferred to call it. The input was necessary; I'd never have tumbled to half the things on my own. But still, I needed to see it, to analyze it, mull it over in my own mind, if I were to get a grip on it.

So, with several pages of data in front of me, I set out to discover what the hell this guy was trying to tell me.

MOUNT UP. He threw it right back at me. Get in the saddle. RIDE. CHARGE. FORGE AHEAD. I played with the words, loosely associating them, hoping a pattern would emerge. I played with the horses, lining them up, rocking them. In rows. In pairs. Six of them, the seventh, a statue standing in the park. I considered them chronologically. I even substituted for the statue, which in real terms occupied the fifth position, the St. George and the Dragon paper weight on my father's desk. Nothing. I couldn't make head nor tail of them. I looked at the clock. Two forty-five. Not much point in going to bed; I wouldn't sleep anyway.

I kept at the puzzle, trying different combinations, omitting the Unicorn and the Trojan Horse. Still nothing. I left out St. George. Nothing. Then I tried toying only with the Trojan and the Unicorn. I tried every combination possible, but no light bulb went on over my head.

Quietly, I got up and went to the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth to refresh myself. It was dark in the kitchen but the green glow from the clock in the microwave shed enough eerie light so I could make out the coffee maker. I poured a cup of dregs and reheated it for thirty seconds. It was foul stuff, but I needed the caffeine.

I went back to the den, sat in the swivel chair and put my feet up on the desk. With the paper in my lap, I made a separate list, writing what I knew about the girls. The list was short. The first girl was a dancer, a stripper to be precise, in a cheap joint that pandered to depravity. I scratched out the sentence and with heavier strokes obliterated 'depravity'. For the second girl, I wrote 'waitress'. I didn't know her name, but I knew she worked in a 'chicken and ribs' place. Number three, Mary-Ellen Jones, was a student, and part-time waitress. Nothing unusual about that. The fourth victim, Cathy under the statue, had completed her degree in science and had worked for a bank as a computer programmer. Number five at the theatre, was as yet an unknown quantity. All I knew about her was like the others, she was young and pretty. They were all young, all pretty, all single and all lived alone. All had been strangled, and except for the first two, physically abused.

Regular girls. With jobs and boyfriends. Normal girls. Or so they seemed. Thus far the investigation hadn't turned up anything that hinted of family problems or relationships gone sour. Most murders are committed by people close to the victims; these crimes are easy to solve. There was nothing so far to indicate that this was the case.

On a separate piece of paper I wrote for lack of something more pertinent, 'he is obsessed with order'. Ruefully realizing my own compulsiveness, I drew a heavily bordered rectangle around the words. Underneath, prompted by the heading, I added the reasons why I thought so.

-left the girls 'neatly' placed

-carefully 'tidied-up' crime scene

-meticulously crafted artifacts

Then in large, block letters I wrote EXCEPTION: my room in disarray, my clothes. As I wrote I considered how he had rent my garments. The crotches had carefully been cut out; none of the cuts had been done randomly. He had worked with a planned determination. I drew a large question mark after EXCEPTION.

In disgust I threw the pen on the desk and checked the time. It was after four. I sighed, sipped the cold coffee and grimaced. I got up, stretched, did some neck rolls and shrugged my shoulders to ease some of the tension.

"I thought I could hear you in here."

I jumped; my father stood in the doorway.

"Jesus, Dad. You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing up at this hour anyway?"

"At my age who sleeps through the night? I was going to ask you the same question."

He stood in the doorway, tufts of hair sticking up over his ears. In his maroon pajamas with the gold piping, he looked like a doorman.

"I couldn't sleep. Figured I might as well work on this."

"Couldn't sleep? You haven't even been to bed!"

I nodded my confession. "I wouldn't have slept anyway."

"I suppose not," he acknowledged. "What have you come up with?" He pointed to the papers scattered on the desk and came over to peer at them. He didn't touch or move anything, not wanting to disturb my arrangement.

"Well, I doubt if I can get back to sleep now, myself." He scratched his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Why don't you make us some fresh coffee, I'll be back in a minute." And from the bathroom he called, "Not too strong!"

The coffee was ready when he was; he had dressed, shaved, and smelled of cologne.

"So," he said, rubbing his hands together, "what have you got?"

He put on his half-glasses, drew the other chair close to the desk, sat down and began to read, moving his head to keep the pages in focus.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. I think you've got it. I think you've got it."

"What? What have I got?" I hunched over to see what it was that I had discovered.

He spread the sheets on the desk, took off the glasses, and looked at me.

"It's almost obvious Sammy. But you're so close to it, you didn't see it."

"What couldn't I see? Dad.."

"Look," he put the glasses back on, picked up the pen and moved a clean sheet of paper into position so he could write on it. Quickly, his scrawl-like hand trailed across the page producing the following:

Charger knight-chivalry arena

Circus horse big-top tent animals arena

Picador's horse bullfight  arena

Unicorn ______________________________

Statue horse soldier war

Trojan Horse warriors war

Centaur archer war

"I don't get it. What's your point?"

"My point, Sammy, is this. The first three horses -the charger, the circus horse, and the picador's all represent a struggle. A contest, if you will, that takes place in an arena. The knight in jousting. The circus, where animals are trained or tamed. Like lions, tigers, you know, and..."

"And," he but in, "the picador's in a bullring. So?"

"So, Sammy. They represent man's attempt to rationalize his aggressive nature. Instinctually, humans are violent. But civilization has tempered somewhat that dark side of our character. To resolve aggressive tendencies we engage in mock combat. Look at sports. Hockey, football, soccer -in soccer it's often the fans who kill each other. Athletes are gladiators. To legitimize our aggressive tendencies we enact them in arenas, the forum. We need to create an artificial situation that allows us to manifest that dark side in acceptable terms."

"Okay. But what about the others? Where you've written war." I tapped the paper.

"Right. This shows that he's regressed. How his mind is deteriorating. You see, Sammy, civilized man has moved from the real battlefield to the arena. To conduct mock battles. It can be argued that it has to do with man's sex drive, I mean the male of the species. That war is the ultimate orgasmic joy. Anyway I don't want to get into that."

He held up his hand when my face told him I didn't agree.

"In his case," he continued, "he's moving from a civilized posture, symbolically of course, to a primitive position. He's regressing to his basic, instinctual drives -urges that have not been resolved. His ego and conscience are misfiring."

"Looks pretty good on paper. But what about the Unicorn?"

He underscored the word vigorously. "The Unicorn? It divides, separates the two states of mind. It's the only fantasy, the only real fantasy element. It's the one element endowed with magical properties. If in fact, you are the Unicorn, he expects you to do the impossible. You'll need special properties, supernatural ability. Like the Unicorn."

"Okay. Sounds real good. But are we any further ahead? I don't think so."

"I think we are, Sammy. I think we are."

"What's the next step then?"

"We wait. I hate to say it, but I think he's going to kill again before you can stop him."

I looked at him, and he apologized.

"Don't be sorry, Dad. You've no reason to feel guilty."

"I know, I know. But if we don't feel some guilt, we'd be less than human."

"Why do you say he'll kill again?"

"He sees himself slowly deteriorating. So far he hasn't been able to expatiate his sins, so to speak. The organism is beginning to collapse. He needs to cleanse himself."

"Jesus. What do you think he has in mind?"

"Unless I miss my guess, he needs to purge himself to become whole again."

"You mean suicide? That would be a blessing."

"No. At least not until he thinks he's exhausted all his options. Suicide would be a last resort."

"What then?"

My guess is that he'll try something spectacular. He's pretty mixed up. The killings are supposed to make him whole, restore in him whatever is missing. But it has the opposite affect and the cycle doesn't end. And subconsciously he's knows that, that's why the horses and that's why you're the Unicorn."

"What could be more spectacular than what he's already doing? He's killed five young women and turned the whole thing into some kind of sick contest."

"That's it exactly. To him, this is a game. A contest of wits and wills. And he's playing against you."

"Of that I am well aware. No need to remind me."

"Sammy, he's going to make headlines. He wants recognition, as we all do. He's got your attention but it's not enough. His next move is going to be a big one. And I doubt that this time it can be kept out of the papers."

"If that happens, there'll be panic."

"I agree, I agree. But you know, he might just try to warn you, tip you off."

"You think so?"

"Sure. We've established that he wants to get caught. Even though he's fighting it, he leaves the horses. He sends messages to you directly. I wouldn't be too surprised if he sends you something that could point to his next move."

"Sort of an advance warning?"

"Sure, call it that. If he does... we'll cross that bridge when it comes."

"Christ it would be easier to diffuse a bomb. In the dark and blindfolded."

"Sammy, that's exactly what we're trying to do. He is a ticking bomb."

# Chapter 10

The sky was beginning to lighten, and I could tell that the day was going to be as somber as my mood. My energy was depleted and the high I'd experienced during the night dissolved, and a mild depression began to fill the void. The caffeine edge had long been dulled, and I was overtaken by a lassitude that left me heavy and listless. My father figured a solid breakfast would put us on our feet, but I hadn't the heart to tell him bacon and eggs was the last thing I wanted. The smell of sizzling fat turned my stomach. I mentally willed myself to get up and take a shower.

The shower helped, but not a hell of a lot.

He'd made pancakes instead of eggs, to go with the bacon, which raised my spirits somewhat; it would be better than greasy eggs, sunny side up with the whites runny.

I shoved the food around my plate while he read the paper, ignoring me, leaving me to explore the world locked in my mind. I was wide awake, but in my head I was having nightmares. Horses, I thought chagrined, night horses.

I sipped more coffee to get rid of the funny taste in my mouth. Ever since I could remember, whenever fear gripped me, or I was overcome by anxiety, I'd get that feeling in my mouth. A kind of woolly, cottony feeling, a feeling that was textural more than taste. I even kept a package of mints in my bedside table in case I awoke in the night with the sensation. I drank coffee and ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth trying to scrape away the feeling. Finally, in desperation I got up and brushed my teeth.

On my way back to the kitchen the phone rang. It was Geoff.

"Hope I didn't disturb you."

"No, we're both up. Have been for a while actually. Just finishing breakfast."

"Good. Say, can you come over to the station?"

"Another one."

"Uh, no, thank God! Emile wants to know what the hell I'm doing to put an end to this guy. Figured I could use you in my corner, know what I mean? Fill in the details, since you are the expert so to speak."

"Sure. When?"

"ASAP."

I looked at my watch; it was just after seven. "I can be there before eight. I hope you told him that everything I have at this point is theoretical?"

"It's your theories he's interested in."

"Okay then. I'll be there."

"Great. I really appreciate it. By the way, when does Joan start? Eight isn't it?"

"Yes, but she's always early."

"Get her to drive you."

We said good-bye, and I poured myself yet another cup of coffee and the bell rang. Joan had never been quite this early. After greeting her warmly, my father excused himself and left the kitchen to get ready for his next order of business, hospital rounds.

I told her what Geoff said, and suggested she had time for a cup of coffee if she wanted. She declined my offer of breakfast, and I didn't blame her; the few remaining pancakes looked rubbery and unappealing.

The place was a mess, so I took a minute to clear the table and stack the dishes in the machine, tidying up a bit so Maria wouldn't think we were total degenerates.

That done, I got my jacket and purse and went through my obsessive ritual checking for keys and wallet and money. I had a sheaf of credit cards but somehow they never seemed like real money.

She drove skillfully, easing into a break in the traffic when the lights at University stopped the traffic on Pine. After a few blocks and several right-hand turns we headed west to the station and Geoff's office.

In spite of the early hour, the station was a hive of activity. Uniformed officers changing shifts, civilians coming to lodge complaints, a young man in handcuffs and a Fu Manchu mustache, his jeans torn at the knees. He kept protesting, and in spite of the restraints, shoved and pushed the arresting officer. The cop, whose age I guessed was in the forties, did his best to control him. Two hookers with their pimp moved towards us on their way out, and when they passed, Fu Manchu yelled obscenities and made vulgar kissing noises. The cop, lost his cool and struck him in the kidneys with his stick, shielding the act with his own body. The man cursed, but the blow subdued him.

Joan ignored the action. I followed her through the corridor, to a doorway at the end of the hall. We went through it and up a flight of stairs, my shoes echoing on the steel steps. One floor up, it was a lot quieter. We walked half the length of the corridor to Geoff's office.

He was on the phone, but saw us through the glass and waved us in. He hung up as we crossed the threshold.

"Hi. That was Ouellette," he said pointing to the phone. "Wanted to know if you were here yet. He'll be right in."

No sooner said than the man appeared.

"Hello, Dr. Milland," he said emphasizing the H in a conscious effort to avoid dropping it.

I hadn't seen him in three or four years, not since before the divorce. His hair was a little grayer, more like steel-wool the way it was brushed back, and he had put on a few pounds. But the years and the extra weight didn't hide the enormous store of pent up energy. His chest was broad, his neck and arms thick. He moved and carried himself with determination, a locomotive of a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it.

He motioned that Joan and I should sit, then closed the door, and stood in front of it at 'ease', the dominant buck, surveying his domain, Blocking the doorway the way he did, I was sure he wouldn't let me leave until I'd given up every fact and detail he wanted.

Geoff gave him a brief run-down on the case bringing the man up to speed. I needed the review like I needed another freshmen class.

Ouellette, listened without interrupting, but he watched our faces intently, mine in particular. When Geoff was finished, Ouellette stepped away from the door, took the wooden chair away from the wall, and straddled it, his forearms resting on the back. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows; it was my turn to speak. I felt ill at ease and intimidated. I uncrossed my legs and reached for my notes in my hand-bag and gave my account gaining a little composure in the process. I enjoyed public speaking. It was a high for me to perform, to have people listen to me and write notes so I could be quoted. But talking to Ouellette, I felt he was looking through me, thinking what I was saying was a complete crock.

He'd come up the hard way and didn't have much formal education. Geoff told me, but during his career, the man had taken a lot of professional courses relating to police work. He'd even been given a year's sabbatical to study advanced police technology in France. I tried not to feel intimidated. I was the expert, I told myself, invited here to give my views.

I gave him a detailed account of the events along with my interpretation of what they meant relative to the killer's mental condition.

"Thank you, Dr. Milland." I was pleased with the acknowledgment; he addressed the other two by their first names.

"This is all conjecture, isn't it? You have no real proof."

"That's correct. But I have, on good authority, a psychiatric evaluation supporting my ideas. Which is, of course, also based on what little information we have gathered." Meaning simply, the horses left at the crime scenes, and the ones I'd received.

"Of course. Your evaluation, Dr. Milland, seems much more than plausible. I have no problem _h'accepting_ your ideas. 'owever, as I've told Geoff. The media is climbing on my back. There's no way I can keep this out of the papers."

"I understand. Still, anything you can do to stall them would certainly help us."

"Hah!" he snorted. "You know the papers. Vultures! They smell a story like vultures smell death. They 'ave the same morals too." He hacked to clear his throat, spat the contents into a handkerchief and folded it into a side pocket in his jacket.

"I just hope that when the story breaks, it doesn't cause a panic. Remember?" he said to Geoff, "The slasher?"

"Before our time, Emile. But I do I remember reading about it."

"My mother told me," Emile continued. "She was a young woman at the time. The slasher used to cut women's' legs. On the back." He pointed to his calves. "When they were getting on the streetcar, that's when 'e would strike." He gestured how the slasher struck. "Long ago." He shook his head, disgusted with humanity.

He stood abruptly, pushed the chair back against the wall and came over to me to shake my hand.

"Thank you, Dr. Milland. And please, Sam. Take care of yourself. Please." He held hand my hand briefly before releasing it.

"Prends soin d'elle," he said to Joan, and pointed to his eyes, adding, "Ouverts. Toujours ouverts!" Then he stabbed his chest with a forefinger and admonished me to call him if I needed anything, anytime of day or night.

He opened the door nodded, and left. Geoff got up and closed the door softly.

"Christ, I'm glad that's over with. He's been on my back something fierce lately.

"I guess whoever his superior is, is on his case too."

"No doubt about that, Sam. You wouldn't believe the pecking order. Rule number one in this game is CYA -cover your ass!"

"Listen, Geoff. You still got a few minutes...?"

"Sure. Why?"

He sat back down, and I pulled my chair closer to his desk. Joan was scratching her ankle and stopped.

"I got another angle on this," I said. "Actually my father..."

"What? Jesus, Sam, why didn't you say so before he left. Christ, he'll think I'm holding out on him."

"I was going to. But I wanted to tell you two first."

"Sam," he said softly, repeating it three or four times shaking his head.

"Like you said, Geoff, the name of the game is 'cover your ass'. I didn't say anything because it's your case."

"My case. Shit. Okay, spill it." His jacket was off and his shirt-sleeves were rolled to his elbows. It wasn't warm but his armpits were wet. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward on the desk.

I told them what my father had said about contests and arenas, about man's instinctual drives and his quest for dominance over his primitive urges. They listened. Occasionally Joan asked a question or raised an eyebrow for clarification. When I'd finished, Geoff leaned back and let out his breath.

"I still think you should have brought all this up when he was here. Not that I'm not grateful for telling it to me first."

"Might be better this way," Joan offered. He looked at her.

"Like Sam, said, it is your case. You need an ace up your sleeve. If -I should say when - you crack this case, who's going to get the credit? Right. Ouellette will." She paused to let it sink in, then added, "You have to look after your own interests. If you don't try to make yourself look good, no one else is going to. Don't think for a minute he will." She nodded to the door. "He didn't get where he is by giving credit to everyone else."

Geoff didn't answer. One might move up by being right, but never by being righteous. I watched his face. I knew him well enough to see he was thinking about his career, the missed promotions.

"Okay. If we're going to crack this goddam case let's get the hell on it!" He looked at me and said, "If your father thinks this guy's got something planned that'll make headlines, we better get our heads together and figure out where the hell he's going to strike."

"We know it's going to have something to do with women," Joan said.

"That might not narrow the field much, but at least it's something to focus on." My words didn't sound very convincing.

"If you're father is on the right track, and this guy intends to make the six o'clock news- presumably he isn't planning to give us only one victim."

"Jesus, Joan. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? A mass murder?" Geoff stood up and began his pacing.

"A serial killer. Not the same," I said.

"Christ, not to a psychologist, but it is to me. As a cop, I still have to clean up after the bastard. Call it whatever you want, there'd still be multiple victims."

"Okay," I agreed. That's probably the operative word then. Multiple. And if he's planning something for the six o'clock news, maybe we should be thinking about the event, the circumstances. If we can figure out what, maybe we'll know when."

"I don't want to be too optimistic, but it starting to sound less and less like a long shot to me."

We looked at her.

"All this talk about arenas and contests. We should be looking for something centered around a sporting or athletic event. Specifically a contest."

"Joan, you're brilliant! You mean," he said, "something like a gymnastics' meet?"

I gave a low whistle. "We're hosting a women's' international gymnastics meet at the university. Next month I think."

Geoff blanched. "Jesus. How in hell can we monitor something like that? Even if we could watch all those women, we don't know for sure if that's where he's planning to strike. There must be dozens of events involving women. We can't begin to guess which one to cover."

"Sorry," Joan said. "But it might not be something that obvious. This guy is no fool. Maybe it's .. oh shit!" She threw her hands up in frustration.

"Well," I told her, "as sound as your idea is, there's no way we can outguess him. We're wasting our time. There are too many events. I just read there's a conference next week at the convention center. Feminists."

"There you go," he said. "It could be gymnastics. It could be feminists. Shit, it could be the Girl Guides. Or anything else in between. There's no way we can, or anyone can, second guess this bastard."

I had to agree; more women were going to die before we would catch him and put an end to his terror.

Later that day, my worst thoughts were realized.

I spent part of the afternoon on the sofa in my father's living room trying to catch up on some sleep. I'd never been one for snoozing; Geoff on the other hand, could take a ten-minute nap sitting upright in a chair and be totally energized by it. Dozing left me groggy and lethargic. After an uncomfortable hour I got up and did some paper work. That too was a dismal failure; concentrating on those freshmen term-papers was impossible. Checking the time I was surprised that my father wasn't home yet; it was twenty minutes to six. I went into the kitchen to see if there was anything for dinner. Perhaps Maria had left another of her Greek specialties in the fridge. The phone rang as I was about to check.

"Sammy?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Sorry I didn't call earlier. Just wanted to tell you I wouldn't be home for supper."

"Just as well, I didn't think to make anything."

"There's moussaka in the fridge. Maria said she'd make enough for two."

"God bless her."

"So help yourself. I'll be late. I'm having dinner with Bill and Pauline."

"Just the three of you?"

"Now who's the Yenta?"

"Have a good time, Dad. See you when I see you."

"Bye, Sammy. Don't wait up."

"Okay, I get it." No need to beat me on the head, I thought. I hung up and chuckled at how our roles were reversed. No doubt he could explain it all to me in Freudian terms. I looked in the fridge and found the casserole covered with Saran. I peeled back the corners and put it in the microwave, setting the timer for five minutes. While waiting I took a serving tray from the sideboard and set it with a plate and cutlery. After hunting and finally finding the diet cokes in the bottom of the pantry behind the onions, the five minutes were up and the timer beeped. I rotated the dish a quarter turn, and reset it for another three minutes.

By the time I was ready to eat, it was just after six. I took the tray into the living room, put it on the coffee table pulling it close to the sofa, then clicked the remote to turn on the TV.

The news was in progress, and as the newscaster came into focus I caught the end of a sentence.

"........ girls slain, apparently strangled. The four young women were discovered earlier this afternoon when some joggers came upon the grizzly scene. John Reasbeck is there live."

The scene shifted to a wooded park area. Reasbeck, his face and voice totally free of emotion, continued the report.

"Thank you, Bill. Here on Mount Royal, just two hours ago, a group of joggers from the YMCA were in the middle of a training run, when one of them who had stopped to tie his shoe, spotted one of the victims here in these bushes." He pointed and the camera slowly zoomed. Reasbeck continued:

"He called to his buddies who stopped and came back to investigate. To their horror, they found not one, but four young women lying side by side, dead, on the cold, damp earth."

The scene flashed back to the studio. The newscaster said at this time there were no additional details and continued with his broadcast -something about natives and a blockaded bridge.

I clicked the remote, too stunned to watch, too stunned to eat.

# Chapter 11

Geoff was immediately called to the scene and got tied up with the investigation. The media were having a field day calling for an immediate inquiry into the investigation and demanding to know why there had been a news blackout; they didn't buy the bit about maintaining public security and preventing panic.

"Jesus, Sam. They're all over Ouellette and you know what that means. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place, and as I'm at the bottom of the totem pole there's no one to pass the buck to. Ouellette knew what he was doing when he named me the unofficial official investigator on this. Shit, that only makes the whole thing look a lot worse, doesn't it? Like I intentionally tried to hush this up." In a whisper he added, "Which, by the way I have to admit is true. Unfortunately my so-called 'good intentions' got lost in the shuffle."

I felt a little responsible for his predicament since it was my idea to exclude Ouellette. If he ever caught wind of that, he'd think Geoff deliberately tried to deceive him, and Geoff's career would come to an abrupt halt. Politics. The only way for Geoff to come out on top would be to solve the crime.

"Did he leave anything this time?"

"Not a damn thing."

"No horses?"

"No, Sam. Nothing. Nada."

"Sorry. I just thought..."

"No don't apologize, it's my fault. I'm a little edgy."

"But you're sure it's him?"

"Positive. MO's the same. They were strangled just like the others. And like the others, he placed them to look natural, but this time looks like he tried to hide them. Didn't do a bad job."

"What I want to know is how on earth did he get them there without being seen?"

"Yeah. Nothing suspicious reported. Not a damn thing."

"How long were the bodies there?"

"You want to know when they died?"

"Do you know?"

"Not to the minute, obviously. But the coroner says they didn't all die at the same time. Times of death range over a couple of days. But the four of them were brought here together. Probably late last night sometime."

"Jesus, you'd think the odds would be for someone to have heard or seen something."

"Yeah? I gave up relying on what the odds suggested a long time ago. People use the park a lot. Joggers. Strollers. But people stick to the trail. The bush is pretty dense. Hard to see anything. You couldn't really see them in the bushes if you were running or even just walking on the trail. When that guy stopped to tie his shoe, he had just the right vantage. A few feet either way he probably wouldn't have noticed."

"Not until the bushes lost their leaves."

"Good point. Do you think he wanted them found so soon?"

I didn't answer.

"I got to hang up now, Sam. Ouellette's called a meeting. I'll get back to you later."

"Can you come over? I don't care how late it is."

"Sure, okay. Bye."

It was six forty-five by the kitchen clock. I went back to the living room and looked at the food. I pushed it around the plate and even tried a few bites. It was unpalatable and reheating it was no improvement. Even the coke was flat. I tried to watch some television but couldn't concentrate so I turned it off.

I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew the door bell chimed and the room was dark. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was. The bell chimed again. I opened to Geoff with his thumb still on the button.

"You had me worried, Sam. I've been ringing and ringing."

"Mmmm. Fine," I said, drowsily, "I dozed off on the sofa."

He came in, handed me a parcel, then took off his coat.

"What's this?"

"One guess, Sam. One guess. It was on the step, against your door." I put it down quickly on the hall table.

"Want me to open it?," he asked.

I nodded and stood back. He picked it up, and I followed him into the kitchen. The package was about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He put it down carefully and gave it a thorough visual inspection. Then he picked it up, turned it over a few times to check it again. He cut the string and peeled away the paper. This time he had used a paper grocery bag with the store logo facing against the package.

It was an ordinary white cardboard shoe box with the labels torn off. Cautiously, he removed the lid. The inside had been stuffed with tissue paper, crumpled to fill the voids. He removed the stuffing; standing nose to nose were two pairs of rocking horses.

"Oh, that miserable bastard!" he said. "That miserable bastard. How long is he going to keep this up." He walked away from the box in disgust. I peeked in, and carefully brought the four horses to the table.

"Well, professor, what do you make of them?"

"Hell, I don't know what to think any more." We stared at them as if expecting them to take off at a gallop at any moment.

Four horses. And although they were as well crafted as the others, for some reason they seemed crude, unnatural. Four horses. One white. One red. One black. And one of an indeterminate colour, a greenish, bluish gray, like lead.

Geoff was shaking his head, cursing them softly under his breath. He ran his fingers nervously through his hair, separating the strands into greasy clumps. He needed a shave and his eyes had sunken into the dark smudges under his brow.

I studied the horses, picking them up one by one. They had a medieval, gothic quality. Sinister. One on the riders held a sword. Another was holding a set of balances. A third held a bow.

"I'm stumped." I said and put them on the table facing him.

He picked up the dark one. The rider, his face a death mask, was cloaked and hooded. He held a scythe.

"The Grim Reaper," he said. "What could be more fitting?" I took it from him.

"You know? I think you're right!"

"What?"

"The Grim Reaper. Look at him. Death on a horse."

"What are you driving at?"

"Death. Wasn't he one of the Four Horsemen?"

"What four horsemen?"

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"Hell, Sam. You know Bible studies wasn't in the curriculum at the academy."

"Not exactly my major either. But I know someone who should be able to help." I got my address book and looked up Alistair's number. I was about to dial when Geoff reminded me of the time; it was well past eleven.

"Shit. I guess tomorrow will be soon enough."

"It'll keep," he agreed. "There's damn little we can do tonight anyway. Might as well let him sleep at least."

"Speaking of sleep. Why don't you stay the night? You're a wreck!"

"Occupational hazard. But as for staying, I don't know.... what about Gregor?"

"He'd probably stand up and cheer. Actually he's out for the evening. Told me not to wait up. Unless I miss my guess, he won't be back before breakfast." I got up and put my arms around him. I could feel the tenseness in his back and shoulders.

"You're wound tight as a spring. Want me to help you relax?" I looked up into his eyes.

"Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge," he murmured.

The wink, wink, part did nothing for me.

The nudge, nudge, was terrific.

# Chapter 12

Knowing the Reverend Alistair Andrews had a busy schedule, I called during breakfast to make sure I wouldn't miss him. He was married with three school-aged children -no danger of waking up the Andrews' household.

It was fortunate I called when I did. He said he could spare an hour providing I could get there before eight-thirty and drop him downtown on my way back. He was pastoral animator at one of the inner-city high schools two afternoons a week, and today was particularly important.

"We're holding assemblies. Topic is safe sex. I have to be there early to meet with the guest speakers."

"Be glad to drive you," I said. I hung up, told Geoff, then got dressed.

"Got to run," I told him. "Can you let yourself out?"

"No problem, you go ahead. I'll be right behind you. I don't need your father to come home and find me like this in his robe."

"Don't worry. Besides it'll make him feel less guilty for staying out all night.

"We'll talk later." I kissed him on the cheek and gave him a playful squeeze where the robe didn't quite close.

It was five after eight when I got there. The Andrews lived in the north end of the city, and the traffic was horrendous. Man in his quest to improve his lifestyle was forever rearranging the surface of the planet, hauling sand and stone from one place to another; converting dead fish and trees into road surfaces, building and rebuilding but never progressing. All these roads leading nowhere reminded me of a time last winter when the weather had been too severe for me to run. For a couple of days I did laps at the gym. Bob, the custodian with the roving eye, made a production out of sweeping the gym. After each lap he'd ask, 'where are you going' and shake his head and laugh. He had really pissed me off. I thought about it now and still didn't have an answer.

I pulled up in front of a row of three-story buildings and checked the address in my book. They occupied one of the lower flats. The ground floor had access to the backyard and with three kids, they needed all the space they could get. I went up the well-worn steps and pressed the buzzer. The bell triggered a long wail that got steadily louder. Through the curtained window I made out a woman carrying a baby. She approached and opened the door. The wailing stopped abruptly, and a red-faced baby, hardly more than two, stared at me bewildered.

"Hi, you must be Dr. Milland. Come in please." She stepped back, smiling. I'm not sure what I expected, but she didn't look like a minister's wife. She was younger than I, not over twenty-five, and had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Her child, who now had a finger rammed up his nose, had the same eyes.

"Thank you. And it's Sam."

"I'm Denise and this is Sarah." She dipped in a mock curtsy and the baby started up again.

"Oh, dear. She's cutting a tooth I'm afraid and seems to be a little cranky.

"Alistair," she called.

He came out from behind the sofa in the living room holding a bunch of the little Fisher Price People.

"They should outlaw these things. Or at least change the design so they don't roll away." He stood up and came over handing the toys to his wife.

"Hi, Sam, come on in. I see you've already met Denise and Sarah." He turned to the baby and explained that we had the same name, but Sarah wasn't impressed. She took the bus driver from her mother and started chewing it.

"I'll leave the two of you to your work. I hope her crying won't disturb you, Sam."

"Of course not. She's just beautiful. She can make all the noise she wants."

"Hah. No kids of your own, I see." Denise laughed.

"Not yet," I answered, and I thought of Geoff.

Denise left the room and Alistair motioned me to the sofa. Against the wall, partly concealed by the open door was a floor to ceiling book case crammed with books, papers, newspaper clippings, and a large box of Crayola crayons, some of which lay spilled on the floor.

He closed the door, leaving it, as my father would say, discreetly ajar, and picked up the crayons putting them on the desk. The desk was an old door supported at each end by several tiers of bricks.

"So. How can I help you, Sam?" He knew more or less what I was involved with as it had come up during tutorial sessions. I took the horses out of my handbag, the recent acquisitions, and put them on the make-shift desk. He put on his glasses and motioned me with a wave to sit next to him. He picked them up one at a time, looked them over. He didn't speak, but his face changed expressions frequently, sometimes serious, or inquisitive but never amused.

"You're right. I'd have to agree that they represent the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse." He stared at me and asked, "Know anything about them?"

I shook my head.

"Book of Revelations? St. John the Divine?"

I shook my head again.

"That doesn't ring a bell? Okay. They represent the Four Terrors, if we can call them that, from the Book of Revelations. New Testament. The Four Terrors were unleashed when the Seals were broken. There are seven seals. The Four Horsemen represent the first four seals. Apocalypse means revelation. Okay? It's an account of what will befall the human race because of their evil ways. They have to change their ways or else. I won't get into anything interpretive; I doubt if it's germane to your case, but for your interest, the Seven Seals are on the Book shown to St. John in a vision. According to John, there was no one on earth worthy enough to open and look upon the Book. No one except a slain lamb. Anyway, the slain lamb took the Book and opened it.

"The Book told that the End was at hand because evil was rampant. Destruction would occur in stages. Seven stages -one for each of the seals. It's rather complex with considerable symbolism. Anyway, the End would be characterized by total destruction because of evil in the world. At that time in history the world was in turmoil. There was evil in international affairs, in social life, and in the structure of the universe. God wouldn't intervene until the worst had come."

"Not much seems to have changed," I interrupted. He laughed ruefully.

"No, Sam, I guess it hasn't. Anyway, these Four Horsemen were the first messengers of destruction." He looked at them and picked up the white horse.

"This one stands for conquest. See the bow? And his crown? He's the personification of conquest. The bow is the emblem of the warrior."

He handed it to me, looked at the remaining three, then picked up the red one.

"This one. With the sword. His mission is to take peace from the world. Man, through war, is going to destroy his kind. The colour red, and the sword clearly indicate war. Civil strife will be rampant."

"How do these two differ then? The white one and the red. They both symbolize war, don't they?"

"Yes, that's true. But the white one says man will be conquered. Historians -some of them- think it's a reference to the turmoil that existed then. Don't forget, there was a lot of political unrest at that time. In particular, life under Roman rule was pretty harsh. Especially against the minorities. And Christians were clearly a minority group.

"Now this conquest, whether general or only of the Roman Empire by the dreaded hordes of Parthian Horsemen, is still debated by scholars. In any event, the bow was the weapon of choice for the Parthians, special to them, and the object of dread by their enemies. However, in the Old Testament bow might just mean warrior. John may be using the word simply in that context and may not be referring to the Parthian Horsemen at all.

"Now this one, the rider with the sword. He takes peace away. Civil unrest, brother pitted against brother so to speak, a civil war." He placed the red horse next to the white one, parallel to each other and facing me.

"Horse number three presented itself when the third seal was broken. Black. This one is very interesting. Actually, I find the whole thing fascinating from a historical perspective. The balance -see the scales in his hand? They hold a measure of wheat. In those days, wheat or grain was essential. Bread was the staff of life, and still is in some places. Now. One measure of wheat was enough to sustain a man for one day. By our standards a measure would be about a quart, and in the currency of that time, the cost in silver would be approximately twenty cents. This represented a day's wage. Twenty cents might not be much, but considering it represented a day's wage, you can figure the value.

"This rider in black," he flicked it with his finger, "symbolizes the apocalyptic woe of famine."

He looked at me and added, "Pretty heavy shit, isn't it?"

"So far," I said, "it looks like after all these years we still have the same problems."

"No argument from me, Sam. That's why, I guess, a lot of people, fundamentalists mostly, are predicting the end. It's been supposedly coming for two thousand years." He made a face.

"In one form or another, I suppose it's already upon us," I said. "Just read the papers."

He put the horse beside the other two and moved the last one so it would stand alone. It rocked slowly, perfectly balanced.

"This one," he said, "is the Pale Horse. Plays have been written about it. Movies too. Did you see _Pale Rider_ with Clint Eastwood?"

I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn't into westerns.

"Well, anyway. The Pale Horse -incidentally, the word pale means green, more accurately it's a sickly kind of greenish-grey. As I was saying, the Pale Horse is a symbol of death, with Hades following. In the scriptures Death and Hell are personified and shown as riding on the same beast. John describes death as Pestilence, and as a single rider. Pestilence is the usual sequel to war, internal strife, and famine- see the scythe? probably for failed crops. And that's still true today. When sanitation procedures are destroyed -disease and pestilence follow pretty quickly." He put it down beside the others. Four horses, four agents of destruction, poised to ride rough-shod over me.

"This guy sure has a sick imagination, Sam."

"Yeah. Tell me about it!" I managed a lop-sided grin." These horses... the apocalypse..."

"Yes...?"

"He's telling me something- he's making a prediction if you will- that in a sense he's the personification of these Four Agents of Destruction."

"That's how I read them. But I'm only explaining the symbols from a Biblical and historical perspective. You'd know better than I how they relate to him."

"I'm not so sure about that anymore."

"These Four Agents of Destruction, as you call them, originally they protected the world from the four corners. They were angels. They became, not so much agents of destruction, but agents to inflict punishment on the evil human race."

"So you think he's saying that he's justified in what he's doing? That he's meting out punishment, killing those girls to punish them."

"Well, that's how it seems to me. That's the mandate of the Four Horsemen. Take it from there."

"About the colours. Anything significant there?"

He furrowed his brow, and rubbed his forehead, strong biceps straining the rolled sleeves of his shirt. "Nothing out of the ordinary. White is the conqueror. You know, as in white knight. Red.... blood, obviously. Passion and rage and fury too. Black. Again that's obvious. And the pale horse? -an unnatural colour, sickly from disease. I can't say that the colours suggest anything of greater significance."

"Still need a ride downtown?" It was twenty to ten.

"Sure do. That way I can leave the van for Denise."

"Is that it then? No questions?"

"No. I think you've covered it. And I do appreciate your time."

"No problem. My pleasure. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? You must think I'm a terrible host."

"That would be great, but what about your appointment?"

"We've time. As long as I get there around eleven so I can meet with the students' council."

"It's no more than a twenty minute ride. Even in traffic."

"Come on then. Denise has a fresh pot on, I can smell it. You don't mind taking it in the kitchen?"

"Kitchen's fine." I followed him. She'd not only made coffee. I could smell cinnamon.

After coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls, I was ready to be launched on my way. And launched was the right word. The way I'd been eating lately, I felt I had the displacement of the Queen Mary.

He insisted on walking to the school from my place so I parked in front of the house and let him out. He looked incongruous in his grey suit and clerical collar; I was used to him in jeans and sweatshirts. I wondered how he dressed when he counseled at the prison. Dressing casually wouldn't command authority, while the austerity of clerical garb might put too much distance between him and the people he was trying to help. Everything was illusion. The trick was in choosing the _right_ one, rather than the _real_ one. Finding your way in a hall of mirrors was easy by comparison. I watched him walk away, checking his long stride against the steep downward slope, when he turned the corner I went in.

My father was home. He'd been in long enough to change his clothes and get ready for his afternoon appointments. He sat in the kitchen dusting the gloss on his shoes with a hand towel.

"Hi, Sammy. Any new developments?"

"You better believe it." I put my purse on the table and took off my jacket draping it over a chair. He looked up at me and stopped polishing. While waiting for me to speak, he folded the towel carefully and put it on the table. I picked it up and put in the drawer with the shoe brush and other odds and ends. Still he said nothing, accustomed to my ways, but his eyes followed all my moves.

"You heard? About last night?"

"Yes. But only what was reported in the news. What did they leave out, Sammy?"

I told him about the horses we found on the steps. "As a matter of fact," I said, "I've just come from Alistair's. You know, the minister I told you about in my graduate class?" He nodded, and as I was about to explain he said:

"Sammy. Can this keep? Only until dinner. I'm sorry, but I've got patients all afternoon. The first one's due in about ten minutes." He looked at his wrist, then glanced quickly at the wall clock. I noticed a scabbed scratch where the Rolex would have been.

"Uh, sure. I'm not going anywhere." He came over and uncharacteristically put his arms around me. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'd like to hear it now, but..."

"It's okay, Dad. It'll keep till dinner. Give me some time to sort it all out. Tend to your patients."

He hugged me. It felt good, but at the same time made me feel a little foolish.

"Shall I get lost?"

"No, no. Well, maybe until after she arrives. Do you mind?"

"Maybe I should put on a white uniform. Pretend to be your nurse."

"Not a bad idea. I need all the tax deductions I can get." He laughed and just then the door bell rang. I went into my room to be discretely out of the way.

I threw myself on the bed and lay back with my hands behind my head thinking about how we clung to convention in spite of our desperations in asserting our individuality. Here I was, hiding, out of sight, so my father wouldn't have to explain who I was, justify my presence. I could dress up, pretend to be his nurse, or receptionist; that would be okay; his patients would accept that. Deceptions are more readily believed than the truth.

Camouflage. The uniform of the day. Alistair in his turned around collar. Jeans -the nonconformist uniform of youth. Geoff in his trench coat. Me. Striving to appear conservative and low key, but wouldn't be caught dead wearing cheap clothes. In spite of my camouflage, I wanted to reek with success, to tell the world that I'd arrived.

I stared at the ceiling watching the shifting patterns, shadows cast by the tree outside my window, and thought about the horses, the apocalypse. I tried to fathom the message and unmask his thoughts. We all wore masks. For protection. For camouflage. What was hidden behind the horses, behind his mask?

I dreamt of my brother again. The same dream with the hats. He was a young child, younger than I remembered. He sat playing with the hats, stacking them, putting them in rows, putting his toy cars in them. He laughed in the way kids laugh when they're happy, secure, totally involved with their games. When his laughter changed to anxious crying, I woke up. The dream was always the same, and I'd wake up feeling hollow and sensing a terrible loss. I rubbed my eyes and swallowed a few times to get rid of that taste then got up and padded to the bathroom in stockinged feet to brush my teeth. When I came out of the bathroom, my father was poking his head into the room.

"Hi. I heard you call out a couple of times. That dream again?"

I nodded and sat down heavily on the bed. He knew about it although I had never told him the details, and I know he didn't believe me when I said I couldn't remember much about it. It was so vivid I often woke up shouting my brother's name.

"You still bothered by it?"

"No, not really. I haven't dreamed it in a long time."

"Stress," he said. "You've had enough of that lately. The details still fuzzy?" He watched my face.

"Yeah. Just faint images," I lied.

"Well one day, maybe you'll remember and we can talk about it."

To avoid looking at him I bent down and put on my shoes. I could never tell him. He had his own nightmare.

"What you need is a change of scenery and a good meal. Let's dress up and go out to eat."

"On one condition. It's my treat."

"You're on, Sammy. Where would you like to go?"

"You choose."

"How about the Troika." I made a face.

"Too noisy," he said. "I know. How about that little Italian place? You know, the one with all the little horrible statues?"

So we went to the place with all the little horrible plaster replicas. The Renaissance masters would be spinning in their graves. But as bad as the art was the food was excellent.

The place was small and busy, but the booths were private and quiet enough so diners could talk intimately without fear of being overheard.

By the time our food arrived, I had single-handedly demolished most of the bread as well as my father's patience.

"Come on, Sammy. Give."

I told him about the four girls on the mountain, and Geoff's theories. I told him about the four horses, and how they had been delivered. When I told him how Alistair related the horses to Biblical references of the Apocalypse, he was beside himself.

"Fascinating, Sammy. Absolutely incredible!"

"It is incredible, isn't it? But it doesn't bring us any closer to a solution. As far as Geoff is concerned, the only way this case is going to be cracked is if the killer makes a mistake. And who knows how many girls he'll kill before that happens."

"He may even stop killing. Of his own accord."

"You think that's possible?"

"Yes. To let things cool down."

"You don't think he might quit altogether?"

"Mmmm. I doubt it. He's bound to resume eventually. Then again he might not give it up at all. There's really no way for us to know."

"Well, I hope Geoff's right. And if our killer does screw up, I hope it's soon."

He nodded, looked at his wrist, and made a face. "What's the time, Sammy? I left my watch at the hospital. I was timing a patient. A test."

"Nine thirty," I said. "Do you want to go?"

"If you don't mind."

I signaled the waiter; he still had work to do. 

# Chapter 13

The next few days were quiet and with very little happening. As much as possible I did my best to lead a so-called normal life. Joan still followed me, rather at this stage in our relationship she was more like a companion. My father had even hired a security agency to keep tabs on me, but their duties centered mostly on monitoring the house. As time went on though, all the security measures were beginning to wear on my nerves.

After my Wednesday morning class, I sat shuffling papers in my office. Joan was reading and seemed to take a genuine interest in the professional magazines, in particular, Harry's subscription to _Justice_ and _Lawyer_.

There was a knock on the door and Geoff entered, his coat open and rumpled, hands thrust deep into the pockets.

"Hi," I said cheerfully. "Nothing new to report, I hope."

"No new murders, if that's what you mean." His tone was cryptic. I put my pen down and looked at him.

"What's the matter; what happened?"

He didn't answer, just stared at me a few seconds before looking at Joan and saying, "Joan, do you mind leaving us for a few minutes? Maybe you could grab a cup of coffee."

"Huh? Oh, sure." She looked at me and winked, but I knew by his tone the request for privacy wasn't romantically motivated. She left quietly taking along the magazine.

After making sure the door was closed and locked he came over and sat down in front of me.

"What is it, Geoff. You look like you've lost your best friend."

"Sam..." He cleared his throat and moved the chair closer to the desk. "You're not far wrong." He hesitated again and said finally, "Jesus, Sam, I don't know how to say..."

"Geoff! What! Is it my father? Is he hurt? Tell me!" I was out of my chair leaning across the desk to him.

"No, no. You're father's fine. He hasn't been in an accident."

"Well, what is it then...?" I said, relieved.

He looked at me, his expression full of pity, and I got angry. He took his hand out of his pocket slowly and put the object on my desk. It was a watch. A Rolex. And I recognized it immediately as my father's because of the distinctive gold band.

"You're sure he's alright. Geoff, if you're holding out on me..."

"No, no. Sam your father's fine."

"Then what the hell's going on?" I shouted. "Jesus, Geoff, what are you doing with his watch?"

"We found it. It was lying next to the bodies, in the bushes. The four girls on the mountain. "

"What the hell are you telling me, Geoff?" I came around and stood in front of him. "What the hell are you saying, Geoff. That he killed them? Are you telling me my father killed those girls?" I shouted.

"No. All I'm saying is that the watch was there."

"No! That's not all you're saying. What you mean is the watch was there so he had to have been there too. And I say, that's nuts. You hear me? THAT. IS. NUTS!" The watch jumped each time I pounded the desk moving closer and closer to the edge. He picked it up before it fell.

"Oh, that bastard! Geoff, surely you don't..."

"Of course not! There has to be an explanation. No way I think your father's involved. No way, Sam. Believe me." He came around and wrapped his arms around me.

"But with his watch being there...." He didn't finish the thought.

"You're goddam right there's an explanation. Can't you see that it had to be planted? Whoever trashed my place could have easily gone into my father's and taken it."

"Of course it was planted. Don't you think I know your father well enough? But this is a police investigation."

"You're scaring the hell out of me, Geoff." I walked over to the sofa and sat down.

"Sam. What I feel isn't enough. Police work isn't done that way. And I wish the hell I could wash my hands of this... this whole thing." He gestured wildly, his voice loud.

"What are you not telling me, Geoff? What's the problem then?" He got up and came over to sit beside me. Petulantly I got up and stood at the window staring out.

"The problem is, even though the evidence is circumstantial, it doesn't look good. Finding the watch at the scene doesn't necessarily place him there. But the watch isn't the only damning evidence."

I turned and faced him. As much as I was filled with rage Geoff seemed filled with remorse. This made me even angrier.

"There's blood on the watch. His blood."

"How can you know that?" I recalled the scratch on his wrist.

"The lab report. The DNA test."

"What DNA test? The DNA test confirmed it? How? You need a comparison.... Oh, Geoff."

"I know," he said softly. I am so sorry. But the lab guys took some hairs from his clothes when he was arrested. There`s no doubt that blood on the watch is a match for your father."

"Geoff. It is his watch. I know that."

"I know, but the test had to be made. To be sure."

I stood at the window my arms folded across my chest, and looked at him. His face was full of regret. I went back to the sofa and sat down, overwhelmed by a feeling of total defeat.

"The watch was planted, Geoff. I don't dispute it's his watch. DNA or not. But it had to be planted."

"Okay," he said. " _Was_ planted. But not to get your hopes up- the saliva-from the bites? The DNA proved it was from another donor."

"Well that's great! I told you he couldn't have done this. Obviously it's the killer's DNA."

"Yes. But there is still doubt. This could mean two people are involved. One of whom..."

"I know what it means! But I know how this is going to work, Geoff. They're going to go over him with a fine tooth comb looking for a way to pin this on him instead of going after the real killer."

"That's not it at all, Sam. You know that. But we have to follow procedure."

"Sure. Procedure. Have you checked his car yet?"

"No yet."

"And what about the times the girls were killed. Not just the last four. Have you checked his alibis?"

"We haven't even spoken to him yet. I convinced Emile to let me handle it. I came to you first."

"Whoopee!" I said and twirled my hand in the air.

"Sam. I'm sorry." He came over and sat beside me. I didn't pull away when he put his arm on mine.

"Oh, Geoff. What am I going to do?" I buried my face in his shoulder and choked back the tears swallowing hard.

"He didn't do it, Geoff. You've got to believe that. The night those four girls were killed he wasn't home. He had a date and dinner at some friends. Check them out. You'll see. He was at Bill and Pauline Humber's."

"Then, he's got nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? Shit. I know how these things work. They'll impound his car. Search the goddam house. Put him through hell. And if they find nothing, they'll keep at it until they do find something incriminating no matter how remote. By then his reputation will be ruined as well as his health. Jesus, Geoff it'll kill him. And you say he has nothing to worry about."

"Now that's really bullshit! It won't kill him. Give your old man some credit. He'll come out of it in one piece."

"Oh sure. You know how hard you guys work to make the least bit of evidence stick. Emile just wants to close the case. He doesn't care who gets nailed. Christ, he'd hang his own father."

"Come on, Sam. You're not being fair. If he nails the wrong guy, that won't stop the murders. Believe me, he can't afford to waste time trying to pin this on anyone who happens along."

"When do you plan to arrest him?"

"Arrest him? I told you, we haven't even spoken to him."

I moved back and dug a tissue out of my shirt pocket and blew my nose. I balled it up and tossed it at the waste basket. "You've probably got the warrant in your pocket." He didn't deny it, but his face reddened.

"Look," I said, "can I talk to him first?  It'll give him a heart attack if it comes right out of the blue."

"Would you like me to be there with you?"

"Why? So you can throw the cuffs on him and drag him off?" I'd no sooner said it, than I regretted it. His face crumpled.

"Forgive me, Geoff. That was cruel. It's not your fault, and I'm taking it all out on you."

"I know how you feel, Sam. And I don't want to arrest him, believe me. But I'll be damned if I let anyone else do it!"

"Bet you're sorry you took the case, huh?"

"For a lot of reasons, but this isn't one of them. When are you going to tell him? I can't wait too long. Certainly not another twenty four hours."

"Tonight. I'll talk to him tonight."

"You're sure you don't want me there. Moral support."

"For Dad, or me?" He shrugged.

"No. I don't think so. This is something between the two of us. Thanks anyway." He sighed, rubbed his hands again, on his knees, and stood up.

"Are you going to be okay? I have to get back to the office, but I don't want to leave you like this."

"Go on. Go do your damn job! I'll be okay." Joan had come back and waited in the hall. Her shadow fell across the pebbled glass. I nodded to the door and said, "Does she know?"

"No. I'll brief her before I go back to the office."

"Let me do it, okay? Otherwise I'll feel like you're talking behind my back."

"Sure, if you want to."

"I do." He went to the door, nodding briefly to Joan as he left.

"Boy," she said, striding in. "What's with him -somebody die?"

I told her.

"Oh, shit," she said.

Joan's car was parked in front of my house. She wanted to go and get it, and drive me home. I told her how lousy I thought her idea was, and ended up apologizing for my unpleasantness.

"You're right. It is a dumb idea. What you need is a good, brisk walk. So let's get the hell out of here."

The cool air did feel good. It whipped up dust and debris, flinging bits of grit that stung my face. When we got home, I was breathless. I rushed up the stone steps, tripped on the last one, stubbed my toe and banged my head on the door as I fell forward. I cursed more out of embarrassment than pain. Joan had the grace not to laugh, and went back to the car. As far as I cared, she could go to the moon. Still cursing I let myself in, and when I saw myself in the mirror I started to cry.

The house was oppressive.

My father had closed all the windows because of the cool and unpredictable weather. On the other hand, I liked to keep the windows open, even in the dead of winter. I went to my room, closed the door then opened the window as wide as it would go. It looked out over the gravel parking area separating our buildings from the others on the next block. Smells and noise assaulted me. I breathed deeply, sucking in the fetid city air.

I stood at the window crying, tears of rage and fury coursing down my cheeks, anger erupting from every pore. I was mad at myself for having doubts about his innocence and at that moment I hated him for the possibility that he might be guilty. I hated him too for abandoning me, for all the years of deceit, and secrets about my mother and brother.

I threw myself on the bed and raged, smashing the pillow again and again. Exhausted, I went the bathroom, stripped and showered. Scourged by scalding water, I emerged red and raw. I powdered and perfumed myself, fixed my hair, and put on one of my new outfits. I still felt dirty.

I went into his study and looked at the room trying to get a glimpse of the real Dr. Milland, trying to see if this room belonged to a man who could do those terrible things. My own training had been too thorough. I no longer knew what was real. What was reality anyway but the interpretation of perceptions. Illusion became real, the fantasy manifested. And when the vision is destroyed -then what? Reality. Fantasy. Illusion. How do you keep them apart? From shifting, sliding, merging?

I looked at his desk. Everything neat as a pin. Pens and pencils in a holder. A memo pad at the top of the blotter. The news article about the case, its corner tucked neatly under the paperweight. I looked at his books, the stacks of papers. The cassettes neatly piled and coded, so only he knew what the labels meant. I went to his file cabinet and pulled out the drawers, fanning the files with my thumb. The cardboard clicked making the same sound a cigarette package makes when you attach it to your bike spokes. I slammed the drawer and proceeded to the next one.

I shuffled through until I got to the M's, surprised at the one marked MILLAND. I felt like a thief, but curiosity and the need to know overwhelmed me. I opened the file. Newspaper clippings, yellow and brittle were fastened with a paper clip. I handled the clippings carefully and read my heart pounding.

Seven year old son of doctor missing

Volunteers man search party to find missing boy

In a daze, I read the articles. My brother, my poor brother had gone missing. It had been speculated that he'd been abducted. Others seemed to think that he had gotten lost in the woods or perhaps drowned in the surf that faced the cottage. I never really knew what had happened, and now as I read, the evidence wasn't conclusive, but when I saw the last article I was shattered.

Mother of child suspected of foul play.

Several weeks had gone by without a word from the would be abductors. The authorities, judging by the articles, began to suspect that my mother was responsible for his disappearance. However nothing could be proved since there was no body. They didn't accuse her outright, but the tone was clear. After the disappearance, my mother suffered a total mental breakdown and had to be institutionalized. She was put away and the case faded. She was never charged; evidence had been insufficient, but the media nevertheless had condemned her. I closed the file, returned it to its place and closed the drawer. I sat on the floor for a long time. Finally when I came out of my funk, I retrieved the file, and after making sure I had disturbed nothing else in his study, took it and went to my room. I still needed answers.

We never spoke of them. There'd been oblique references, sure, like -'mother would be proud of you' or 'he really loved macaroni and cheese', but other than that we never spoke of them.

I thought about the dead girls and the watch. I thought about the news article on his desk and I got scared. Could he have killed those girls? My mind raced, dredging up from the depths all kinds of incriminating thoughts. I pushed them back trying to deny what I knew.

A vision of the killer formed in my mind based on the profiles we had drawn of him. I squeezed my eyes tight to shut out the image of my father.

Like the profile, my father was a product of a broken home. Both he and his mother abandoned by his father. His mother kept a boarding house in order to make ends meet. Times were tough in those days. My father, by his own admission, had been a scrapper in school. He'd been a kid with a huge chip on his shoulder who'd fight at the drop of a hat. It was years, he once confided to me, before he managed to keep his temper in check.

The profile again.

A man with an unpredictable nature.

A temper.

A man prone to violent outbursts.

"I lived in a house where erratic behavior was the norm" he said. "For no reason at all, I'd get yelled at or hit. Then I'd be sent away." I remember him laughing, unable to hide the bitterness, when he told me this. I suppose he was sent away so she'd be free to entertain her boarders.

The profile.

A psychopath.

It wasn't true.

It couldn't be.

I stared at the files. They didn't tell me a hell of a lot, at least not what I needed to know, and it scared me. He wasn't a young man. He smoked, drank, was overweight. The shock of being accused and arrested could kill him. And no matter how I broke the news it would be a terrible blow.

"Hey, Dad. Did you kill those girls?"

"Who me? No dear, of course not. It was someone else."

"Oh, okay." End of discussion.

Or how about, "By the way, Dad. Geoff is coming over to arrest you, you know for the 'rocking horse murders'. Thought you'd like to know."

Christ. If the shock killed him I'd be a murderer too. Hell, keep it in the family, eh?

The doorbell rang startling me, ending the kaleidoscope images. I went to the door. It was my father. I let him in.

I'm not very good at keeping emotion out of my face, and he could see that something was eating me. He put his hat and coat in the closet and dropped his scarf on the hall table as he passed by.

"Good God, Sammy. Has there been another one?"

"No, Dad. I don't think so. But I want you to sit down. We need to talk."

He looked at me somewhat confused, and pulled out a chair and sat across from me.

"This is really hard for me to say, Dad. The toughest thing I've ever had to do." He was about to interrupt. I put my hand up and said, "No. Let me finish." I paused and took a breath.

"About the murders? What is it? You can tell me anything, Sammy. You know that. Anything."

"I sure hope you mean that, I only hope...." I didn't finish.

"Yes," I said, "it's about the murders." I paused again.

"Your watch -the Rolex..."

"Yes?" He said, his brow furrowed

"You said you left it at the hospital?"

"That's right." He rubbed his wrist absently over the scab.

"Geoff found it."

"He did! That's great. Where?"

"Not so great, Dad. He found it at the scene of the last four murders."

"What....?"

"On the mountain..."

"Sammy. That's impossible. Like I told you. I was administering a test. I used it to time a patient. I must've left it there. At the hospital. How could Geoff have found it? Are you sure it's mine." He massaged his wrist unconsciously.

"There's no doubt. It's your watch."

"Well. Someone must have taken it. Planted it there. Surely..."

"That's what I told Geoff."

"There. It's simple really. That's what happened. I'll call him and explain. Nothing to worry about." He got up to go to the phone.

"Wait, Dad, there's more."

"What more? How could there be more?"

I told him about the blood and saliva tests. That there were now two suspects and that they still considered he was one of them. He explained it away as I had done with Geoff.

"But there was blood on the watch. And the DNA test proved it was yours." I pointed to his wrist, and said. "That scratch, how did that happen?" I tried to banish the thought of one of the victims yanking it off his arm.

"Ah," he said, with a wave. "One of the links is broken, and I haven't had a chance to get it fixed. Scratched me when I took it off for the test."

When I told him they were going to impound his car and search the house for evidence, he became furious. And when I said it was only a matter of hours before his impending arrest, he was shattered. His rage left him, leaving an empty husk.

I wanted to comfort him, make it alright, but I didn't know how. I wanted him to deny the crimes, to convince me he didn't do it. And he did deny it, but I hated myself because I wasn't entirely convinced. We talked about the evidence, the few circumstantial facts.

He sat there listening to me, suddenly very old.

"I'll call Harry. You need a good lawyer."

He waved his hand at me and nodded. I'm not sure he understood.

I got up and went to use the phone in the den and remembered the file. I went to my room to get it and returned to the kitchen.

He raised his head and said, "You didn't call...?"

"Not yet. There's something else I want to ask you."

I pushed the file across the table to him.

"You never told me anything about it. All these years..."

He brushed the tear that trickled down his face with the back of his hand.

"No, Sammy. I never did. At the beginning when it all happened you were so young. Later... well later I just didn't have the heart."

"That's what I figured. That it was too painful for you. So I never asked. But today when I saw the file it was a shock."

"Of course. It would be. I should have told you, I guess. Not fair that you find out this way. But as the years went by I couldn't see the point."

"I know that. But still, I wish you had. I'd understand... know you better."

"I'm sorry, Sammy. You're right. It was selfish of me. But I couldn't face the truth myself. Much less pass the burden to you."

"Do you think Mom had something to do with it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I knew her... but... Can we ever really know someone? I mean can we ever know what goes on in their mind? Or in the heart? All these years dealing with the broken spirit of sick people. Sick minds. It hasn't helped me one bit. After your brother disappeared, your mother clammed up, shut herself down. I could hear the door slamming in her mind as she shut me out. There was all kinds of talk, but never any proof, at least not the kind of proof the police need."

"But you thought..."

"Yes, I thought. I thought, God forgive me, I thought it was possible. I had doubts. Especially when they couldn't find his body. I didn't know whether he'd been kidnapped or hurt or drowned or what. We had search party after search party. Firemen. Police. Volunteers. There were hundreds of people helping. We used the house as a command center. Neighbours came. Friends came. We had support from everywhere. People were wonderful. But that soon changed. You were little and don't remember, but you loved to try on all the different hats the men wore." He laughed.

The dream. That was my dream. My brother playing with the hats. It wasn't my brother it was me. In the dream, he just played with them, never put them on. Hats. Protection. He wasn't wearing them; he didn't put them on; he wasn't protected. It suddenly made sense.

"I never knew whether your mother withdrew because of the trauma of losing her child or because she was the one responsible. In either case, one way or another parents are ultimately to blame. For your mother the guilt might have been a burden too heavy to carry. Whether it was guilt for not supervising him enough or for something else... I don't know. Either way she suffered. And paid a high price for whatever she did. Or thought she did."

"I wish I had known this, Dad. Maybe I could have helped. Make it easier. I know you're still grieving."

He managed a smile. "I suppose I am. Never having found him.... you're never sure. Is he really gone? Dead? Or is he somewhere alive and happy? You don't stop hoping, Sammy. Never. It sounds stupid, but after all these years you still hope."

I reached over and took his hand. "You don't need this new misery. But you know what they're going to think. The police I mean."

"What can they think? Once we clear up the watch business, they'll see where they're wrong."

"Dad. Be realistic. The watch. The blood. What with everything we've learned about this guy, especially what you've told us about the horses and all, they're going to try to make this stick. It isn't going to be that easy. Even though they know there is a second person involved.

"That's crazy!"

"I agree. But... I'm going to call Harry. Once they start looking into you're past...."

"What? Am I the only one ever to come from a broken home?"

"I'm calling Harry. He's going to want to have a very long talk with the both of us."

This time I did make the call. Harry wasn't in and I had to leave a voice mail. No matter the time, I told him to call back.

I had no sooner returned to the kitchen when the phone rang.

"Sam. I came in just as you rang off. What's the problem, your call sounded urgent?"

I briefed him and said we wanted to hire his professional services.

"If you're expecting them to arrest him tomorrow, it doesn't leave us much time. Do you think your father can stand another bull session? It could go on pretty late."

My father assured me that it wouldn't be a problem. I relayed the message.

"Okay. I'll be over within the hour. Better put on a pot of coffee. A big one! We're going to need it."

True to his word, he arrived within the hour, in tweeds and deerstalker.

They hadn't met before, so after the introductions and handshaking my father suggested we adjourn to the living room.

"If it's all the same, I much prefer we stay here in the kitchen. If you're like most people this is where you'll be most comfortable."

So the kitchen it was.

Harry put his attaché case on the table, opened it, and took out a thick yellow pad and a hip flask of brandy. He closed the case and put it on the floor against the wall. He smiled and said:

"Now. If the coffee's ready we can get started."

After offering brandy, and pouring generous amounts into his and my father's mug, he was ready.

"Let's work backwards. We cover recent events first, okay? Since they're the closest in memory. Any problem with that?"

"No," I said, "I don't think so. Dad?" He nodded his agreement.

"Okay then. Last Friday. The night those four women were found. Where were you?"

"Out with friends. For dinner."

"Names. Places."

He told him.

"The Humbers. Bill, Pauline, you. Three people. The fourth -your lady friend?"

"That's not important."

"Let me decide, Mr. Milland, okay? I won't press you now... but perhaps later. Let's go on. When did you meet with these people?"

"I worked most of the day. At the hospital.."

"Until what time?" Harry was asking questions and writing at the same time. His eyes on the paper.

"Until six. Closer to six-thirty actually." I looked at him; he rarely worked past three.

"I had paper work," he qualified. "My last patient went from three until a quarter to four."

"You were alone until what -five, five-thirty?"

"No, as I said, it was six-thirty."

"Then what? What did you do next?" He kept his eyes on the paper, listening carefully and writing copiously.

"I left the hospital. No. First I went to the flower shop, then I left. Got my car from the lot and went to the Humbers'."

"What time?"

"I got to their place at seven fifteen."

"You seem sure of the time. How come?" His tone was matter of fact, but the question was accusing. He still didn't look at my father.

"I'm just sure that's all. It could have five minutes either way."

"You didn't make any stops along the way? To pick up your friend."

"I did not. I told you. We met at the Humbers'. She arrived around eight. We had time for a couple of drinks before she arrived."

Harry poured more brandy into his mug and handed it to me for a refill. He continued writing and said:

"Time for a couple of drinks in forty five minutes?"

"Well maybe it was more like an hour, or more than a couple of drinks. I wasn't watching the clock, and I wasn't counting drinks!"

He put the pen down, laying it carefully on the pad, folded his thick hands and looked directly at my father. "In other words," he said with slow deliberation, "you're not sure of the drinks nor of the time. I'm trying to pin down the facts. The prosecuting attorney is going to punch holes in your testimony unless you can be more specific.

"Now let's try again. How long and how many drinks?"

"Three drinks."

"And you arrived at what time?"

"Seven fifteen, like I said."

"Your friend?"

"An hour later. Maybe an hour and a quarter. That's right, I remember it was almost eight-thirty."

"Very good. Then what?"

"Then dinner."

"And when did the party break up?"

"After midnight."

"When did you get home?"

"I didn't. At least not until the next morning."

"Can you account for all that time?"

"Yes."

"Good. Very good. But I'll need a name. To corroborate what you've told me."

"I can't."

"I don't understand."

"I can't tell you her name. That's that."

"Dad! If you've got a alibi, you've got to use it. Otherwise..."

"No, he said. I can't involve her."

"Jesus, Dad. She may be the only thing standing between you and going to prison."

"Look Dr. Milland. I'm your lawyer. If you want me to take your case you have to level with me. At this point I'm not interested in whether you're guilty or innocent. I'm sorry, and Sam, don't look at me like that. I'm not callous, nor am I sentimental. But I am a lawyer and a damn good one. If I'm to give you the best possible defense, I need all the facts. Emotion and gallantry has no place in the courtroom. So unless you level with me, you'll have to find another lawyer. Putting it bluntly, I like to win. And to do so, I need to hold all the cards. I practice law, not morality. There's a huge difference unfortunately but true nevertheless. So come clean. I'm not interested in getting screwed in the courtroom."

Harry took a long slug from his mug; put it down with a thump, sloshing coffee and brandy on his note pad.

"What's it going to be?"

"You win," he said, all fight gone from him. "Whether or not you're interested, let me say for the record I didn't do this. Believe it or not, I didn't kill those girls."

"And for the record, I believe you. If I didn't I wouldn't be here now." He picked up the pen and poised it ready to continue.

"Everything I said is true. But when I took Cheryl home, I dropped her off. I didn't stay the night with her." He looked at me, his expression one of defeat.

"What time did this occur?"

"I dropped her at her place a little before one. In the morning. She can't confirm being with me later than that."

"Then what did you do? You said you didn't go home."

"That's right. I just drove around."

"You just drove around. All night?"

"No." He laughed at the thought.

"No humour in that Dr. Milland. What did you do?"

He wiped his hands across his face before answering.

"I drove up to the mountain. To the lookout," he said softly.

"You were alone." My father nodded.

"Shit!" he said, and put the pen down. "Up until now, it was beginning to look good."

"Like I said. I was alone. I parked and sat there. Alone in my car until the sun came up." His eyes filled and he looked at me, "It's the truth, Sammy. I swear. I sat there alone thinking. About Cheryl. And about not getting any younger. She's very attractive. And much younger than I. I was planning to ask her to marry me." He looked at me, pleading, asking approval.

"She's older than you, Sammy. But not by much. I know she loves me. And she'll marry me. But I'm the one who's not sure. I went to the mountain to think it through." He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee and composed himself. "I know it looks bad, but it's the truth, that's exactly what happened. As for Cheryl, I won't ask her to lie. That's why I wanted to leave her out of it. She can't help me."

"Let's leave that for a moment. Is there anything else? Any other surprises?"

"That's it. I've told you everything."

"I sure as hell hope so. But you haven't a leg to stand on regarding your whereabouts between one o'clock and the next morning."

"I know that," he said, and stared into his mug.

"I hope you can verify your whereabouts for the others. Not that it matters that much. They're going to focus on the murder of these four. The others won't enter into it."

"Geoff told me the medical report said the girls were killed elsewhere and at different times...."

"That won't be their focus, Sam. They're going to try and prove your father was at the scene where the bodies were found. If they do that -and I have to tell you that watch and DNA is pretty damning- if they do that, they'll have made their case. Pinpointing exactly when the girls died won't be all that accurate. There'll be enough leeway to put holes in any alibi you might have Dr. Milland. Anyway for now that's neither here nor there.

"Of course," the lawyer added, "If you've got iron clad alibis for the times the other murders occurred, we could show a break in the pattern. But this could just as easily work against us. Number one, you don't prove innocence in one crime by proving you didn't commit another. And number two, there's nothing to indicate conclusively that one person killed all those women. But it won't hurt to establish where you were at those times anyway. Work on that if you want to help at all."

"Sure, I think I can do that. Sammy?"

"Yes. It shouldn't be too hard."

"Well, I don't want to keep pissing on your parade. Establishing alibis isn't as easy as you might think. Proving your daytime whereabouts won't be the problem. But try to establish that you were home alone -and asleep- on any given night. Sounds easy, but try to prove it if you're single or live alone. Hell, you'd have an easier time proving what you were doing if you weren't home and in bed."

Harry put his notes away, pushed the empty flask towards me to dispose of, and got up to leave. While he was putting on his coat he said:

"One more thing, Dr. Milland. And you too, Sam. Don't talk to anyone about this, Not the cops, and not to your husband, Sam. Unless, of course, I'm present. I mean it." He looked at me cautioning.

"I know you and Geoff are thick as thieves in this case. But don't let a relationship bugger this up!"

He pulled on his deerstalker, tilting it rakishly. "That's all I have to say for now. Let me know when they're planning to arrest you, I want to be here."

"Geoff said he'd call first."

"Good. Pretty decent of him." He glanced at himself in the mirror then opened the door and turned to face us. "By the way and for the record, Gregor. I do believe you. Your story has so many holes in it, it has to be true."

My father shook his hand firmly. "Thanks, Harry. That means a lot to me. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, we've a lot to do. Goodnight."

I closed the door behind him and we went into the living room.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Jesus, Dad. You've nothing to apologize for. But maybe we can both learn a lesson from this. From now on we should communicate more."

"I suppose, but.."

"But nothing. You don't have to worry about whether or not you have my approval for anything. I think it's wonderful that you have someone you'd like to marry. Spend your life with. You don't have to worry about my feelings."

It was beginning to get light and the first rays of the sun began to slant in picking out the gold in the brocaded upholstery.

"I was afraid you wouldn't approve, that you'd think I was just a silly old fool. That's why I haven't introduced her to you."

"Dad, you've got the youngest disposition of anyone I know." He laughed.

"In my mind, Sammy, I'm somewhere in my twenties. I don't seem to age." He laughed again. "The body gets older, but the mind stays young. Maybe it's a survival technique of the species. I didn't want you to think I was losing my grip on reality, taking up with a young woman like Cheryl."

"Dad, if you're in love with each other, age isn't important."

"I didn't want you to think I was abandoning you."

"Oh, Dad. I would never think that." I got up and sat beside him. "You're entitled. You've always looked after me. Maybe too much, but I'm not complaining. It's time you stopped making sacrifices, time to be a little selfish!"

"You really think so?"

"Yes, I do. I am quite capable of looking after myself, you know. And I'm glad you've met someone. You can't live in the past forever."

"Maybe you're right. It's taken a very long time for me to realize that. And you were right, you know; I have been mourning for years, but nothing will bring them back. Time for a change.

"Look. A new day." He got up and went to the window. It was shaping up to be a dandy. Clear and bright.

He clapped his hands and said, "Think I'll turn in. I doubt that I'll sleep though."

"Me too."

He kissed me goodnight and hugged me. I stiffened slightly, and I think he sensed it.

I lay back in my bed thinking. I know why he doted on me. I was all he had -until now. He was afraid I'd drift away, that he'd lose touch with me. That's why this house. And Maria's dinners. It was his way of hanging on. Nothing would bring them back he said. Who? My mother and brother? Or did he mean the girls. Nothing would bring them back. I was afraid to believe he meant the girls. But what about the clippings in the files. And why had he saved the reports of the murders?

These thoughts gnawed at the edges of my memory. Nothing would bring them back. It sounded like an apology. An apology that came a little too late, like an excuse for having done the deeds. I thought about the horses, and everything he'd said tonight. I thought about our relationship, and how he was always there for me. Or did he need me in order to reassure himself of his own sanity. Was I his link to the present? To reality. I thought about Geoff and our relationship and worried how that might soon change. Don't even talk to your husband about it, Harry had said, forgetting we were no longer married. At least not in the eyes of the law. Morality doesn't interest me, he said. That was a lie. If anything, Harry's first concern was morality. He told me once that the law arose out of a need for a moral code, out of the principles regarding right and wrong conduct. If he was interested in the law, how could he say morality didn't concern him?

I lay there thinking, words and images twisting, contorting in my mind. Harry had doubts. Is that what he meant? Not that he didn't care. He was distancing himself from the possibility of my father's guilt. He needed that space so he could maneuver, concentrate on manipulating the law to his advantage. He traded one morality for another -my father was entitled to the best possible defense. Harry would give him that defense, give him his best. It didn't matter if he was innocent or not.

So why had Harry insisted that he believed my father's story? Was he trying to appease me, to spare me the ugly consequences not yet manifested?

Admittedly, I had doubts about his innocence, and trying to understand what Harry meant only served to reinforce them, confusing me further, and raising in me even greater feelings of guilt. 

# Chapter 14

They came for him shortly before noon.

Geoff had called earlier to say we could have our legal representative present. He was very formal; curt and to the point like a total stranger. I told myself he was doing his job, that it had to be just as painful for him. It didn't help. I was angry and felt betrayed. Whether my anger was justified or not didn't figure into my feelings. Intellectually, I knew I shouldn't blame him. He didn't deserve to be the target of my vehemence. But at this point my heart ruled my head.

They came in two cars, a squad car with two uniformed officers and Geoff following in his unmarked car. Joan was with him.

Harry was with us about an hour before they arrived, and explained what would happen, trying to lighten the shock and indignity. At intervals, my father nodded his understanding. About all I can remember of that time was Harry's insistence that my father volunteer no information whatever and not to answer any questions unless Harry was there to advise him. The way he said it, seemed to suggest he was afraid my father would say something incriminating. This did not add to my confidence in my father's innocence.

Harry let them in.

Geoff, his face colorless, went through the official motions reading the prisoner's rights from a card in a voice that was clear and steady, washed of emotion. At the end of it, one of the uniformed men approached my father with handcuffs. Geoff waved him off. Harry had the presence to help my father into his coat. I was limp as a rag and collapsed in the chair under the hall mirror.

The two officers left, one on either side of my father with Harry following. Geoff came over to me. He said something, but I was too far gone for it to register. I did notice Joan hanging her coat in the closet.

"Sam," he repeated.

I looked up at him, none too kindly.

"Sam. Joan's going to stay with you. I have to get down to the station. Don't worry about your father; I'll see that he's treated well. And if I know Harry, he'll arrange bail as soon as possible. I wouldn't be surprised if your father's back home by tonight at the latest."

He put his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off, an adolescent gesture, but I didn't care.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'll do everything I can for him. I'm sure it'll all work out. Harry will have him back as soon as he can."

I still said nothing. I knew he felt awful, and I wasn't making it easy on him. But I just couldn't speak.

He walked to the door and said something to Joan, she nodded and he left. I watched as the door closed, shutting him out too. I wanted to call out to him, to call him back. I couldn't. The two most important men in my life were gone. One of them I couldn't help, the other unable to help me. Both were fading shadows.

Joan came over and said, "Come on, Sam. Don't hide from this. They're going to need you, both of them." I looked at her contemptuously.

"Come," she repeated and went into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. I could hear her putting the mugs on the table, getting the sugar, cream, spoons. When she pulled the chair out from the table, it scraped shrilly.

"Makes it easier to talk if you come out here."

"Talk!" I called back. "What the hell will talk do now?" I got up and stood in the doorway facing her. "You know as much as we do about all of this -perhaps more, judging by what I know about of police work. What is it that can be said at this stage? All we've done up until now is talk. There's been no action. None. Until today that is..."

"Sam," she interrupted. "You've nothing to worry about. Like Geoff said, he'll be out on bail and more than likely the charges will be dropped. The only reason Emile is being so hard-nosed is because he wants this to look good on his resume."

"His resume? Is that what this is about?"

"His boss is on his back to get the case solved. Emile sees this as an opportunity for advancement."

"He really does think my father's the killer, doesn't he?"

"He might, but I doubt it. But that's not the point. Arresting your father makes it look like he's on top of things. Gives him some space. The heat will ease off so he can concentrate on the investigation."

"What the hell, are you saying, Joan? That my father is just some kind of scapegoat, a pawn manipulated so cops like Emile can move up the career ladder?"

"You don't hear me arguing do you?"

"The only way they'll let my father go, is if another murder is committed. And that in itself might not do it, since it doesn't get him off the hook for the others. Shit! And what if there are no other murders? What if the killer quits? It'll look like they have the right man. Christ, here we are hoping like hell this guy kills more people so my father can be vindicated. What a world." I laughed and sat down across from her and took a large sip of coffee. It was hot. I swallowed quickly burning my throat.

"It won't come to that. I'm sure of it. You're seeing the worst because you're scared."

"Damn right I'm scared." More of the possibility that he was guilty, rather than being unjustly accused.

"I know you are. I'll try to help. I'll stay with you. Times like this would make it nice to have a sister."

"What really scares me, Joan, is not that they've arrested the wrong man. I afraid to think they might have arrested the right man."

"Oh, Jesus. Why do you say that?" Her jacket was draped over the chair and she leaned forward resting her arms on the table. I noticed she wasn't wearing her gun.

"I'm so confused. On the one hand I know he couldn't have done those things. Yet on the other hand, the more I think about it, the more I doubt his innocence."

"How do you mean? Do you have any evidence? Has he said anything?"

"No, No. Nothing like that. It's just those damn horses. I keep seeing them. It's as though they're laughing at me."

"I don't follow. What about the horses?"

"You know. How we figure they relate to whoever killed the girls."

"Yes, but I still don't get you."

"Well, I can't explain it. It's.. it's a feeling. It just seems that they could easily apply to my father. They could point to him. Christ, he might have even made the horses; he's got more than a passing interest in art himself."

"You want to know what I think? I think you're projecting. I'll bet you could make a case against just about anybody with those horses. You read things into them and imagine they apply to people you know."

"I wish I could agree with you, Joan, I really do."

"Okay, then. Tell me. Tell me how or why you think they point to your father. And I'll point out where you're wrong."

I shrugged. "Maybe we should forget it."

"Sure, if you really want to. But I'm a good listener."

"You're also a cop."

"Ah. So that's it. Yes. I am a cop. And I can't promise to keep anything you tell me confidential. That's for priests. Not cops."

"Harry told me not to say anything."

"Of course. And he's absolutely right. But. On the other hand. I just might be able to help. I've no interest in condemning your father, you know."

"I know that." I thought for a few minutes and gave in to myself deciding to confide in her.

I told her about my dead brother -unlike my father I didn't think of him as still missing- and my mother. I explained what had happened and how I'd come to learn the truth."

"Maybe because of his childhood he has some god-awful, deep-seated twist in his mind. Maybe he sees his mother in those girls he killed. Or what if he's killing my mother over and over -punishing her for what she did to my brother?

"And the horses," I continued, "Look at them." I had brought them out and lined them up on the table.

"The charger - a knight in shining armor. Every little girl's hero, her Daddy. The man who protects her from all the bad stuff. And the circus horse. All the fun things fathers do for their daughters. The laughter, the games. Maybe these horses are all for me. Maybe he's saying he failed me."

"Look, Sam. Listen to yourself. First, you're talking like he is the killer and second, everything you say can be said of all fathers...."

"Well," I interrupted, "consider this. I picked up the unicorn. Remember the unicorn is supposed to be tamed by a virgin maiden. Don't all little girls twist their fathers around their fingers? That's taming them, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," she agreed. "And the horse in the park. With the soldier. A monument. Don't we make heroes of our fathers too? Put them on pedestals. I know I did. Hell, I still do." Her argument was strong, and it did make sense.

"Good point," I told her, "But what if that pedestal is an altar. That girl was killed , sacrificed on an altar. Me. Because of what he's doing. God forgive me for thinking he's guilty, but he might be telling me I'm being sacrificed. Symbolically, he's going to lose me. That's his price. He's saying he's a false god."

"Oh, shit, Sam. You're way the hell off base!. We stared at each other for several seconds, circling, sparring.

"I sure hope you're right, Joan. I think I'm going out of my mind."

Several more seconds passed before I said, "What about the centaur, then. The hunter. And the Trojan Horse. Pregnant with all those soldiers. Don't you think that could refer to my brother? How my mother was responsible for his death? That what she carried in her belly ended up ultimately being what destroyed her?"

"Jesus, Sam. I never heard such bullshit in my life."

"That's no argument!"

"You want an argument? Okay. How's this? You're so afraid of losing you own grip on reality. You're so afraid of facing the truth about yourself that you've projected all of this onto your father!"

"What the hell do you mean? Face myself. You're out of line officer!"

"Am I? Am I really out of line? Maybe you see yourself in these damn horses. This one!" She picked up the Trojan Horse. "Here. Could it be that you're afraid of having a real relationship with someone? A man? Geoff? That the idea of falling pregnant represents a total disaster -a form of self destruction instead of fulfillment? And your altar in the park. Could your interpretation mean you can't make sacrifices, give in a little, because you're afraid of losing who you are, or who you think you are. Afraid that a little compromise here and there will take away your independence?"

"You don't know me well enough to talk that way!" I fought to control my anger.

"I think I do. I've followed you night and day for weeks. I'm not some dumb-ass cop. A female jock with a gun."

"I never said you were dumb."

"No, you didn't. But I'll bet you sure as hell thought, or think it!"

She was right. I hadn't given her a lot of credit in the brains department.

"Maybe at the beginning. And I'm sorry for thinking of you as a stereotype. But I don't think of you as a dumb cop."

"Whoopee! Pardon my sarcasm, but we're getting off track.

"What I'm trying to do, Sam, what I'm trying to point out is that you are too damn involved with this case. You're too close to it. That and the family mystery that has just come to light coupled with a fertile imagination is making you draw unbelievable conclusions. You're a scientist, remember."

"Well, you're right about my imagination. It's a real curse. Still, you've got to admit, they can make a pretty good case against him."

"Sam. You could build a case against Albert Schweitzer."

"What about the last four horses, then?"

She sighed and threw up her arms. "What about them? I know you're going to tell me anyway."

"They represent a vision. A warning that the end is near. The collapse of the world. My world as it seems to be happening."

"Listen to yourself, Sam. You've not only projected all this onto your father, but you've cast yourself right in the middle. As if all of this is directed at you, for your own destruction. Furthermore, if as you seem to think, your father is guilty, why the hell would he be bent on destroying you? If anything he'd be trying to free you from something."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted desperately for her to be right.

"Maybe I am being stupid. I can't think straight anymore. I hardly sleep. I don't eat. This ..." I shoved the horses aside spilling them on the floor. "It's consuming me!"

"I can see that. You need to get some distance from it. A new perspective."

"Easy to say, but have you any suggestions?"

"For starters, stop condemning your father. Think about what he must be going through. He must see his whole career going down the tubes. Put yourself in his shoes, How would you react at the prospect of losing your job, your influence, respect? What he needs now more than anything is your support. Not your doubt. Christ, if he thinks for a second that you believe he's guilty...."

"You don't have to say it, I know. It'd kill him."

She got tired of the hard chair and suggested we go into the living room. I put a few disks on the player and set the volume low. She looked at the prints.

"I like his taste. Originals?"

"Yes."

She sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs, and leaned back in the soft upholstery. I slouched in a chair and listened to the music thinking about her arguments, They made perfect sense. Maybe I was projecting, superimposing the facts to make the pieces fit the puzzle. I laughed at myself remembering as a child blackening in spaces in crossword puzzles to make my choices fit. Joan was probably right. I was too close -right on top of it- and it distorted my perceptions. I ran my thumbnail along the ridges in my corduroy slacks and thought of my ruined clothes, the crotches cut away. My father couldn't do that. Or was that act a repression of the Oedipal drive, the ultimate taboo? My too active imagination was thinking perverse thoughts again.

They didn't release him. Not that day nor the next. Harry hadn't convinced the judge my father could be released on his own recognizance. Bail had been set at a half million dollars. Harry protested or objected or whatever the hell lawyers do, arguing that the amount was excessive, but the judge was adamant. In view of the seriousness of the charges, the judge claimed he no alternative. I got busy trying to raise the money, but it would take a while to get the cash and together. He was worth a good few million, but very little in cash. In the meantime he languished. I visited him every day and watched as he withered. A man, once tall, now stooped. His shoulders rounded and his head bowed from the crushing burden.

He walked with a shuffle, his feet slapping the floor, when they brought him to me in the visitor's room.

I was allowed to bring him fresh clothes and his personal toilet articles. Prison robs you of all dignity, stripping away your identity layer by layer, leaving a husk. His colognes, razor, the familiar comfort of his own shirts, didn't seem to help him hang on to what was once Gregor Milland.

We faced each other across a bare enameled table, like in the Jimmy Cagney gangster movies. A uniformed guard stood beside the door, pretending to ignore us, his eyes alert. The radiators hissed and mumbled, but failed to chase away the chill in the austere room. I pushed the paper bag towards him.

"Brought you some clean clothes. Figured your Viyella shirts might perk you up a bit."

He nodded his thanks and reached for the bag. He kept his eyes down to avoid looking at me.

"I put in a couple of books too. Some light reading to keep your mind occupied. I hope you haven't read the latest Grisham."

"My mind is occupied!"

"I know. But that's just it. Thinking about this place is making you sick. I thought a diversion would be a good idea. And you look like you haven't been eating since you got here."

"Who can eat?"

He had given up. Resigned himself. I wracked my brains for something to say, something encouraging. Something that would turn him around, make him angry enough to fight.

"If you want to beat this thing, time you stopped acting like you deserve to be here."

"Beat this?" He looked up finally; his voice a whisper. "How can I beat this? You even think I'm guilty."

I felt like I'd be hit with a wet towel. "Dad, how can you say that?"

"Sammy. I'm your father. For better or worse, I am your father. And like it or not, Sammy, I can read you. Like a book." He slapped the bag. "But I don't blame you. Really, Sammy, I don't." I was about to protest but he put his hand up to silence me. "You have every reason to doubt me. I haven't been entirely frank with you."

"Because you held things back? Tried to protect me? And spare your own emotions? There's nothing wrong in that."

"I'll tell you what's wrong with that. I've failed. If my life has been such- if my life appears to have been such that you think I could have done those horrible... then yes, I have failed. And miserably. Obviously I haven't communicated to you what I am. What I stand for. What I believe in."

"Dad. Please. Don't say that. You're not a failure; you're a colossal success."

"As a doctor? That's nothing!" He waved his arm feebly.

"No. I mean as a father. You've been both father and mother to me. You're ... you're..." I searched for the right word, "you're my knight in shining armor."

"Some knight. Look at me. I've fallen from my horse." He laughed and added, "I'm getting rather sick of the metaphor."

"It's time you got back up, then."

His shrug said, what's the use. He got up, picked up the bag. "Thanks, Sammy," and held up the bag. Out of habit, he looked at his wrist for the time, then glanced up at the wall clock, covered with a wire mesh.

"It's time," he said. "Stay well, Sammy. And don't fire the agency. If the cops have stopped keeping watch, Sammy, don't fire them. They haven't locked that guy up yet, Sammy. Whatever you think."

The guard opened the door and motioned my father ahead of him. "Be careful, Sammy," he called. "They haven't put him away yet!"

I watched him shuffle away in his laceless shoes, and clutching his beltless pants. A broken man.

When I was a child, he always seemed to know when something bothered me. Now, even as an adult he could read my emotional state. I was a lousy actress, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't put anything over on him. I wanted to believe him, but I wouldn't lie to him compounding my betrayal. Besides, he'd see through it. My knight in armor had fallen off his horse, he said. Torn with guilt, I sat there staring at the door. I felt awful. I wanted to believe him. I needed to. For his sake as well as my own. I didn't want to believe that my knight had been thrown. Supposing, I thought, he was guilty but beat the rap. I shuddered. Worse yet, if he was innocent and didn't beat the rap, condemned by both the courts and his only daughter. His flesh. Better, the philosopher said, that ten guilty men go free, than one innocent man suffer. And if he was right, the murderer was still at large. Would there be more killings, or would he retire? No matter how I looked at it there seemed to be no good outcome. If he murdered again, my father might be freed, but at what expense? If there were no more killings, my father might be unjustly punished.

I left the building and went home. The agency men my father hired were doing their job. I could see the pair of them as they followed behind. I wouldn't fire them. Because of my father's arrest, Joan had been relieved of her assignment. She'd been my constant companion for so long I had come to rely on her presence, and I found myself missing her. She kept intruding, like a phantom limb after an amputation. The agency would be good insurance, so I gave my father the benefit of the doubt and let things stand.

Once home, I tried to do some work, but I couldn't concentrate. The place oppressed me, crushed. I put my school stuff away, packing most of it in my laptop case, and decided to return to my own home next door. To hell with it, if it was a mess. It was time I faced up to it; my father had spent too many years cushioning me, protecting me from the blows and onslaughts of living in the real world. I didn't court disaster, nor did I think of myself as a coward, but I had to face the fact that I never had to put up a fight, never had to struggle for anything. My life had been a dream, a fantasy. All my wants, my needs, my whims, had been taken care of. First by my father, then for a brief time, a husband. Unfortunately, Geoff never knew what my real needs were. Perhaps I didn't either. Even the divorce had been clean and civilized. No argument. No contest. And after Geoff, 'good ole Dad' was there to pick up the pieces and put Humpty back together again. The house. Living next door. Even my meals were often sent over compliments of Maria. Who had really fallen from the horse? And I considered myself independent and liberated. I had been raised in a cocoon, wrapped and smothered. The very substance designed to protect, immobilized me. No more, I thought.

I packed my stuff in bags and boxes and placed them by the door, then steeled myself to go home again.

It smelled musty. Dank. A film of dust lay like a shroud over everything. In spite of the decay, it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.

Fortunately he had confined his rage to my bedroom and the rest of the place was much as I had left it. My clothes still littered the floor, scattered helter-skelter. The police had stripped my bed and had taken the sheets and blankets, leaving the bare mattress exposed, like a room in a sleazy flop house. I looked at it and suddenly felt naked. My clothes, my armor, torn. My bed, my refuge, plundered.

I overcame the urge to sit down on the floor and have a good cry. My father could never do this; the realization had been pretty slow to dawn. Instead of crying, I cursed the bastard, and myself for harboring such doubts, and went to the linen closet for fresh linen and put my house in order.

I gathered the torn clothes, rolled and compressed them, and crammed them into boxes, then tossed them from the back steps onto the patch of dirt.

After wiping the furniture, removing the dust and finger print powder, I rearranged my closets and bureau drawers, sorting and organizing my new clothes. The effect looked too artificial, like a setting composed for a layout in _Better Homes and Gardens_. Everything was too new. I grabbed a few things, tossed them on the floor, the bed, trying to create a little organized chaos. I kicked and stepped on them. Then I picked them up, smoothed them a bit and hung them in the cupboard, loosely and in a haphazard fashion. Oddly enough it made me feel better.

Then I checked the fridge. Lots of old food, but nothing with whiskers. I sniffed at the milk, and poured it down the sink.

I went into every room, sat in all the chairs, turned on the television, the radio, peed in my toilet not bothering to flush, marking my territory. I squeezed weeks of living into that afternoon. By the end of it I had overcome my fear and felt energized, no longer weak-kneed at the thought of the stranger who had violated me. I felt strong and in control.

I went back to my father's to make sure I'd brought over all my belongings. The last items were the horses. These I laid out on the kitchen table. I wanted the horses near me. Handy. I wanted to see them, keep them in view.

The table would be my altar, the horses, icons.

By now I was pretty hungry. I rummaged in the freezer and found some frozen dinners. The box said three hundred calories, so I hauled out two chicken and pasta dinners. While they heated up, I set the table. I took a large sip of diet Coke, put the glass down on the place mat and went for paper and pen. The door-bell rang and the oven timer sounded at the same time. I answered the door.

It was Geoff. I greeted him coolly and returned to my dinner. He took his sweet time hanging up his coat. I was still mad at him, and his detached casualness was enough to fuel my anger.

He sauntered in and sat down at the table. When I looked up at him, he was wearing his damn foolish grin. It was the same expression he wore whenever I caught him examining himself in the bathroom. What the hell were men always looking for anyway. The thought struck me funny, and I laughed at myself.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. If you're hungry there's another one of these in the micro wave."

"His face broke into a grin and he got up for a plate. He set himself a place, filled a glass with Coke and when he was ready sat down to eat.

"What's this?" he pointed to the horses, "The Musical Ride?"

"Yeah. I figured I'm going to have to solve this riddle myself. Unlike you, I don't believe he's guilty."

"Sam, that's hitting below the belt. I don't think he did it, and I am glad to see that you've finally had a change of heart."

"Now who's hitting below the belt?" I gave him a dirty look.

"I spoke to him. He knows how you feel. I tried to convince him he was wrong, but he's no dumbbell."

I didn't respond.

"But he says he understands why you think that."

I still said nothing.

"Sam. You can't still believe he could be the killer."

"Can you say for sure it isn't him?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure."

"Pretty sure. Only pretty sure?"

"Okay, okay. I'm dead sure, alright. Only I can't prove it yet. At least, I haven't turned my back on him."

That hurt. "Goddam you, Geoff. You've no right to barge in here and say that. What the hell do you know anyway? What do you know about what I think or don't think? What I feel? You have no idea what's in my heart!"

I was so mad I'd torn the buttons from my new blouse, yanking it open, exposing my breasts. He looked embarrassed. I pulled the tatters together.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I spoke to him and he seems to have given up. Sam. The man doesn't give a shit anymore because he thinks his only daughter believes he's guilty. A monster."

"Well, goddam it. Do you think I like that? Do you think for a minute I want to hurt him? See him suffer like that?"

"No. I don't. And that's what I don't understand. Why didn't you show a little more support? Some faith?"

"I couldn't, goddam it!"

"Why the hell not?" We were both yelling.

I told him. In spite of what Harry had cautioned. I showed him the newspaper clipping, and the file, and told him about my father's childhood. The part I knew. He didn't say anything, but the fight had gone from him and with it his passion for defending the man who had been his father-in-law.

"Now. You tell me you don't have doubts."

"He didn't do it, Sam." He said softly.

"But you're not quite as sure now, are you?"

He sighed, wiped his face with his hand and got up for more Coke.

"I'll admit that this stuff looks a little, ah, incriminating.."

"A little incriminating? I'll say!"

"But it isn't any kind of proof."

"Maybe not. But I can't help how it makes me feel and that scares me. Suppose he is the killer."

"Suppose he isn't," he countered. "Have you thought of that?"

"Of course! What the hell do you think is driving me crazy? What kind of a monster do you think I am?" He raised his eyebrows, and I said, "Don't answer that. But if it means anything, I'm more sure of his innocence than I was. I don't want to ruin my relationship with him -or with you for that matter - but I don't see how I can ever face him. Whichever way this turns out, he'll hate me for sure."

"Christ, Sam. How can you say that? He's damn upset, but he doesn't hate you."

"Well, he has good reason to!"

"I'm not arguing that."

"Thanks. Your support is more than appreciated."

"Stop thinking of yourself for a minute and realize who really needs support. You know, the way I see it, it's payback time."

He wasn't making me feel good about myself, and I kept feeling more and more guilty. Anger was beginning to get the best of me, but I resolved not to cry.

"What the hell do you suggest I do then? What can I possibly say to him, huh? The damage is done; I've already betrayed him."

"Jesus. How about a simple 'I'm sorry, Dad.' Or 'I don't know how I could have ever thought such a thing, can you forgive me?' Can't you just come out with it and say you're sorry?" He looked away from me in disgust.

"I want to. I really do..."

"Well, what the hell's stopping you? Don't answer; I'm not sure I want to hear it. But for his sake -and yours- you'd better make the effort. Even if you don't believe it."

In spite of my resolve, my force of will, my shoulders began to shake and tears flowed silently down my cheeks. Geoff looked at me and shook his head. He reached across and took my hand.

"I know what you're afraid of. We let him out and he kills again."

I wiped my eyes and nodded.

"Well, that's one thing you don't have to worry about, because, I don't think he's going to make bail."

"Why do you say that? What happened?"

"Nothing's happened. But your father told me, he doesn't want to be released. He's no dummy. Figures his chances are better if he stays behind bars. If they let him out, and another girl gets whacked, he's up shit's creek for sure."

"Can't you arrange to have him watched if he makes bail? Or at least make him promise not to leave the house."

"Sure. But like he said, for how long? A week? A month? Longer? And he's right. Who knows how long he'll be out before trial? Anyway he won't agree to bail so there's no point talking about it. He's hoping we can catch the guy while he's in the can. Besides he's more concerned about what you think than being in jail. You're doing a number on him and you have to make it right. The way he's letting himself go, right now I don't think he cares if he lives or dies."

He was right. I'd let my selfishness carry me away, putting my fears, my own needs ahead, and allowing my wild thoughts cloud my judgment.

"What about the rest of the investigation?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"His car."

"The Jag?" I nodded. "The lab went over it. Nothing. Emile made them go over it again. Damn near took it apart. Still nothing. I told Emile they wouldn't find anything, but he's as hard-headed as you are. At least he's got a good reason!"

"I'm scared, Geoff."

"You think your father isn't?"

"I know he is."

"And you haven't made it easier," he said, his tone less harsh.

"I know. But at the time I couldn't help it. But now..." I shrugged and sighed. "You're pretty convincing. You know, this is the first time we've ever argued. About anything."

"This is the first time we've had something really to argue about."

That point was debatable. There had been very little during our short marriage that he had considered worthy of a discussion let alone an argument. The only thing I could remember that had bothered him was my continual involvement in the pursuit of my career. But even that hadn't been a contentious issue; he knew it was important to me. The fact he couldn't handle it was his problem. Eventually the inevitable happened; we got divorced. But we'd never had an argument.

Lately I saw him in a very different light. Emotionally involved, strongly opinionated and prepared to argue, to fight for what he believed. This was a different side of him, unfamiliar, but a quality I admired. He was committed. Unlike the old Geoff who just shrugged his shoulders and accepted the depravities he saw in his work as the dark side of humanity, he now seemed moved to work at trying to change the world a little, rather than just clearing up the mess. He was more into prevention, correction, rather than eradication.

He was so adamant concerning my father's innocence I couldn't help be swayed by his rhetoric. Maybe if he had been prepared to fight or argue, instead of drinking, we might still be married.

"Sam, pull yourself together. Don't let this defeat you. You used to be so ready to support the underdog, playing the devil's advocate. What happened to that part of you?"

I almost laughed, not that it was so funny, but it reminded me of the way the roles were reversed between Lady Macbeth and her husband.

"It's still there, I think. Somewhere."

"Well, put it to use again. I can't believe how you've let this... this.... evidence..." He tapped the file, "it's not even evidence. I don't understand how you've let it bulldoze you into thinking your father is the bad guy."

By now I felt like an absolute shit, but I didn't start crying again. He got up and came around and put his arms around me, kissing me and stroking my hair. I shifted around and clung to him.

"If he hates me, I have only myself to blame."

"He doesn't hate you. But maybe feeling like a heel will do you some good. Melt some of the ice in your veins."

"You're a bastard," I squeezed him hard.

We left the dishes and the mess on the table and went into the bedroom to lose ourselves in sexual abandon. I'd never felt closer to him. Nothing heightens pleasure more than the thought of losing the source of that joy. The ice in my veins thawed as I loosed my inhibitions, shed my cloak, and let passion consume me.

The two most important men in my life. One I'd lost because I didn't know how to compromise; the other I was setting adrift, abandoning him because of my selfishness. Geoff was right. All my life I fought for the underdog, adopted causes, threw my support where an issue needed a champion. But now, when it really counted, when I was really needed, I hid, sheltered myself to avoid getting hurt. Never mind that someone -my father- was in pain. I had only thought to alleviate my own discomfort.

Geoff had changed, had developed a sense of awareness. Perhaps all the lousy things he'd seen as a cop had given him the ability to empathize. I couldn't afford to wait, to be traumatized, in order to gain a sense of compassion.

I hated to admit it, but I was a cold-blooded bitch.

At the moment he was doing a hell of lot to thaw me out.

# Chapter 15

That night, before falling asleep, I told Geoff I'd visit my father the next day and try to put things right between us.

"Great," he said, "I'm sure it'll make the world of difference to him. You'll see."

I felt warm all over, and snuggled close to him and fell soundly asleep.

The next morning, after he left for his office, I tidied up the place, made my bed, and stacked the dirty dishes in the sink leaving them for later, figuring that a little disorder in my routines might give me a different perspective, but when I looked at them piled neatly in the sink I had to laugh.

I showered, cleaned the bathroom and got dressed. As I was tugging on my panty hose, pulling them so they wouldn't bag at the crotch, the phone rang. It was Alistair.

"Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time?"

"No, not at all. How can I help you?"

"I've been doing some thinking, research too. On the Apocalypse? Thought if you weren't busy I'd come over and discuss it with you."

I didn't answer right off, and he added, "I'm downtown actually. Had some errands. I could be there in ten minutes."

I looked at the clock. "I've some errands to do myself. Just about to leave when the phone rang."

"I understand. But if you can spare a few minutes, I promise not to hold you up. Save me another trip downtown."

"Okay, Alistair. I'll put the coffee on."

"Thanks, professor." He hung up and I went into the kitchen. While getting the coffee ready, I looked at the dishes. It took a great force of will to leave them as they were.

True to his word he was there in under ten minutes. I heard the clatter of a noisy muffler and went to the window in time to see him climb out of his Volkswagen. He closed the door giving it a good shove.

"Hi," he called from the street as I opened the door. He wore an old leather coat, western style with fringes, and faded jeans. The wind had picked up his collar and tousled his hair. Energetically, he bounded the stairs, two at a time.

"Thanks for seeing me. I'm really sorry about keeping you from your shopping."

"No problem, I've got all day."

He wiped his feet on the mat, came in and unbuttoned the snaps on his jacket but didn't remove it.

"Mmmm. That coffee smells great!"

"Have you had breakfast? I've got some Danishes." He was thin to the point of emaciation.

"Thanks, but coffee will be fine." He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

"Come in, come in. We'll take it in the kitchen and you can tell me about the Apocalypse."

"Oh, yeah." He sauntered in and followed me to the kitchen. I poured the coffee, put the mugs on the table and got cream from the fridge.

"Sit down, Alistair. Please." I pointed to a chair; he took it, sat on the edge and leaned forward. He seemed nervous, jittery. He kept looking at the time, his eyes darting from me to the clock and back to me.

"Don't worry about the time, Alistair..."

"You said you had shopping to do.."

"Actually, I was going to see my father. He's been arrested." Why I told him, I couldn't say. Maybe it was my obsession with truth, but I should have let him believe I had to run some errands.

He nodded, and mumbled something like, "I'm sorry," or "Too bad." He wasn't surprised by the information and at the time I didn't question his reaction.

"What is it you want to tell me? You seem a little out of sorts."

"What? Oh no. I've got a lot on my mind lately, that's all." He changed his tone abruptly and I didn't press him for details. Alistair was a private and guarded person. I hoped all was well with his family and thought of little Sarah.

The horses," he stated. "I've been giving them a lot of thought. You said they represent what he is, symbols for his character, his personality, motivations." He paused and I nodded.

"And, I agree pretty much with your assessment -maybe interpretation is a better word since you are reading into the clues. I admit too, that you made a strong case. But..." He stopped and tapped the table with his spoon for emphasis and repeated, "But I think there's a lot more to it than that." He stopped again and drank some coffee.

"Okay," I said, "I'm open for suggestions." At this point a fresh approach would be more than welcome.

"Don't get me wrong, Sam. I'm not disagreeing with your views; it's just that I can see another dimension."

"Let's hear it." He cleared his throat, the veil of nervousness dissolving.

"Like I said, I don't disagree, but my guess is he's telling a lot more than you've understood so far from his clues. I'd add that those horses are telling you not only what he's like -his personality and character- but also why he's doing this. His motives, reasons for the murders."

"Go on," I said, interested. Alistair, as a prison chaplain, had a lot more experience with criminals than I did. My background was strictly academic whereas his practical experience might shed new light.

"He wants you to know why he's doing this. You know- what makes him tick. Sure, you've guessed at and figured out that he's weak. Symbolically impotent and so on. But like I said, my guess is he's telling you why."

"Interesting perspective. If you're right it could help us track him down."

"Maybe. Maybe."

"Have you got any specific ideas?"

"A few." He took another sip of coffee and thought for some seconds before speaking.

"Take the charger. It was the first clue, wasn't it? From the first victim?"

I nodded. My coffee was cold. I wanted to freshen it, but didn't want to break his train of thought.

"A charger. A horse. Massive. Powerful. Plunges headlong into battle. Right? I'd say it's a symbol for society -for society's relentless onslaught against the individual. In this case, our murderer."

"I buy that. But don't we all suffer from that problem to some extent? It's the rat race syndrome. We're all on a treadmill racing to keep up." I thought of the janitor who had asked where I was going when I did circuits in the gym.

"Sure we are. And most of us accept that. If not fully, at least we've learned to cope with the pressures. But that's just it. This guy," he tapped the spoon again, "hasn't learned to cope.

"For him, society is the enemy. He's personalized it -sees society poised to thwart him. He hasn't accepted that society is simply a mass of separate individuals. For our killer, it's a force bent on his destruction."

"Okay. But the norms and values of society - they provide that sense of reality essential in preventing crime. These, uh, rules let's call them, keep us on the straight and narrow."

"I agree, Sam, I agree. But. In the criminal mind, that sense of reality has been undermined. Distorted. It is that distortion of perception that makes the criminal act contrary to the norms of the social order."

"Yes, but... criminality is not some sort of perverted disposition to do evil rather than good."

"Of course not! It is, though, a childish tendency to take shortcuts. A criminal is an adult who behaves as a child."

"And also as children," I offered, "the criminal demands immediate satisfaction. He hasn't matured, learned to defer gratification."

"Exactly! And back to my point, the criminal blames society for standing in the way of his gratification. So he acts out aggressively, taking, grabbing whatever he wants whenever he wants it."

"I'm with you so far, but how does this relate to the horses?"

"Okay. Take the second one, the bullfight horse."

"That's the third. The circus horse was the second one."

"Doesn't matter. That horse -you call it the circus horse, but it could be a carousel horse. A continual run around. Society perpetually keeping him in a dizzy state of confusion. And the bullfight horse? The one with the blinders?"

"Yes. He's blinded. Can't see where he's going. Can't control his direction."

"Ah. Here's where I disagree. Those blinders mean he doesn't accept blame or rather, responsibility for his actions. He projects blame. In his eyes society has treated him unfairly. He's full of self-pity. So he takes out his aggression on society. He wants revenge, and it doesn't matter if the one he hurts is really responsible for his plight or not. He just wants to get back. And anyone will do."

"Since he takes it all personally."

"Yes. Society is to blame for whatever misery he's suffering. Everyone is part of society, so everyone is to blame. It doesn't matter whom he picks as his victims, in his eyes they are all guilty.

"Take the statue," he continued, "the one in the park. That horse. It's larger than life. Society, so large and dominating. Impossible to fend off. And the soldier. War. A war against him, waged by a social order whose sole purpose is to orchestrate his destruction."

"I hadn't thought of the horses quite in this light. What about the unicorn? We concluded that it stood for me."

"Well, perhaps. Could be he feels violated, impaled by the horn. Again he sees himself as screwed by society."

"And by raping the women, he's screwing them back."

He nodded, got up, and poured us both more coffee.

"That's the way I see it, Sam."

"You've certainly made an interesting case so far. What about the others? Do they follow your premise?"

"I'd say so. For example. The centaur. A hybrid between man and beast. It's neither one nor the other. A state of confusion again. And the Trojan Horse? This of course, represents deceit. The Greeks invented democracy, and he's showing it as being totally corrupt."

"What about the fact that the horses are all sexless, neutered."

"Easy enough to see he means he's impotent, symbolically. Unable to change a corrupt society. He seems to be doing his best to fight back though. In his own way. Don't forget, he can't see any other alternative."

"Because his view of the real world is so distorted."

"Right. The Hindus say, 'The Mind is the Slayer of the Real'".

"Mmmm. In his case he has certainly misread the clues around him."

"Only from our perspective, Sam. He sees himself as totally justified. It's not his fault, don't forget. He blames society for his predicament and for his actions against it. His judgment on life is negative, so, like a child he takes what he wants. Wasn't it Freud who said, children, if allowed, would destroy the world?"

"Shortcuts. That's the problem in a nutshell."

"You could say that. For the criminal, the normal path to the acquisition of goals takes too long. Like the child, he wants his needs satisfied immediately."

"Unfortunately, it's the individual who suffers, being punished. Not society."

"True. But he doesn't see it that way."

"If he did, he'd probably react quite differently. But you know, I can't help thinking he's clever, bright."

He furrowed his brow and sat back. "What makes you say that?"

"The horses."

"I don't get you."

"They're hand-made. Probably by him. And if he is the artist, then it follows he has a creative side. It should also follow -and this is what confuses me- that he must enjoy some measure of satisfaction with his lot in life."

"You mean like self-actualization?" He laughed derisively. "From my experience, these criminals experience satisfaction only when inflicting harm or causing pain."

"Well, perhaps. But don't you think the act of creating something should give a measure of joy, pleasure?"

He shrugged, not at all convinced.

"By creating something, isn't he solving a problem? For the fun of it?"

"Sam, his only fun comes from destroying things. Believe me."

I watched him. The change in expression and attitude surprised me. I hadn't expected him to be so turned off, jaded. He seemed to miss that when man creates, builds, he experiences a deep satisfaction.

"Haven't you ever made something that gave you pleasure? Like... I don't know... like building a bookcase. Take your desk for example, converted from an old door. That was clever."

"It was also out of necessity, a need. Money being in very short supply."

"Even so. But like you said. Need. The mother of invention. Seems to me, when you make something, build, paint, solve a problem -which is essentially what artists do- wouldn't you feel a sense of joy, self-satisfaction?"

"Ah, Sam. You're missing out on a very important ingredient." The spoon tapped. "You're assuming the act of creation in itself should be considered a boon."

"Yes. I am."

"Supposing -just for a minute. Suppose that particular act is viewed as a curse."

"What do you mean?"

"Physical strength. That would generally be accepted as a positive trait. Right?"

"Go on."

"What if a man, a very strong man, lives in fear of his strength? That this attribute is something he can't control, that he can inflict great harm and even death on his fellow beings. His strength, or gift -whatever you want to call it- becomes a source of misery. He's afraid to make friends, develop relationships, for fear he'll do something terrible!"

"How does this relate to the horses?"

"Sam! The horses. What they symbolize eclipses any positive notion that the act of creating them can possibly make. He is so obsessed, self-actualization, as you put it, doesn't stand a prayer of happening!

"That's the last stage to occur when all other needs are met. First the physiological needs have to be satisfied. Food. Security. A roof over our heads. Love and affection. Meet these requirements, and go to the next level. Respect. Admiration. After all these needs have been satisfied, then and only then can man even think of doing those creative things we've been talking about. This killer is still working on establishing a measure of security for himself. And maybe looking for a little love. Acceptance.

"No, he's a long way from that. These horses have nothing to do with self-actualization." He swallowed the last of his coffee and made a face.

"Perhaps you are right," I conceded reluctantly. "I figured there had to be something positive in this guy's character. He can't be all bad."

"There's good and bad in all of us, Sam. I'm not all that jaded."

Could have fooled me, I thought.

"But from my experience, hardened criminals have grown such a tough skin, it's almost impenetrable. The criminal uses crime as a way to strengthen his identity. It is an assertion of the 'I'. Don't forget what we said about children. And if what you said about creating and making things is true, those attributes have yet to be realized. By the criminal element, I mean. If they could see the so-called positive aspects, life for them would be a lot different.

"It's the 'I', the Ego factor. It gets in the way.

"You know, an animal can be trained to perform a certain way. Punishment in the training is a strong deterrent. But not with humans. And do you know why?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Because man's Ego -the 'I' works against him. Punish man. Take away his freedom. Beat him. It makes no difference. As soon as he gets the chance -bang! He does it again. He repeats the act that got him in trouble in the first place, because this time he believes he won't get caught. Animals, on the other hand, listen to their instincts."

"You seem to have lost some of your compassion."

"No. I'm just realistic."

"What about your work rehabilitating criminals?"

"That only works if the criminal wants to change. Most of them don't. They lie. They cheat. They do anything to gain your sympathy. You have to see through that, beyond the deception and their self-deception if you're to really help them. For the most part they see no reason not to be criminals. Let's face it. They're used to getting what they want. The downside of creativity is crime."

"Didn't you say you didn't think society or a person's social status was responsible for turning him into a criminal?"

"Sounds like something I would have said, yes."

"That crime can't be blamed on society, that the individual has to assume some responsibility for his actions?"

"Right. If society is wronged for a man's evil works, then society is also responsible for the good he does, and should get the credit. Doesn't that follow?"

"Yes. But now you seem to be contradicting yourself."

"No. Not at all. I'm pointing out how criminals think. Whom they blame. I'm not saying I share their views."

I looked at him, trying to read him more clearly. His expression changed again. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but he seemed detached, as if retreating from the view that society in fact wasn't the real culprit."

"I remember the last time we spoke; you asked if criminals were responsible for what they've done. Remember?"

I did, I told him.

"With the exception of those classed as criminally insane, or mentally incompetent, whatever, the others are considered, by the courts at least, to be responsible. But the point is, criminals never see it that way. And my job as a rehabilitation officer is to change those attitudes. Unfortunately when you're dealing with people who have only two basic drives -survival and the satisfaction of immediate wants- it's a damn hard task!

"Like I said, very few of them want to change." He threw his hands up in desperation.

"Anyway, Sam, I got a bit off track. Didn't mean to. Just wanted to share my ideas with you. Figured another point of view might help."

"I appreciate it. Really. You've given me food for thought. I hadn't considered the horses as symbols representing how society is responsible -correction- how society is to blame for his woes."

He looked at the clock. "I better be going. You said you had to go out."

"Yes." I didn't elaborate. Alistair got up and headed towards the door. We said good-bye and he left. I could hear the noisy muffler as the van struggled away.

I'd no sooner gone back to the kitchen when the bell rang. What did he forget to tell me, I wondered. Through the curtains, I realized my error. It wasn't Alistair.

"Jeanine!" She stood there, her shoulders hunched against the cold wind, her hands shoved into the pockets of her short coat.

"You said, if there was anything I should...."

"Yes, of course. Come in, come in."

I took her coat, stowed it in the closet and showed her into the living room. How many more disruptions would keep me from going to see my father?

She sat down, and managed to get a cigarette going, puffing nervously.

"What is it? Has something happened?"

"No, nothing has happened. Yet!" She puffed furiously, making her cheeks hollow as she drew in the smoke. "But there's this man..."

"Which man?"

"A guy who used to come to the club. He liked Vera."

"He liked Vera."

"Yes. You know what I mean. He used to come just to watch her."

"Did she go out with him? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. No, not at first. Vera tried to discourage him, you know. But he was persistent." She shrugged. "He seemed nice, but how can you really tell, know what I mean?"

"Then what?"

"Well, after a while she gave in. Like I said, the guy seemed okay. Not a creep." She shrugged again. "You know, the guy was polite."

"Polite! You base your opinion on whether or not to go out with men on that!"

"Don't give me no shit, Okay! It's a start. What the hell else is there anyway?"

"Go on," I said. "What followed?"

"Like I said. The guy was nice. He had manners. That's why I remembered him. And that's why Vera decided to go with him. Maybe it's not your style, but that's how we decide, okay?"

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Before? I didn't remember before!"

"Come on, Jeanine."

"It's true. Christ, do you know how many men see us? Want to take us out, if you know what I mean?"

"Now. All of a sudden you remember him. Just like that?"

"No. Not just like that."

"I'm listening."

"Because I saw him again."

"At the club?"

"Yes, but not my club, not the Metro."

"Where?"

"Another bar. One of the girls from the Metro quit. She dances at this other place now. I went to see her. We were going to go out, you know."

"He was there? This guy?"

"Yes. That's what I'm telling you. The one who liked Vera."

"Have you told this to the police?"

"No, nobody. Just you."

"Why me?" I asked, and watched her eyes.

"I don't know. Because of what you said."

"Why didn't you go to the cops?"

"Shit! And maybe he finds out it's me who fingered him? No thanks. I like living too much. Besides... maybe he didn't do nothing, you know." She shrugged again and stabbed out the butt.

"So you figured, you'd tell me. Okay. Now what?"

"Don't give me that shit. You said if I thought of something, I should look you up. Here I am. Maybe I made a mistake." She got up to leave.

"Alright, Jeanine, okay. Sit down. Please. But unless you're willing to identify this guy, there's not much I can do. Or anybody else for that matter. I think you should go to the police. If you want I'll...."

"No. No cops." She chopped the air with her hand.

"No cops," she repeated. "But if you want we can go to the club. If he's there I'll point him out to you. After that you can do what you want, I don't care."

"Okay. Fair enough. But we could watch the place for days. He might never even show. I haven't got...."

"I know that. But my girl friend says she's seen him a few times. He comes in kind of regular."

I looked at her skeptically.

"Look, if you want. I'll watch. When he shows, I'll call you."

"Okay. We'll try it that way."

"Thanks. But I warn you. No cops. Or you can forget everything I said. Afterwards you can do what you want."

She got up and managed to force a smile. I gave her her coat and she left. What a morning. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was well past one o'clock.

I called Geoff about going to see my father.

"Jesus, Sam. I figured you'd have seen him by now. I had to kiss ass to arrange it, you know. I don't know if I can pull strings for this afternoon. Where've you been anyway?"

I was in no mood for brow beating, but he had stuck his neck out so I explained briefly, failing to convince him that the delays were reason enough for missing my appointment.

"Sam. He's not in some kind of country club." He sighed and said more softly, "I'll see what I can do. Maybe you can come with Zacaib. I'll get back to you."

He hung up without saying good-bye, a bad sign. He was angry at me and with good cause.

I started to feel miserable again. To kill time I decided to do the errands that were piling up. I made up the grocery list, including items I knew my father would need and put together a bundle of clothes that needed dry cleaning. After going next door to see what he lacked in the way of groceries, I added a few items to my list, then got the car out.

I was back in the house before three o'clock. Bored out of my mind and unable to concentrate on doing any work I decided I needed a distraction. If I stayed home thinking about the case and my father, I'd be consumed by guilt. At this point I could do little to help him, but knowing it and believing it were two entirely different things. So I called Sue Bremner; if she didn't keep my mind off my misery nothing would.

She wasn't in. Her answering machine said the usual mundane words, but I didn't bother speaking to it after the beep.

Still bored and more than a little depressed, I decided to walk downtown and people watch. Always good for a laugh. I changed to a more comfortable pair of shoes and put my leather jacket on over a heavy sweater. The wind was sharp, and it was beginning to cloud over. From my purse I took my wallet and keys, stuffed them into a pocket and left.

The sky was turning grey, obliterating the autumn blue. Obscuring the sun, a dark cloud, its ragged edge tinged in gold, stood impenetrable, a medieval shield. I walked briskly, my senses heightened, city sounds palpable in the crackling air.

I avoided the campus, continuing down University towards Ste. Catherine then turned right. The street was thick with shoppers. People in pairs. People in groups. Some alone. All part of society, the herd, yet everyone an individual, depressingly alone. A morbid thought. Maybe that was the key -not to focus on our singularity, on our individuality. Maybe we had to remember we were part of the group, that vast herd, and keep in mind that as individuals, we bore a responsibility to the herd and not the other way around.

I took my time, walking purposely along Ste. Catherine Street, weaving my way through the bustling hive, dodging cars in the intersections and the bike couriers on the sidewalks. There was a circus of three-piece suits juggling brief cases, and clowns made-up to look like busy executives, all rushing, storming headlong towards their uncertain futures. I stopped in front of a shoe store and used the window as mirror to watch the antics of a street person. A grizzled man, old beyond his time, the spikes of his grey whiskers matching the tufts of insulation erupting from the rips in his parka.

He crabbed along, his feet clawing the pavement, singing and mumbling incoherently, at times stopping to scold someone. The tide of humanity parted, swirled around him, then closed like a wave engulfing a rock. He moved steadily onward, his hand with the Mac Donald's cup extended to receive alms. At the corner, in front of the bank, he stopped to mumble at the legless man strapped to his wheelchair, propped against the wall. His head jerked involuntarily, spilling the container of pencils in his spastic hand. The old man stooped, gathered them up and replaced them in the container. The cripple, nodded, and managed a twisted smile. The old man shuffled off.

Time slowed. It sharpened my perceptions, heightened my awareness. I stood in front of the shoe store watching how man's preoccupation with himself causes him to ignore his fellows. Society, the main-stream, moved relentlessly in a personal pursuit, in search of their grail. They moved too fast, overwhelmed by expectations, driving them to seek more, bigger, better.

Criminals, according to what Alistair said, were on the same treadmill, seeking instant gratification. But, instead of achieving a sense of self-satisfaction with each acquisition, they threw it aside and grabbed for more. Instant success was no success at all. The ease with which they fulfilled their needs diminished the value, making it worthless, thus perpetuating the search for satisfaction. I remembered an article I read about a prisoner of war who'd been kept confined alone for many months. The thing, he said, that kept him alive was a spider.

"I looked forward to each day because of the spider. I'd catch flies for it, feed it. Watch it spin its web. Watch as it came out, tentatively investigating the meal I had laid in its web. I had nothing else on earth to look forward to so I made the most of it."

That was the secret. Making the most of it. Taking a delight in the things around us rather than grousing and complaining that the world had done us dirty. A lack of expectation had given that prisoner the ability to amplify his perceptions, to focus on something as simple, ordinary as a spider. The miracle was that he was able to focus his attention, funnel his energy, to experience a kind of joy. And it was this joy that kept him sane, kept him from fighting against and losing to our greatest enemy -boredom. In our attempt to escape from boredom we have come to believe that more is the solution. For the prisoner, less seemed to be the answer.

Was crime the result of boredom? Is that what criminals are trying to do -alleviate boredom?

I looked in the direction of the cripple, invisible because of our selfishness. No one stopped to pick up his pencils except the street person, the only one in the street with any humanity. And he too was invisible to the masses.

I continued my walk and when I passed in front of the beggar, I dropped a few coins in his cup to appease my conscience. A couple of blocks later I went into Chapters to check out the new releases, and bought a couple of paperbacks for pure escapism.

Outside, the sky had gotten darker still, with the strong hint of an early snowfall. I crossed the street and started home, ignoring the physical world, lost in thought about the horses, the murders, and my father. Guilt gripped me like a vise.

A blast from a car horn yanked me back to reality; I was in the middle of the street, crossing against the light. He honked again and rolled down his window, shouting at me. I made it home in one piece, more from luck than skill.

I wasn't very hungry, but it was time to eat. So, more from habit than necessity, I hunted for something that would satisfy. I found a bag of potato chips left over from God knows when and a frozen chocolate cake. I thawed the cake in the micro-wave oven, and brought it and the chips into the living room. Armed with my books, and diet Coke to wash down the cake and chips, I settled in for a good read.

The book was okay, but the junk left me feeling like I needed something more. I gathered the debris and went into the kitchen. The phone rang. I put everything into the sink and answered.

"Miss Milland?" a voice asked amid a din.

"Yes," I said, straining to hear.

"It's Jeanine. He's here."

"Now?" I looked at the time. Nine-thirty.

"Yes. Can you come? I don't know how long he'll stay."

"Where are you? What club?"

She gave me the name and proceeded to describe where on Ste. Catherine's it was located.

"I know it, Jeanine. I'm on my way."

It was within a couple of blocks of the Club Metro. Less than a ten-minute walk. Faster than taking the car.

I grabbed my jacket, checked that my wallet and keys were still in the pocket and went out at a run.

The bar occupied the ground floor, below the offices of an insurance agency, and was sandwiched between a restaurant and novelty shop. The place was narrow but quite deep. Outside, the bouncer- doorman gave me the eye and held the door for me. I slipped a twenty into his enormous palm and went in. It was dark; with what little lighting focused on the dance floor they called a stage. A carny voice encouraged us to welcome the 'Spectacular Fatima'. There was sporadic applause and whistling from an appreciative crowd as Fatima pranced into the spotlight, her long, dark hair moving to the eastern music. She was pretty, a little heavy in the thigh, and wore nothing but a snake. It coiled around her, writhing as she coaxed it to slither between her fat legs.

I stood in the shadows by the bar waiting for my eyes to get accustomed to the dim light, and scanned the place for a vacant table. I saw one and as I started towards it felt a hand on my arm. It was Jeanine. She leaned forward to speak into my ear; the music was so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. I'm not sure what she said, but she pointed with her chin to an empty table. She followed me over and we sat down. Before I was settled a waitress appeared, and Jeanine ordered up two Stingers.

The drinks came and when I reached for my wallet, she waved me away.

"It's okay," she said, indicating the waitress. "It's on her." I raised my drink and nodded my thanks. The waitress, her friend who had changed jobs, I assumed, smiled and went on with her work.

Jeanine watched the dancer and sipped her drink. I watched Jeanine and sipped my drink. When the snake charmer finished her act and the noise died down, I said, "Is he still here?" She nodded and pointed to the back. There was a narrow opening in the far wall partly lit by the washroom signs.

A new dancer appeared, obviously not the feature attraction. She was too skinny with a vacant, stoned look. Her ribs stuck out sharply as the overhead spots treated her unkindly. She went through her routine like a robot, her empty stare oblivious to the jeers and calls from the carnival in front of her. Her flaccid breasts swayed in time to the music, a half beat out of sync.

Jeanine watched her too, one eye on the passage to the rest rooms. I felt a sharp jab in my shin when she kicked me and pointed with her eyes towards the washrooms. I turned my head slowly and watched a dark shape emerge from the shadows. He seemed to look directly at me. As he came into the dim light, it was a split second before I could see his features clearly. I almost dropped my drink. There was no mistaking the high brow and sharp, narrow nose. He walked straight towards us, his eyes focused on the dancer. I bent down, pretending to have dropped something. It seemed to take forever for Alistair to pass.

I lifted my head cautiously and sat up watching his back as he went back to his table.

"What's the matter?" Jeanine hissed.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Nothing."

"Nothing? You look like you've seen a ghost. Was it the drink?"

"No. The drink's fine. I'm fine. Really." I drained my glass.

She looked over at him then stared at me. "You know that guy?"

"I've got to go, Jeanine. Thanks for the drink."

"You do know that guy!" Her hand was on my arm.

"Look," she said, "if you know him, tell me, for God's sake!"

"Yes, damn it! I know him. Satisfied now?" She held onto my arm; any effort to leave would draw attention.

"Not that way. He'll see you."

"He already has!" Our sibilant whispers drew stares from the next table.

"He couldn't have. Besides the light from the stage is too bright."

I looked over at the dancer and hoped she was right. He sat over on the far side of the stage and the harsh lighting was between us. We were no more than a dark silhouette. I hoped.

She tugged my arm and got up. "Come on. We'll go out the back." I followed her past the corridor to the bathrooms. Her friend sat at a table against the wall sorting receipts and looked up as we approached. Jeanine leaned across the table a said something in her ear. Her friend nodded, got up and went ahead of us leading the way to the back exit.

"Be careful," she said, leading us through a storeroom smelling of damp and cat urine. I followed, stumbling blindly, my arm out-stretched and my feet dragging to avoid tripping in the dark. She opened the door letting in a dull glow from the alley. I followed Jeanine outside, almost making it without tripping. I stumbled on the threshold and fell forward against Jeanine, pushing her into the alley.

"Christ!" she cursed and regained her balance. The door closed behind us and I heard the lock click. The alley was dark, but bright light illuminated the street at the end. I could see well enough to avoid the boxes and garbage that littered the place but a cat shrieked and scared the hell out of me. By the time we reached the street, I was drenched; sweat plastered my clothes against my back. I had trouble keeping up to her, fear making my legs wobbly. As she started in the direction of Ste. Catherine Street I called to her to stop.

"The other way," I said, pointing towards Rene Levesque. "If he did see and comes out...."

She understood. We walked south. At the corner several cabs stood waiting for calls, the men keeping each other company in the lead car. When we approached, the other two drivers got out and went to their own vehicles. I struggled with the rear door, and got in with Jeanine following close. I gave him my address without thinking about Jeanine. He made a right turn deciding on a circuitous route to pad the fare, but I was too upset to bother arguing.

"I'll get out at Sherbrooke," she said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I wasn't thinking. I'll tell him to drop you off first."

"No, no. Sherbrooke is fine."

"If you're sure," I said. "It's no trouble."

She didn't answer and at Sherbrooke she got out.

"Thanks."

The driver eased away from the curb and turned right. As we passed her I waved, but she wasn't watching or pretended not to see me. I couldn't blame her. If Alistair did see us, she certainly wanted to get as far from me as possible. No way would she want him to associate her with me.

I shivered. What the hell was Alistair doing in that bar? And according to Jeanine he'd been a regular at the Metro too. What was he up to anyway?

I leaned back against the seat and thought. The lights were synchronized so he managed to get me home without having to make any stops, the green lights illuminating us intermittently, until he reached my place. I paid him, got out, and with my key ready was in the house before he got to the corner.

We needed a break we told ourselves, if we were to crack the case. I closed the door and double locked it. The clues, the horses, were one thing, but we needed another ingredient, luck. And we hadn't had any of that. I went around checking windows and the back entrance. The horses told us a lot about him. The back door was secure, but I had to close and lock the windows in the dining room and study. But they didn't leave a trail we could follow. I could handle a stuffy atmosphere more easily than worrying about open windows. Well, luck had changed. I took off my coat and scarf and stowed them in the closet, then went into the living room to turn on the TV. I didn't want to watch anything; I needed the noise to reassure me, anchor me back in reality, so I could think.

The news was on, more bombings in the Middle-East, another assassination in England by the IRA, and the bridge was still blockaded by the Indians. I turned it off.

The horses, I thought, revealed the killer's personality, gave insight to his character. Alistair would have me believe they stood for society, the force that drove the killer, rather than representing his personality. I wasn't so sure. Seeing him there at the club, was a shock. My mind raced, my thoughts wild. I got up and checked the lock on the front door. What was he doing there? What had been his relationship with Vera? Did he, in fact, have a relationship with her? I paced the floor thinking about him, what he stood- what I thought he stood for. A minister. Priest. Scholar. Social worker. A man who'd devoted his life to helping others. Or so it seemed on the surface. How could he possibly be involved with these murders. I took several slow, deep breaths, trying to clear my head. First I accuse my father. Now I'm implicating Alistair, condemning him solely on the basis of seeing him in a bar, a sleazy strip-joint. That didn't make him a killer. Okay, so it was a shock. But why was I shocked? Was it because my expectations about him had been shattered? I tried to be rational, and reprimanded myself for judging him. Besides, what business did I have to draw conclusions about a man's character or impose my concept of morality on him? My association with him was limited, and strictly professional. I really knew nothing about him, except what I had learned from having him as a student and what he had told me of his work. That was it; certainly not enough for me to be judgmental. And from that little information I created an image, painted a picture in my mind from a few scanty facts, of a man I didn't think would hang around strip joints or stalk and kill young women. Seeing him there had contradicted my impression of him causing me to jump to an obviously outrageous conclusion.

So Alistair liked to watch women dance. Naked women. Big deal! At worst it was an aberration, but certainly no crime. A lot of men liked to watch women strip off their clothes, flaunt themselves, judging by how well these businesses thrived. Perhaps he was no different from thousands of others. Maybe as a priest, the rigors of his profession were too much for him, self-restraint finally needed an outlet. But he was married, I reminded myself. Did that really make a difference?

I thought about the Christian Brothers, the scandal that was rocking the country. Restraint, total restraint, sometimes resulted in disaster. Maybe a few drinks and a titillating show would help a lot of men keep reality in perspective. Throughout the ages men have indulged their fantasies, even before Salome, and it angered me. Maybe it wasn't just a harmless outlet, a way of blowing off a little steam. Perhaps it had nothing to do with men channeling their energy to keep them off the streets or preying in back alleys.

It was a power trip. Men used women, degraded them, exploited them. It had nothing to do with keeping a balance, keeping one's drives in check. Alistair said so himself; it had to do with gratification -instant and immediate. Men. Some of them were still striving to establish the 'I' with short-term solutions by grabbing whatever they wanted. Unfortunately, once the forbidden is acquired it often loses its attraction.

And sex, because of our cultural taboos, has become a thriving business, traded, bartered in a kind of black-market that only seems to increase its allure. I thought back to the girls, dancing and swaying their breasts, rubbing them in the faces of men mesmerized, their ardor dampened by alcohol to excuse their lust. And I could see the money, which would never be enough to pay for their dignity, tucked into the thin chains that girdled the girls' waists.

All crime has a sexual component, Alistair had told me.

"Crime is a violation. It's rape, pure and simple. Smash and grab. Break and enter. It's all sexually motivated. An indecent assault on society."

My god, I thought. It was all beginning to fall into place; he was talking about himself.

I had to tell Geoff. I picked up the phone, started to dial and hung up. It was after mid-night. To hell with the time, I thought, and picked up the phone again. Late or not, he'd want me to call. I started right in to tell him and cursed when I suddenly realized I was talking to a recording. I waited for the beep, then gave him my message, telling him to call me ASAP as I had startling news.

I went back into the living room to wait and turned on the TV again. There was an old Tony Curtis movie playing - _The Boston Strangler._

# Chapter 16

I must have dozed off, so when the doorbell rang, the harsh buzz startled me. I was alert at once and ran to answer, pleased that Geoff had rushed over after hearing my message.

I had barely unlocked the door when it was thrust against me, knocking me backward onto the floor.

The figure, his head covered by the hood of a track suit, straddled me. A turtle-neck sweater covered his face, but as an image of my assailant began to form in my mind, his hand pressed something sickly-sweet against my face. The image faded as I drifted into oblivion.

When I came to, I wasn't sure if I was really conscious or having a bad dream. I was sick to my stomach, and could hardly breathe. My chest heaved, straining to draw breath. There was something over my mouth and breathing through my nose was difficult. I struggled to sit up in the dark, but the exertion made my head pound. I fell back and lay there for a long time, trying to sort out what was happening.

I remembered answering the door. And falling. I remembered falling. And banging my head on the floor. I remembered someone standing over me holding something over my mouth and nose.

I tried to relax and think, find my bearings.

I was in a cold, dark place.

It was damp and smelled of mustiness like an old cellar. I struggled to sit up again but couldn't. My hands were bound behind me and my feet were joined together at the ankles. I hurt. My head still pounded and my arms and feet were numb. I rolled onto my side to ease the pressure on my arms and the effort cost me. I breathed, slowly and deeply, afraid that if I got sick from the nausea I'd choke to death. It seemed like hours had passed before I willed the nausea away and managed to control my breathing. The slightest exertion made my head spin, sickening my stomach, so I lay there, barely moving, and succumbed again to oblivion.

When I awoke my stomach had settled and my headache was reduced to a dull, muffled throb that thrust my eyes outward with each heartbeat.

I looked around my prison carefully before trying to move. Morning had come, and somewhere light had filtered in. I was in a basement somewhere. Overhead, heating ducts crossed the ceiling. The building was old; the timbers rough and heavy. I tried sitting up again. This time I succeeded, and leaned back against the cot; I must have fallen out of it at some point but couldn't remember. My arms were still numb, but I could still feel my fingers and wiggled them to restore some circulation. I struggled a bit testing the restraints, but there was no use. Looking at my ankles, I could see that the tape he'd used would only yield to a sharp knife. I leaned back and let my head rest against the edge of the mattress and closed my eyes. The dizziness returned, so I opened them and focused on a spot on the ceiling. A smoke alarm. I kept it in focus and gradually began to visually explore the room.

As the light grew, I could make out that I was in a medium sized room, partitioned from the rest of the basement. Apart from the cot, there was an old desk, scarred and battered from use as a work bench. The room was clean, the floor swept. On the wall over the desk, an array of tools, neatly displayed on peg board. An old goose-necked lamp stood ready to illuminate the work table. I could see no windows, the light coming through from the end of the room, beyond the cot. I was continuing my survey when I heard a sound like descending footsteps. My heart quickened and I held my breath. The sounds echoed louder then grew soft as they reached the floor. I waited and fixed my gaze on the wall at the end of the cot where I expected him to appear.

"So," he said as he came into view and stood at the foot of the cot. "You're finally awake, are you? I won't apologize for the rough treatment."

He came over and stood beside me, then reached down and grabbed an edge of the tape covering my mouth. With a yank, he tore it off and with it my lips, it felt.

"Untie me you sorry son of a bitch!" I croaked, and pounded the cot with my heels.

The smile disappeared from his face and he said coldly, "Take it easy, Dr. Milland. You're not going anywhere. Not for a long, long while."

He leaned down and held my face roughly, checking to see if the tape had caused any damage.

"Thirsty?" he asked, not unkindly. I nodded.

"Well, if you're good, I'll get you a drink." I stared up at him.

"Yell, and no drink. The tape goes back on." He waited for a reply, and I nodded; he left the room. On the other side of the wall was a sink and the pipes rattled and shook when he ran the tap. Seconds later he was back with the water.

He held my head awkwardly and I drank, spilling a lot of it down my chin and neck, soaking my bra and blouse.

"Better?" I nodded again.

"If you behave yourself I might even let you eat."

The water set up a rumbling in my stomach reminding me just how hungry I was. It might have been days since the cake and chips.

He backed away, put the glass on the desk and sat in a swivel chair to watch me. I turned towards him.

"What the hell are you up to, Alistair?"

"Well my dear doctor, by now that should be obvious, don't you think? I had hoped you'd be able to figure it all out from the clues I gave you. Goodness knows there were enough. But I guess I underestimated your abilities. If you hadn't stumbled into the bar last night, we could have continued the game."

"Game? You call this a game?" I started struggling again, trying to sit up. He let me work at it, exhausting myself.

"Yes. But after last night, I couldn't chance continuing it. Figured you had to have seen me. You gave yourself away when you tried to hide, bending down in that clumsy way." He wasn't laughing, but the tone of his voice suggested he thought it was some sort of unfortunate joke. He leaned back in the chair and watched me, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hands folded over his stomach. There was a rip in the knee of his jeans.

"How did you happen to be there anyway? Sure as hell wasn't coincidence. Not unless the great Dr. Milland has a thing for nude dancers." A smile creased his face I didn't bother answering.

"No matter. But I am disappointed. Now I have to change the game plan."

"You got what you wanted, didn't you? You left clues, the horses, for me. And now I've found you. Solved the riddle. That's what you wanted. It's all over now, so why don't you untie me and let me go."

"Come on, Dr. Milland. It was I who found you. You failed! And you have to pay for it."

He shouted pointing his finger at me. "I gave you hint after hint. Couldn't be more obvious. You failed. Even after I came to see you."

"Give me a break. You're the failure. The loser. You can't handle that reality. It's too much for you, if what you told me is true."

"Oh, it's true. But you are going to learn a little about reality yourself. Then you'll see who the failure is. Maybe you won't be so quick to judge others. Put them in categories. With those... those labels you like so much. Mount them like insects with pins through their guts. All that bullshit about the horses being me. A confession of what's going on in my mind." He tapped his head with a closed hand.

"Hah, those deductions you supposedly made about the killer, they more aptly describe your state of mind Dr. Milland.

"I told you what the horses really meant, but you had your own ideas. Your problem, doctor, is that you never listen. Maybe now you'll learn something. You're going to see what I mean first-hand."

He got up quickly and slapped my face. His breathing increased and his eyes went wide. He watched me shrink back trying to avoid the blows.

"No game now. You're going to find out first-hand all about it."

He went to the desk and took a roll of tape out of a drawer and tore off a strip. After plastering it against my mouth he reached into my blouse and squeezed, pinching my breast hard.

"Later, Dr. Milland. Then maybe you'll understand."

He left, leaving me alone to confront my fears. There was no doubt in my mind of the fate he had in store for me. I only hoped the end would be swift. I shuddered, thinking of the victims he had hurt and mutilated. I cried softly and thought of Geoff and my father and how I had wronged him. I cried for failing to put things right between us, for thinking he could have been the killer. And I cried for myself, for the coward that I was. I hoped he'd kill me before I had to face the torture and pain I knew he intended to inflict on me.

He was back in what I reckoned was a little less than an hour, and he had brought me some food. I prayed, thanking God. If he intended to feed me, he must also intend to keep me alive. At least for a while.

"I brought you some food." His back was to me as he placed the McDonald's bag on the desk. He brought over a paper cup of coffee and Styrofoam package and sat on the cot beside me. He placed them on an inverted wooden box and drew it near. Some of the coffee leaked out and ran down the side of the box. He opened the container and said, "I hope you like Egg McMuffins. After taking the lid off the coffee cup he rubbed his hands on his knees to dry them. "If you promise to be good, I'll let you eat." I nodded and he yanked the tape off my face.

"Getting a rash from the tape there." He touched my cheek and I recoiled.

"Oh, touchy, aren't we?" He reached for the coffee and held the cup to my lips. I sipped tentatively. It was hot and I drew back; his hand jerked, spilling the hot liquid on me. It ran down my neck and onto my chest.

"Too hot?" he asked, and took a paper serviette and dabbed at the drips.

"Can't you untie my hands at least? So I can feed myself?"

He looked at me, his eyes measuring, assessing whether I'd pose a threat.

"I guess so. No way you can get away with your feet tied like that." He stared a moment then got up and went to the desk, choosing a knife from the wall rack. The handle was yellow with a green tip, the curved blade shiny from use. He came over, and I turned my back and extended my wrists as best I could, forcing my hands apart so the blade wouldn't touch flesh. He sawed at the tape, the sharp blade cutting the coarse fibers. I was pulling hard, and when the tape gave my hands flew apart.

"Thank you," I said. I picked carefully at the strands imbedded in my wrists. They were raw and swollen and with the sudden rush of renewed circulation the numb tingling gave way to unbearable pain. I rubbed my hands together, and tried not to show how much it hurt.

I reached for the coffee with both hands hoping I wouldn't drop the cup. I brought it to my lips carefully and sipped. It was cool enough and after a few trial sips, gulped it down greedily. The Egg McMuffin was still warm, not yet congealed into a greasy glob. I bit into it hungrily willing myself to eat it slowly. I took my time, chewing, letting each mouthful liquefy before swallowing. He watched me eat. And as I chewed, I tried to imagine where in hell he was holding me.

It had to be near a McDonald's. But that could be anywhere in the city. Or the country for that matter.

"There's another coffee, if you want it." I did. He brought it over, put it on the box beside me, and went back to his perch in the swivel chair, to nibble half-heartedly at his own food. I suppose his wife had done her duty and had already fed him a hearty breakfast. Deprivation, had certainly made me more appreciative. I thought about the prisoner and his spider.

"Better?" he asked his tone solicitous.

"Yes, thank you." I started on the second coffee.

"Need to use the bathroom?"

I was about to shake my head, but realized that if he choose to leave me again, there'd be no other opportunity.

"Yes. If it's okay?" I said concealing my fear.

He got up and helped me to my feet.

"You'll have to hop over. Come."

He walked towards the opening at the end of the wall and waited while I hopped over. I cursed him mentally and stumbled my way over to him. I managed to keep from falling by grabbing the cot for balance. I pushed myself up and followed as he went around the edge of the wall.

The bathroom consisting of a sink and toilet was in a make-shift closet affair on the wall opposite the cot. Whoever had put the room together had little in the way of carpentry skills. I managed to squeeze through the ill-fitting door which resisted my efforts to remain closed. It kept springing back every time I shoved. Miraculously I got my panty hose down and was able to get seated in spite of my bound feet. With my hands free, it would have been fairly simple just to untie my ankles, but fear prevented me from doing so.

I sat self-consciously as he waited outside the door. I needed to go rather badly but nerves and fear kept me from being able to perform. Each time a trickle started my muscles would seize cutting the flow. It took awhile but I finally relaxed enough to empty my bladder. That done, finally, I got up and arranged my clothes as best I could. In the mirror, I could see with the exception of the red swollen welt from the tape, I hadn't suffered that much -yet. I washed my face, using the hem of my blouse; there was no soap. The cold water was refreshing and I drank copiously from a cupped hand.

"Come on, come on. I haven't got all day." His voice had a hard edge. I tore off a long strip of toilet paper and dried myself then came out.

I tried to get a good glimpse of the place, looking for a window to give me clues as to my whereabouts. I saw the window, high and narrow, but from my angle I could nothing but blue sky. I hopped back to the room with the cot, and he waited until I had flopped down on it then came over with the tape.

"Sorry," he said, "but I've got to go out." He motioned, indicating that I extend my arms so he could wrap the tape around my wrists. He made several turns then tore the strip. For a fleeting second I thought I might have a chance of escape, but the thought vanished when he shoved me back roughly and pulled my arms over my head, securing my wrists to the iron frame of the cot.

He looked down at me. My skirt had hiked up exposing my legs and thighs. He reached down and I stiffened. He gave the skirt a few tugs and straightened it out. I thought of the other girls he had hurt and violated and wondered how I would react. If he intended to kill me anyway it would be worth putting up a fight.

"I've got to go out for a couple of hours so I'd suggest you try to rest, get some sleep. There's no point in struggling, you'll only exhaust and frustrate yourself, so if you've got any ideas, just forget them. I'll bring food, so don't worry. At least not about food," he gave a lopsided grin and left.

I listened. When his footsteps ceased the place was a tomb. In the silence my awareness heightened and I began to take in the smells and sounds of my prison. The creaks and groans of the beams sounded like gunshots in the silence and I detected a faint sweetness in the air - a church smell. I strained, forcing my senses to receive and sort data. I tried relaxing, breathing deeply and calmly, my eyes closed, and concentrated. The smell dominated. I was in a church. The basement of an old church. The smell of candles, beeswax permeated the place over the years. My heart raced. I was elated at the discovery. I opened my eyes and looked over at the desk, at the McDonald's bag. My joy was short-lived as I realized there must be scores of churches near McDonald outlets. I closed my eyes again, willing my body to relax and my mind to think. My only chance lay in escape, otherwise I was doomed. I had to focus my energy on that end otherwise I'd surely die here.

I turned my head and looked at the bonds that held me.

I was able to wiggle my arms slightly, but knew that was due to whatever slackness he left, not from any weakness in the tape. I flexed my ankles. No way.

I lay still for a while and thought. Above me, in a corner where the beam crossed the ceiling, a spider tended its web. I almost laughed. I craned my neck to check-out his tools on the wall. The knife he'd left on the desk, ten feet away. It might as well have been ten miles. I closed my eyes again, monitoring my breathing, trying to keep panic at bay. When my pulse had slowed, I opened them, but worked at keeping my breathing slow and rhythmical. I concentrated on the desk, the knife.

I flexed my arms, alternately pulling and twisting, then relaxing. I rested. I twisted my head in an attempt to look behind me, to see my wrists, see how they were attached to the iron frame. I only succeeded in hurting my neck. I tried bouncing on the bed, why I couldn't say, maybe just to prove I had some control over my movements. The bed moved slightly, the accomplishment pleasing me, but the effort taxing. I had to stop and rest. I repeated the action a few more times and managed to dance the bed away from the corner a few inches. I rested, summoning my strength. At some point I realized I had opened up a reasonable space between the head of the cot and the wall it had been pressed against. I strained my neck in a vainless effort to see. I bounced again and the bed began to move back to its original position. Somehow, I had the lost the right rhythm.

I rested some more, taking stock of what I was doing. The bed moved. How could that help me? It couldn't. Moving it back and forth would serve no purpose other than exhausting me. Unless....unless.... Something dawned. I closed my eyes, praying and concentrating and gripped the bar that held my wrists with my hands. I raised my legs, drawing my knees to my chest. Rocking slightly back and forth I extended my legs behind me in a variation of the plow position. I couldn't swing them back far enough. I stopped and rested. I was drenched in sweat. I tried again and again I failed. I gripped the bed frame tightly and rocked vigorously to gain enough momentum to get my legs back behind my head. I almost did it. They hit the wall and I collapsed, panting. I tried bouncing the bed again to get it moving. I had it almost against the wall again before it finally changed course. This time, I kept it up until I had enough room to avoid hitting the wall with my feet. I took a long rest, counting seconds until I had estimated ten minutes had passed. I made sure I had a good grip on the bar, then brought my legs up slowly and extended them behind my head. Just as I thought I had failed, my center of gravity shifted and my legs went down behind me and I followed through by rolling backwards over the frame. I lay on the floor panting. I gathered my wits and shoved the cot over to the desk swinging around so I could reach it from my end. This was the easy part. I was within reach of the knife alright, but with my hands tied to the bed it was quite useless to me. My feet were no help either. I pushed and moved the bed until it was parallel to the desk, then with my chin I reached for the knife. I dragged and pushed, bringing it just to the edge of the desk, then stopped to think about how to get it into my hands. If it fell off the edge and landed on the floor, I'd never get to it. If, on the other hand, it landed on the bed....

Had I not been gagged, I could grab it in my mouth. I gave it another push with my chin and hoped it would land on the cot and lay there. It fell, was deflected by the drawer pull as it went down, hit the cot, then bounced and settled. I still couldn't reach it so with my face I continued to work it closer to the point where I could pick it up with my fingers. I was hard, slow work.

The tape was tough and I'd need a good grip on the handle. Holding it with the blade towards me, I began the slow task of sawing at the tape. I could move the blade barely more than a half inch or so and it took forever before I'd broken through any of the fibers. Once through the tough edge of the tape, the knife progressed a little more easily, but the whole process must have taken the best part of an hour. When my wrists were free, I wasted no time in freeing my ankles.

In spite of the pain I forced myself to walk and left the small room cautiously, carefully picking my way towards the stairs beyond the bathroom. I proceeded slowly, careful not to make any noise. If the racket I'd made with all the bouncing hadn't brought anyone, I figured I was safe, but I wasn't about to test that hypothesis.

By the time I reached the top of the stairs, I had managed to peel most of the tape from my mouth. I balled it up and discarded it. I stood on a small landing blocked by a heavy door. I tested it. Miraculously it wasn't locked. I opened it cautiously and peered beyond it before venturing through.

I was in a narrow aisle. In a church. At the end of the aisle, towards the back, behind the last row of pews, was another door. I headed towards it as quickly as the pain in my feet allowed.

I grabbed the handle and pushed the latch down with my thumb and pulled.

We both screamed. Alistair dropped the bag of groceries and lunged at me. I twisted away and tried to squeeze by him but he was too quick for me. I grabbed the handle with both hands, struggling with the latch, but he had his arm around my neck. He pulled me away from the door and threw me down. My head struck the floor and I saw stars. He fell upon me, straddling me, his hands on my throat, his thumbs choking me.

"Stop!" he yelled. "Don't make me!"

I kept punching and scratching, raking his face. He squeezed harder, I could feel him against me, aroused by the violence. I stopped resisting, my consciousness fading, and he relaxed his grip.

"Don't. Don't make me." he said. "Don't make me kill you too."

I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew I was lying back on the cot bound spread-eagle. I couldn't move, each limb immobilized, taped to the iron frame. He hadn't gagged me.

I came to gradually. The room was bathed in a dull yellow glow, the lamp on his work bench casting surreal shadows on the wall. Another night. I twisted, and raised my head a bit for a better look. On the desk I could make out a few tools; the curved knife, some pliers and what looked like a spool of copper wire, its shiny coils reflecting the light. On the floor, wood shavings had been swept neatly into a pile. I didn't see him. I listened, concentrating very hard. The only sounds came from the heating ducts, as the furnace kicked in intermittently.

Before I had been scared, now I was petrified. There was no way I could get away from him, bound and trussed as I was. This was it. My heart pounded in my throat, and I began to sweat. My chest heaved, and I couldn't breathe. Don't panic, I told myself. Breathe slowly. Be calm.

My nerves finally settled, and I began to assess my predicament. I had only one option. At all costs I had to stay calm. If there was any hope for me at all, I had to avoid resisting him, avoid making him angry -angrier. Resistance only made him violent, rousing him to a sexual killing rage. No matter what happened, what he did to me, I resolved not to panic, not to resist. If he found me accessible, too easy to conquer, perhaps he'd lose interest, perhaps his quarry would be less attractive.

Short-cuts he'd told me. Immediate, instant satisfaction. I'd play the game. I'd be easy. If resistance aroused him, I wouldn't fuel his passion. No, I'd be totally submissive, impassive. If there was no fight, there'd be no interest. So I hoped.

Now that I had made up my mind, I was curiously calm. My decision could mean my life. I succumbed to exhaustion and drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.

I awoke, startled by the sound of footsteps. The lamp was still burning but morning light brightened the room. The second day. Or was it the third. He came in and stood at the foot of the cot.

"Well, professor. Thought I could trust you. Guess I was wrong. You need a lesson on keeping your word. No food today. Maybe hunger will convince you I mean business." He stood there staring at me, squeezing one of those exercise things that builds arm and wrist muscles.

His eyes traced the contours of my body and he laughed. Then he went to the desk, put the exerciser down, took the broom that leaned against it and swept the shavings into a smaller pile. He swept them onto a piece of cardboard and dumped them into the waste basket. That done, he brushed bits of wire and wood from the desk into a cupped hand and put them too in the waste basket.

He turned to look at me, cleaning his hands on his thighs. His lips moved as if he was about to speak. He said nothing but moved to the chair and sat down continuing to watch me for some moments.

"I'm sorry," I said, and hated myself for saying it.

"It's okay," he replied, his voice calm.

"I don't want to hurt you, professor. But I will if you give me reason. I can kill you at anytime." He leaned forward and added, "You know that." I nodded.

"But I want you to see where you were wrong about me. You wouldn't listen when I went to see you. You still think the horses are about me. They're not." He shook his head and repeated, "They're not."

"Tell me again," I said, figuring to keep him talking. The sound of his voice was perversely reassuring, heightening my awareness of being alive.

"Sure, I'll tell you, professor."

"Could you untie me first? The tape is cutting into my wrists."

"No, I don't think so. Better for you if you stay that way. You might live longer." He shook his fist at me. From the look in his face, I had to agree.

"Yes. The horses." He sat forward clasping his hands between bony knees, and stared at the floor. "Like I said to you the other day -you remember? It's society that's to blame. That's what the horses were telling you. That's what I was trying to tell you!" He stabbed his chest with a finger. "But you couldn't see it. Even after I explained it to you, I could see you weren't buying it."

"I still think you're wrong," I ventured.

"No, I am not wrong!"

"What I mean is -and think about it a minute- you believe one thing but your mind is sending another message."

He looked at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You think you're saying one thing. You know, with the horses. But your mind, your subconscious tells a different story."

"Give me a break, professor. You're still trying to say that the horses are a kind of confession. That they reveal what's going on in my head!"

"That's part of it." He was getting agitated again and I didn't want to set him off, but I kept up a gentle pressure to keep him slightly off balance. At this point what was there to lose?

"Look," I said. "You're asking for help. That's why the elaborate game. That's why you're dropping the horses around, leaving clues. They're a trail, don't deny it."

"You're cute, professor, I'll give you that."

"Come on, Alistair. Admit it. You know I'm right, so why don't untie me. Let me go before it's too late. I can help you."

"Oh, you're clever, aren't you, professor. Real clever. But it is too late.... For both of us."

"Are you denying that you want to be stopped? To get caught? So we can help you? Alistair. For God's sake. Listen to me. Put a stop to this -this thing you're doing."

"You don't know anything!"

"Maybe not. But I know this- all those horses, Alistair. All those riderless horses. They tell me you're looking for help, for direction."

His laugh startled me. "That's good. Very good. But I do know where I'm going."

"Okay, then tell me. Show me where I'm wrong."

"There are no riders, professor, because that's just it. There are no riders. Period. Society just rushes ahead without us. Leaving us behind, bulldozing its way, trampling us, crushing us." He got up and paced, punching a fist into his palm.

"I told you that didn't I? That's what the charger meant. And the others."

"I don't believe that for a second. And you're starting to have doubts yourself." I took a breath and added, "That's why you haven't killed me." Jesus, I hoped I was on the right track.

"Don't get too smart. That can easily be rectified!"

"Sure. But it's true, though. Admit it. You say the charger is society crashing headlong over you. I say the circus horse tells a different story." He looked at me, raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips. He couldn't stand the challenge. That's why I was still alive. He had to convince me, bring me over to his side.

"You're the circus horse," I told him. "Flamboyant. Witty. A real colorful guy. Or maybe that's how you'd like to be but haven't figured out how to do it."

"That's bullshit! The world is the circus. That's what the horse means. A carnival. Loud, wild, and untamed."

It's you who's untamed, I thought, but said to him, "You sure about that? Or are you talking about yourself?"

"You suggesting that I'm wild? Irrational? Maybe crazy?" He was standing over me, leaning down and shouting into my face. I held my breath and counted to ten in my mind before saying:

"No, You're not crazy, Alistair. You calculated every one of your moves. I'd say you're really quite rational."

I paused again before adding, "But your perceptions are distorted."

He walked away and stood leaning on the desk, his back to me so I couldn't see his face, couldn't see what he was thinking. I hoped I had calculated correctly, that his ego would compel him to disagree, to justify himself to me. He turned around and sat down, casually crossing his legs, as if we were just having an idle chat.

"You think my views are distorted? You think I misinterpret the world around me? That's a laugh. I'm afraid you've missed the whole point of what the horses really mean."

"No, I don't think I have. Take the unicorn. You want me to believe that you're being screwed by the world. In fact you're doing the screwing, impaling your victims, trying to strike back at the world which you imagine is out to destroy you." I didn't mention how I might symbolize the virgin maiden who was supposed to subdue the beast within him.

"That's funny. Real funny. Ha, ha, I'm laughing."

"Okay, here's something else to laugh about. The Trojan horse, okay? Didn't you say it stood for a corrupt society, full of deceit?"

"Yes, I did. And it does!"

"No, Alistair. It doesn't. It's you. You're dishonest. A fraud. You refuse to recognize your own short-comings. You can't face up to your responsibilities."

"What? You're right; it is laughable. You say I'm not responsible? What do you think I'm doing anyway? I'm showing you how society is corrupt. That's why I had to do what I did. Society has to pay. You can't change -rehabilitate- the whole of society, so you have to punish!"

"Sure. I agree," I told him. "But that's where you've failed. You're not punishing society or anyone for that matter. You're just killing innocent people."

"No one is innocent, professor. No one."

I couldn't argue that point. "Well then. What about the centaur. Tell me it's not you wrestling with your own conscience. The civilized, rational Alistair, fighting his dark side."

He laughed again. "And the Devil within me is triumphant? You're going to have to do better than that!"

"Okay. How about this. Do you deny you see yourself as some sort of conqueror? An avenger?" I was thinking of the equestrian statue in the park.

"An avenger? I like that. Maybe that's it. But conqueror -no way. If anything, I'm trying to overthrow the Conqueror. It is we who are the victims -the conquered."

I had made at least one point. I watched him. He sat and rocked back and forth on the chair, balancing on the back legs. I was trussed, immobilized, and engaged in a crazy conversation with a mad killer.

"Where's the other Alistair?" I asked.

"What?"

"The Reverend, Dr. Andrews. Where is he?"

"Where the hell do you think he is? He's trying to figure out -decide what to do with you."

I looked at him and began to worry, realizing although one part of him might not want to kill me, he might feel he had no other choice. Keeping me alive, albeit a prisoner, created new problems for him, and he was beginning to realize them; he'd lost his independence, no longer free to move. I was a new variable, a wrinkle too tough to smooth. He'd have to feed me, water me, keep me in reasonable health, all this increased his risks. Alive, I was a threat. If I somehow escaped, it would be game over for him. But dead, he'd regain his independence, freedom to continue.

A thought struck. Perhaps his subconscious was at work again. The horses were a trail, a trail he'd hope would be followed by someone who came after me, someone smarter than me. Someone he could count on to follow the trail, capture him, and put an end to this. I was the failure. He had done all he could to make it easy for me, and I muffed it. But maybe keeping me alive was a subconscious desire. Maybe he wanted to give me another chance, another crack at the puzzle. As perverse as this sounded, it just might be what he wanted from me.

I twisted my arms a bit. It was agony, impossible to find a comfortable position.

"Alistair. Enough," I said trying to sound assertive. "Untie me. I'm in real pain. I won't try to get away. Promise."

"He got up, picked up the knife from the work table, and came over. Thank God, I thought. He stood over me, and slapped the knife softly in the palm of his hand. Slowly he reached down and picked up my skirt, draping it back on my chest. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pantyhose. With the knife he made two long slits through the material alternately on both legs, right down to my ankles. He pulled the shredded material, yanking and tugging until he had removed all of it and threw it into the wastebasket.

"There," he said, "now you'll be more comfortable."

He bent down again and I tried to shrink back from the knife. He pulled my skirt down, smoothing it out along my thighs. I remembered what Geoff had told me about how he left his victims in a neat, tidy arrangement. I willed myself not to cry out, not to show fear, afraid my cries might arouse him if I did.

I watched him standing over me. There was nothing in his eyes, not even a pin-point of light. I scanned his body. His hands hung loose. I could see the pulse on the inside of his wrist, the vein alternately swelling and going flat. I looked down the front of him.

"I know what you're thinking, professor." I felt my cheeks grow hot.

"That I'm some kind of sadist. You think I'm weak. That I'm a smash and grab rapist. Take what I want when I want it. Like the criminals I'm trying to help -tried to help. But you're wrong. I'm not a criminal. That's just it, professor. Don't you get it? I'm no criminal. All I'm trying to do is point out, to show people just how corrupt they are and that they have to be punished. That's all I'm doing.

"You said so yourself. I'm the Avenger." He laughed, believing his own words.

"Would avenging angel be more to the point?" he asked. "The whole world seems intent on just two things. Survival and satisfying its primal desires. But there's a lot in between, professor. A lot." He went back to his chair. The distance between us giving me false hope.

I said to him, "You told me -or did you forget our little talk the other day? You told me you didn't think that the person who killed those girls had learned to cope with society and all its pressures. The rat race. You called it a treadmill. You said it was too much for him."

"Yeah, I remember. I also said, I see society as his undoing. And that's why he's-I'm punishing society. Before it destroys me like it's destroyed everything else. As you said, screwing it before it really screws me. I told you, I am not weak. I'm the one with the power of life and death. I decide whether or not you're going to live. Don't tell me that's a sign of weakness. Look at you! Tell me who's in control."

"You also quoted a Hindu saying. You said, 'The Mind is the Slayer of the Real'. You also told me that this... this person... this killer has misread the clues around him."

"No. You said he mis-read the clues. I said from our perspective -actually yours more than mine- that he sees himself as totally justified in what he's doing. And he's right. And the Hindus are right. That so-called collective consciousness shared by all of society has cut itself off from the real world. I'm trying to make society refocus. See the true reality."

"What the hell is the true reality, Alistair? Do you know? Does anybody know?"

"The true reality, professor, is the one where people don't count! I've been screwed by the world too many times. Now I'm getting back!"

"Getting back! Getting back! You're terrorizing innocent people. You rape them and kill them. You're nothing but a sadistic rapist!" I kept my voice low, trying to sound in control of myself. I couldn't defend myself but I goaded him anyway.

"Look at you," I went on. "You're a weak, sniveling little ... little nothing. You're weak, Alistair, otherwise you wouldn't feel the need to keep me here tied up like this. You can't handle me." I had to consciously work at keeping my voice steady and strong. My heart pounded, and I was sweating. I could smell my own fear. I watched his face. His jaw tightened. The muscles in his cheeks twitched.

"That's it, isn't it, Alistair?" I pushed. "You are afraid of me. Of all women. It's not society you hate. Your beef is against women. You're on a power trip."

"Stop it! I told you why I'm doing this."

"Yeah. You told me. But you're a liar. You can't face the truth. It's too horrible for you, isn't it?

"Alistair, you're a loser of the worst kind."

"No!"

"You hate women. The only way you can have a woman is if you take her by force!"

"Stop it. Stop it before ...."

"Before what, Alistair? Before you kill me too? Huh? Go ahead. Should be easy for you. Go on." I thrust myself at him as much as I could, trussed as I was.

"Go on. Use the knife. You'd like to cut me up, wouldn't you?"

He backed up a step, shaking his head. I hoped I hadn't miscalculated. He wouldn't kill me -not while I was tied and couldn't resist.

"Cut me loose you miserable ....." I strained and thrashed. If he cut me loose, he'd have reason to kill me. Tied, I couldn't escape. Either way I was in jeopardy. He backed away gradually until he bumped into the desk and dropped the knife. As he bent to pick it up he regained his senses.

"I know what you're trying to do, but it won't work. Still, I think it would be best if you shut-up now."

"Shut-up? You want me to shut-up? Alistair, I'm just getting started."

"Look. I'm warning you." He tilted his head and took a step towards me. I kept berating him.

"I told you to stop that!" He kept coming closer. I watched him, his steps slow, measured, the knife tucked into his waist-band. I didn't think he'd use it. I kept at him.

He drew his hand slowly across his chest and struck my face a back-handed blow. It stunned me, and I tasted blood but I was in such a rage that I didn't feel any pain.

"Bastard! Cut me loose!"

The knife stayed in his waist-band, but he reached down and took hold of my wrist as if to peel away the tape. Instead, he grabbed my little finger and forced it back. I choked back a scream biting my lip.

"I meant what I said. Now will you shut-up?" He punctuated his words by forcing my finger back until the bone snapped. I tried not to scream, my teeth cutting through my lip. He reached over and took hold of my other wrist and held it still. With his other hand he gripped the little finger and forced it back slowly. I blacked out before the bone broke.

I don't know how long I was out, but it was still light when I came to.

My hands ached; the throbbing went clear to my shoulders. I craned my neck trying to see the damage. Both fingers were bent grotesquely backwards, the sight making me nauseous. Both hands had ballooned to the wrists where the tape constricted blood-flow, and bruising had turned them the colour of grapes.

I couldn't help myself and began to whimper.

"I told you," he said, his voice so low it startled me. He was seated at the desk, hunched over the blotter, the light focused on his handiwork.

"Do as I tell you, professor. You still have eight more fingers." He returned to concentrate on what he was doing. I'd misjudged him. What an understatement. I had hoped my challenge would have forced him to untie me, give me some sort of fighting chance. How naive of me. What a childish ploy. Like the old joke -he might be crazy, but he wasn't stupid. Nothing wrong with his terrorist tactics. He won. He had finally subdued me. Mercifully his victims had died, ending the torture. How long would I last, I wondered. Perhaps he wasn't ready to kill me, but he had no qualms about hurting me. I lay there exhausted, totally cowed. I'd do whatever he wanted, whatever it took to avoid more pain. My Achilles heel. God it hurt. I tried to breathe slowly, using as little energy as possible. Filling my lungs was torture, sending shards of pain to my brain. I held my breath. The pain subsided. I tried not to move, to remain motionless. I tried shallow breaths and focused on breathing, trying to put the pain out of my mind.

I turned slightly so I could see him. Whatever it was he was doing, he was intent on the task.

Abruptly, he pushed his chair back. The sharp squeaking it made set up a chain reaction. I flinched from the noise, and lightning bolts shot through me.

He stood up, and came over to me. He held his newest creation, another rocking horse.

"What do you think? Will your boyfriend get the message?" He laughed and held it out for me to see. Another unicorn. One leg was broken as was the horn.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and stifled a cry.

"Your friend, Detective London. I'm sure he'll understand the significance of this next message." He laughed again and went back to the desk to tidy it up. Alistair, forever cleaning up. Over his shoulder he said, "This should keep him on the edge while I put the last part of my plan into action."

"What plan?" I managed to ask.

"You mean to say that the great Dr. Sam Milland hasn't figured out what the last four horses really mean?"

"The Apocalypse?" I mumbled.

"That's as far as you got, isn't it? Well, I'm afraid it wasn't far enough." He kept laughing softly, shaking his head and finished cleaning up the debris.

"Thought you'd get more out of those horses than that."

"Afraid not, Alistair. I guess you outsmarted us after all. I concede."

"Concede if you want -not that it matters now anyway." He put the tools back on the rack and straightened the blotter, squaring it to the desk.

"I'll be going now. Got to send this off." He dangled it in front of me, holding it by the broken horn.

"I doubt that I'll be coming back. Too bad. I wanted you to play a bigger role in my game, but you spoiled it by trying to get away from me. Thought I could trust you. Sorry about that. He turned to leave. I swallowed what little pride I had left and said:

"I'm thirsty. May I have some water before you go? Please?"

"No. No water. No food. If I decide to come back, maybe. But I wouldn't count on that." He went to the desk and switched off the light. That action was so final, my heart sank even further. He left without another word leaving me dying in the waning light.

I found myself sobbing quietly and realized I had better stop; I'd need to conserve what little energy and body fluids I had left. Save energy for what, I asked myself, and started to laugh as the foolishness of the thought suddenly struck me.

Tension flowed, released by my hysteria and with no control whatsoever over my bodily functions I began to cry uncontrollably, voiding my bladder into the cot.

I lay there forever, intermittently sleeping and dreaming, the pain from two broken fingers blending two states of consciousness, twisting reality and illusion into a knotted tangle. At one point I was astride a horse, a beautiful white stallion, my fingers entwined in its silky mane. We galloped, barely skimming the ground in a broad country pasture. The sun warmed my naked body. At once the sky was dark and threatening and I was suddenly clad in a suit of armor riding a unicorn. We plunged headlong, thundering down a dirt path, the horn on my unicorn aimed at the knight jousting towards us. At the point of impact the other rider was thrown and lost his helmet, but before falling his lance had scored. I fell and noticed the fallen knight was my father. I lay on my back unable to move, my broken lance still in my hand; I had unseated him, not the unicorn.

I struggled and struggled but couldn't get up. When I opened my eyes, I remembered why. I lay there groaning in the dark, my head pounding. A crash started me; another knight hit the ground; a beam of light sliced through the dark. I was hallucinating.

He was coming back. No. Voices. Two people. More. The light grew brighter as they came down the stairs. I held my breath. The voices stopped. The light cut swaths in the small room, slicing the desk, the walls, the desk again, before settling on me.

I screamed. The voices screamed. The light danced crazily then became steady, a still beam snaked across the floor.

"Wait! Come back," I yelled. Too late. They had scrambled away, stumbling and yelling.

"Come back." I screamed. "Come back, damn you," I sobbed. But they were gone, and with them all hopes of salvation.

I drifted off again, too far gone to really notice the sounds of sirens in the distance.

# Chapter 17

More voices. And lights. Bumping. More pain.

"Is she alive?"

"Can't tell. Give me some more light."

"Jesus! What the fuck's going on here?"

"Holy shit! Cut the fucken tape, will ya. Easy man. Easy. "Christ, look at her. Get a pulse yet?"

"Yeah, she's alive. Watch her hands, man."

"Okay, okay."

"How long she been here anyway?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Easy. Lift her real easy."

"Yeah, yeah. Look at her feet for Christ sake! They look they they're gonna burst."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. On three. One.... Two...."

I was wrapped and strapped, immobilized again, and carried out of the small room and up the stairs head first. I didn't know if I was dreaming and I didn't care, letting myself be borne along by the illusion. I was wheeled into an ambulance, its blinking red eye hypnotic; the gaping doors snapped shut like jaws sealing me in its belly. It took off with a lurch, its mournful wail unwinding behind us like an endless ribbon. One attendant remained with me checking my vital signs. Occasionally I felt his hand caress my forehead pushing away sweaty strands of hair.

When I awoke, really awoke, I was in a hospital room, the pale green walls and antiseptic smells disconcertingly comforting. Above me an IV bag hung from a pole and sent bubbles along a tube to a needle stuck in my arm. I wanted to look at my hands. I raised them. They seemed to float unaided. Swaddled in white gauze, they looked like the paddles wielded by circus clowns. A hoop made a tent out of the blankets to keep them from touching my feet.

"Hi, Sammy." A voice said softly

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

"Never mind me. How do you feel?"

"Like I'm flying. Floating. What's in that bag, anyway?"

"Demerol. Your hands and feet are going to hurt. From the circulation getting back."

I tried to sit up. The effort cost more than I had, and I fell back.

"Don't move. I'll crank the bed a bit. Tell me if it hurts."

He worked the handle at the end of the bed, and the bottom started to come up. He reversed direction and raised me until I was semi-sitting.

"Better?"

"Thanks.

"What day is it?" He told me.

"Jesus. A week!" I opened my eyes wide and struggled again to sit up.

"Take it easy, Sammy. It's okay." He put his hand gently on my shoulder to keep me still. "Don't exert yourself. You have to rest. Get your strength back.

I didn't argue. After some seconds I said, not bothering to open my eyes, "Geoff...?"

"He's been. Spent most of the night beside you, waiting for you to wake up. I told him to go home and sleep. Doctor's orders. He's half dead himself." He laughed nervously. "I don't think the man slept since..."

I wasn't that far gone that I didn't notice the unfinished sentence.

"Since what, Dad?" No answer.

"Dad," I repeated, "since what..?" I don't know whether he answered or not. The drug did wonders. I felt no pain, nor could I stay awake.

"You're still here?" I said when I opened my eyes again.

"Yes, I'm still here," he chuckled, "It's only been a few minutes."

"Oh. I thought I had fallen asleep."

"It's the Demerol."

"What were you saying about Geoff..?"

"Nothing, Sammy. Try to sleep. Let yourself go. I'll stay right here. Don't worry. I won't leave you."

"Dad?"

"What Sammy? Sleep now."

"I'm sorry." I felt his lips brush my forehead, and I slept.

Later, much later, when I awoke again he was still sitting beside me. Geoff was there too, sitting at the foot of the bed. His clothes were rumpled, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. His eyes, smudged with fatigue, were sunk deep in his head. He jumped up and came to me when I opened my eyes, and smiled in that goofy, sheepish way of his whenever he didn't know what to say.

"What the hell's so funny?" I asked. The grin grew wide splitting his face.

"How does it feel to be back among the living?"

"You tell me. Whatever they got in that bag up there has me soaring with the angels."

"You're going to be fine. Except for being dehydrated, a couple of broken pinkies, and swollen feet. Other than that you're in perfect health."

"Great! Glad it's nothing serious." I tried to laugh but it was a dismal failure. I wasn't in pain but my head throbbed and felt mushy.

"It's been a week since he abducted me, so I make it a couple of days that I've been here."

"Yes, and we were more than a little worried. As it turns out, it's basically dehydration and few missing meals. And two broken fingers of course." He stroked my arm.

"And what about my father," I nodded in his direction. "When did they release him?"

"A couple of days after you went missing. Ouellette saw the light and well..."

"I told you Sammy, it would work out." He waved an admonishing finger at me.

I felt my eyes brimming. Ouellette coming to the obvious conclusion well before me.

"Sammy, Sammy. It's okay. Everything is fine now." He got up quickly and brushed my hair back, and patted my shoulder. "Everything is fine."

The physical affection made it worse and I couldn't hold back the tears. Thankfully Geoff came to the rescue handed me some tissues and changed the subject.

"Do you know who did this to you?"

"Didn't Dad tell you?"

"No." He looked at him, "Gregor?"

My father made a face and shrugged. "You didn't tell me, Sammy."

"I thought I did. I must've dreamed it. Better sit down. The two of you."

Dutifully, they sat.

"It was Alistair."

"Alistair? Alistair?" Geoff stood up and leaned across the bed. "You mean..."

"Yes, God damn it! The Reverend Alistair Andrews."

"Jesus Christ!" he roared and stormed out. "I'll be right back."

In less time than it took for the nurse to come in, take my pulse and make notes on my chart, he was back, energized in spite of his lack of sleep.

"We could tell the church- where he kept you- was where the women were killed. There was more than enough evidence. Of course we had no idea who. Until just now. I've called for a surveillance unit to watch his house. If he's at home or shows up they're to keep him in sight. I don't want to haul him in yet. But I sure as hell don't want to lose him either."

"You're not going to pick him up? You've got Sammy's word and the DNA proves it's him, doesn't it?

Yes we have Sam's word. But no other proof. The DNA from the victims will have to be matched to Alistair. And so far we don't have a sample from the good reverend."

He ran his fingers around his collar. His tie was loose, but the knot was tight and shiny from so much handling. He came and stood beside me.

"Sam. Are you up to some questions? It's pretty important and time's a factor."

"Sure." I tried to hike myself a little higher. My father obliged and cranked the lever.

"Can you start from the beginning? It was Saturday, wasn't it? Start from when we spoke on the phone."

"I'll have to go back a bit further, to when Alistair came to see me."

"He went to see you? Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"At the time there was nothing to tell. There was nothing unusual about his visit. We just talked about the case. Now will you let me tell it my way?"

"Sorry, Sam. Go on."

"He came to see me. A student wanting to talk to his advisor. He said he wanted to share some of his ideas with me about the case. About the horses."

"His thoughts about the horses. Jesus." He looked at my father and exchanged glances.

"Don't look like that! How was I supposed to know what was going on in his head."

"Go on," Geoff said softly. "Take your time, tell us what happened."

"Nothing happened. Except that at the time I thought he seemed a little nervous, on edge. I asked him about it and he said just that he had things on his mind.

"You soon found out what they were."

"Dad!"

"Okay, Sammy. Okay." He patted my arm, but I was too far gone to act indignant.

"We talked about the horses. His ideas. That's all! I didn't know it at the time, but he was trying to put me back on his trail. Later he told me, when he had me locked up, that I was on the wrong track. He was trying to set me straight."

"Can you explain?" Geoff put his hand over his mouth to suppress a belch. A cop's diet.

"He said the horses represented society and not him as we had concluded." My father was taking notes, his eyes glued to the pad as he wrote.

"I still say, they tell more of the man than he'd like you to believe."

"Do you mind," I said to him. "After he left, Jeanine....."

"Jeanine? Who's Jeanine?"

"Jesus, Geoff. Would the two of you shut up and let me tell it?"

"Okay, okay. Sorry."

I continued, this time without interruption.

"Jeanine, Vera's friend from the Metro. She came by to tell me that some guy was hanging around the bar. Not the Metro, a bar where a friend of hers worked. She thought it was the same man who had hit on Vera when she worked at the Metro.

"She had told me earlier that she'd get in touch with me the next time she saw him."

Geoff couldn't help himself and had to interrupt to admonish me, for trying to handle things on my own. I ignored him and continued.

"I didn't tell you, because she insisted I not involve the cops. Unless I agreed, she wouldn't help. Besides what choice did I have? We all wanted to put an end to this, and I judged her to be a good lead from what she had told me. What good would it have done to have you guys crawling all over the place?"

He gave me a look telling me he didn't buy into my logic.

My father said, "Jeanine. Did she know this guy?"

"No. Not personally. Anyway, she agreed to let me know if she saw this guy. Then she left.

"I had intended to come and see you, Dad, but by the time she left it was too late. I'm sorry."

"I know, Sammy. Never mind that. I glad you didn't. I hated for you to see me in there." He patted my arm again.

"Now it's afternoon. I went shopping, killed some time and went home. I watched some TV. Later that evening, Jeanine calls. The guy's there. In the bar. I get dressed and go over, have a drink with her and wait. When he comes out of the men's room, Jeanine points him out. I almost died. Turns out the guy's Alistair."

I stopped at this point and indicated I wanted a drink. Geoff held the glass of water, and I sucked at it through the straw, drinking less than I thought I could handle.

"Then what?" he encouraged when I had finished.

"I was scared. Shitless. We took off through the back way and went home."

"Okay so far. I can see why you didn't want to tell me anything up until now. But once you got home why didn't call me?"

"I was going to. But the more I thought about it, the more confused I got. How could I put the cops onto him? Tell me. Is it a crime for someone to go to a strip joint? Jesus. You'd have to lock up half the city if it was. Besides, some of my doubts about people had caused enough trouble. And anyway, I did call you. I started to explain, but when I realized I was talking to your damn machine, I got annoyed. At that point I hung up, not bothering to leave a message after the goddam beep!"

He wiped his hand across his face, and set his mouth in a hard line. "That's it, then?"

"Yes. That's it."

"When did he kidnap you?"

"After I called you. I watched some TV. The bell rang, and I thought it was you. Figured maybe you had tried to reach me earlier or had some news about Dad. When I answered the door expecting to see you, some guy in a track suit knocked me down and put something over my face to knock me out. Turns out of course that it was Alistair.

"The next thing I know, I find myself tied-up in that place. It was an abandoned, church wasn't it?"

I needed another drink. He refilled the glass, the ice long melted, but even at room temperature it tasted wonderful.

"Maybe you can tell me a few things," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like how you managed to find me."

"Pure accident, Sam. Wonderful dumb luck.

"A couple of kids broke into the place, probably to vandalize the place. They got the shit scared out of them when they saw you. Thought it was a dead body. When they got home, they told their parents and they called the police. Thank God."

"I thought I was a goner." My eyes filled and my voice broke.

"You're safe now, Sammy. It's okay."

"I know, Dad. Just nerves.

"You know," I said, trying to wipe my face with my hands, "I almost got away from him."

I told them of my struggle and subsequent recapture.

"Christ, Sam, you got guts. I'll give you that."

"More like stupidity, I'd say. Look what it got me." I held up the mitts.

"They'll heal soon enough, don't worry. I'm more concerned about the other scars. The ones that don't show." My father, ever the psychiatrist

"I can handle that now. I figured he was going to leave me there to die. If it hadn't been for those kids who knows when, and if, I'd have been found. Shit, there'd have been only bones left." No one laughed.

"Don't think of that. You're safe now. There's no way he can get to you." Geoff bent down and planted a kiss on my forehead, lips cool.

My father stood up, not without effort and said, "I'll see you tomorrow." He kissed me too and shuffled off towards the door, an old man aged by the events of the past week.

When the door had closed, I said to Geoff, "I guess he's no longer a suspect? You let him go?"

"After you disappeared and I got the horse, we knew he was in the clear."

"The horse? The one with the broken leg?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Jesus, I was there remember. He showed it to me."

"That bastard!" He said, repeatedly.

"You know, Sam. I thought I'd lost you. When I saw the unicorn, I knew what he was telling me." He stood close and did his best to hug me. I put my clumsy arms around his neck and kissed him. The IV tube got in the way.

"Better watch it, wouldn't do to have you strangle yourself."

It was a feeble attempt at humour, but I laughed at his joke anyway.

"He didn't want to kill me, you know. At least not at first. I wasn't quite so scared when I realized I might still have a chance. But as usual I got over confident, let my ego get in the way. I pushed him, goaded him, figured he might untie me, give me a fighting chance. But with my attempt to get away, it only made him more irrational."

"Come on. Don't start blaming yourself for what happened to you."

"No, I don't mean it that way. But I keep thinking that if I had handled it differently, if I hadn't tried to play with his head...."

"Look. You can't second guess him. So forget it. It's over."

"I guess you're right. I know you're right I pushed him away so I could get a good look at his face. He needed a shave and a shower, and his breath was bad. There were tears in his blood-shot eyes. I reached for him and held him close. He never smelled as sweet.

"It wasn't as bad as all that, you know. He didn't really hurt me."

"What?" He moved back to look at me. "That bastard breaks your fingers, starves you, terrorizes and brutalizes you and you say he didn't hurt you? Jesus, Sam. If I get a hold of him... I swear I'll...."

"Take it easy, Geoff. I know how you feel. I'm afraid of him, but I don't hate him. Not the way you do."

"Stockholm," he said.

"What?"

"Stockholm. The Stockholm Syndrome. You know, when the hostage begins to identify with his captors."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"You're the psychologist. What do you think? All I know is that I was worried sick about you."

We didn't speak for a while. He sat down and stared at me until I felt like a specimen, an insect pinned to a cork board. I closed my eyes.

"I guess I should go, you must still be exhausted. I'm being selfish."

"No, don't go. I want you to stay. I am tired but believe me I'm enjoying it compared to what he put me through."

"Okay. But don't stay awake on my account. I'll stay, but sleep if you want to."

"Tired, but not sleepy.

"You said his house is being watched?"

"That's right. And the church too."

"He won't go back there, and I doubt if he'll go home."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's breaking all his ties."

"What do you mean, breaking all his ties?"

"He's planning something. I don't know what, but he seemed to think he wanted me to be part of whatever it is. A witness or something. Whatever it is, it's going to be big. A statement. It has something to do with those four horses. You know, the Apocalypse ones." My eyes were closed and I just let the thoughts and words flow.

"He explained what they meant, didn't he?"

I nodded. "I'm sure that's where the answer lies. We have to study them again, and stop him. They'll tell us what he's up to, I'm sure of it."

I opened my eyes and added, "Otherwise, Geoff he's going to kill again. And this time, he won't be satisfied with just one victim."

"Jesus, Sam. What are you saying?"

"He's serious. He sees himself as some kind of avenger. He told me as much. He thinks it's his duty to punish society for its evil wickedness."

"Christ, the man is twisted. Absolutely crazy!"

"This time, I agree. Crazy isn't exactly a clinical term, but it's more than apt. He's also becoming delusional, starting to see things. In the abstract. Nevertheless his delusions are very real to him. His views, all his perceptions, are distorted. Society is the enemy, for whatever reason, and he's bent on destroying it. Unfortunately he's killing innocent women to achieve his ends."

"Is this what he told you?"

"Not in so many words. But don't forget, we've had many a long talk. He sees society as responsible for his failures, and he's taking it out on individuals -women. He makes no distinction between the individual and society. Women are part of society, therefore they're responsible for his failure and he kills them. It's strictly personal with him."

"And you think that unless we can figure out his next move -read when he plans to strike next -there's going to be a bloodbath?"

"As I see it, yes."

"Holy shit!" He got up and went to the window and stared out into the night. From where I lay I could see the expressway. Long lines of cars moved, becoming a double stranded chain of blinking red lights as they braked at the intersection.

"How the hell are we going to stop him? Even now that we know who he is, we're still behind the eight ball. He's still got us by the short and....!"

"We have to draw him out. Or figure where he's going to strike."

"Either way, we're working against impossible odds. And as long as he stays put, lays low, he'll be reasonably safe. But if he strikes -I should say when he strikes, all we'll have is a bunch of women in body bags. What a fucking mess!"

"You know, maybe we should speak to his wife."

"You think she'd help?"

"No harm in asking."

"Yeah? From my experience wives rarely finger their old man. Even when they're abused. Shit, they'd do anything to protect the creeps." He turned and looked at me.

"And besides, how the hell is she going to take it when we tell her what he's done -more specifically, what we think he's done?" He turned back to the window and stared into the street, his reflection distorted in the glass.

"You know as well as I do," he said, "that she'll probably throw us out of the house. Who wouldn't?"

"I know. But at this point what choice do we have? I'll come with you. I've met Denise. Maybe with me there...."

""You're not in any kind of shape, Sam. Look at you."

"That's just it. When she sees me..."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right," he said grudgingly. He turned around and sat in the chair at the end of the bed.

"You know, Sam. I've always wanted to be an archeologist. How the hell I ended up a cop, I'll never know."

"No difference."

"What?"

"There's no difference. Cops and archeologists. They both dig around in the dirt."

# Chapter 18

The next morning I felt miraculously better. My head was clear, the throbbing in my hands and feet had almost stopped, and I was ravenously hungry. Even the day was bright. The early sun, unseasonably warm, washed over me, warming me to the core.

"Good morning," she said musically, entering backwards and hauling a cart with medicines and stuff.

"Good morning," I answered. She pulled the cart into the room, let the door swing shut out of her way, then wheeled the cart around parallel to my bed.

She was my age, I guessed, with a short Afro, the curls tight and dense. She wore no make-up to mar her perfect skin. The collar of her uniform stood up straight and stiff, its whiteness framing her mahogany features. Self-consciously I tried to push my own lank strands back over my ears.

"And how are we today, Miss? Better, huh?"

"Much better, thank you."

"That's good." She seemed to wear a perpetual smile and the Jamaican lilt in her voice was ripe with humour.

She took a thermometer out of its container, glanced at it, shook it twice, and put it in my mouth.

"That's it, dear, under the tongue." Her accent made it come out 'under de tong'. While waiting for it to heat up, she timed my pulse matching it to the watch pinned to her bosom. It was a quarter to eight.

"Good, Miss. Very good. Are we hungry this mornin'? Can we eat, huh?" While she kept up the patter, she was busy cranking the bed, fluffing the pillow and feeling my forehead as if she hadn't trusted the thermometer.

"I'm starving! What's on the menu?"

"Well, I'll send d' girl wit' somethin'. Do you fancy some fruit juice and toast?"

"And yogurt." I'm glad she didn't mention eggs.

"And yogurt too, if you like.

"Have you been yet, Miss? Shall I leave the bed-pan?"

"I'd rather get up," I said.

"Oh, Miss. I don't know, now." She looked at me, staring hard, her hands on her hips. Then gently she pulled down the covers to look at my feet.

"Don't seem too bad to me, Miss. Still some swellin'. Do they hurt?"

"No, not much. But I guess I can thank whatever is in that bag." I was about to point to it but it was no longer there.

"We stopped that last night. And took the needle out this mornin', Miss. Don't you remember?"

"I must've been really out, I don't remember that at all." I looked and my arm and saw the bandaid.

"Oh my," she laughed, "and we had such a nice chat too!"

"Really!"

"Just kiddin, Miss. You were sleepin'. Really sleepin'." She rolled her eyes and chuckled.

"Do you think you can walk? I'll help you."

"Yes, I think so."

"Okay, then. Let's go." She flipped the covers back, and I saw my feet for the first time since I'd been brought in. I didn't recognize them. The swelling was down but the toes were puffy, like cock-tail sausages, and about the same colour.

I swung my legs around a little too quickly and made myself dizzy.

"Oh, dear. Let me get the bed-pan, Miss."

"No, no. I can do it. I'll just have to do it really slowly." She watched my face and took me under the arm, in the way nurses do, and supported me. I stepped down gingerly, testing my feet and legs. The floor was cold, and my toes curled up. Other than that I felt no pain. Some tingling, pins and needles, but no pain. After two or three tentative steps I was able to maneuver on my own.

"Very good, Miss. That's very good. Can you manage in there?" She indicated my hands. I had completely forgotten about them.

"I think so." Fortunately, I only wanted to pee and I figured I could manage my panties by hooking my thumbs in the waist-band.

She waited until I was done and when I came out, she fussed with my Johnnie gown, tying the ribbons for me.

"Can you unwrap these things?" I held my hands out to her.

"No pain, Miss. Tell me true, now."

"No pain, honest." I shook my head.

"Sure, now." She gave me a sidelong glance tilting her head.

"Honest," I repeated, and hoped I wouldn't be proved a liar.

She took the blunt ended scissors that were tucked behind her back, in the waist-band of her uniform, and snipped away at the gauze. My feet were in much better shape to look at. Under the gauze my broken fingers were taped securely to a curved metal splints. My hands were swollen, and horribly bruised. Without the protective bandages they began to throb, reminding me of what they'd been through. I tried flexing my good fingers and rotating my wrists. The movement was slow and stiff, but I could manage the pain. And if I kept exercising them, mobility should return quickly.

"Better, huh?" She smiled, revealing perfect teeth.

"Feels great! Well, not great exactly, but pretty good. At least I'll be able to feed myself."

"Wonderful, Miss. I'll be going now. You ring for me if there's a problem now, huh?" She smoothed the bed, pulling up the blankets, and folding the top down neatly.

"Why don't you sit there by the window, in the sun. I'll sent d'girl wit' your breakfast. Fifteen minutes, okay?" She didn't wait for me to answer and left moving briskly and with authority, pushing the cart ahead of her.

I must have been more exhausted than I thought, because when the girl arrived with my food, she caught me napping.

When real food finally hit my stomach, I imagined my strength returning to me in waves, and when she returned to take away the tray I ordered more juice. She went to the hall to refill my glass from the tank on the food trolley, and obliged me by filling my water carafe with juice too. It was a good thing, I thought, that I was able to get to the bathroom unassisted. No sooner thought, than the deed had to be performed. With my hands free I was able to take care of myself, even able to manage a pseudo wash, scrubbing my face and hands in the basin.

Incredible how such a small act refreshed and renewed me. I even managed to clean my teeth, scrubbing them with the corner of the towel. I took my time, enjoying the ritual, appreciating fully what was normally taken for granted. The prisoner and his spider flashed into mind.

When I'd done with my ablutions, I checked myself carefully in the mirror, and was reassured to see that my eyes were bright, no redness and no swelling or puffiness. Except for the chicken skin under my eyes my face was clear. There were no bruises and the cut had healed; nothing remained to suggest I had suffered a beating. Mild disappointment registered. My hair was a mess though, but without a good shampoo and a comb I was out of luck. A good hot bath wouldn't hurt either. I ran my fingers through my hair but it didn't help much.

I wiped the taps and sink with a length of toilet paper, rolled it up and tossed it into the bowl. After flushing it, I got back into bed, but I was hardly under the covers when I resolved not to play the invalid. So, as a morale booster I got up, pulled the chair into the sunlight and sat down in it heavily. If we were going to see Denise, it would have to be soon, and if I appeared weak or sick, they'd make me stay cooped up in this room longer than I wanted. My father, knowing his influence, would bring pressure to bear to keep me under hospital surveillance.

I lay back and closed my eyes letting the sun warm me, heal me. I heard a rustle and looked up as the door opened, to see my father poke his balding head into the room.

"Hi, Sammy. Glad to see you're feeling better." He came in a deposited a bag on the bed, "Brought you some things."

"My clothes, I hope." He leaned down and brushed a kiss on my cheek. We'd always been close, but demonstrating his affection in such physical terms was a new experience for both of us.

"Yes, some clothes. Knowing you, you'd walk out of here in that thing, and I didn't want you catching cold." He pointed to my hospital gown, waving his hand and dismissing it.

"So," he said, drawing the other chair close and sitting in front of me. "Has the doctor been in yet?"

"No, not yet. It's early for rounds, isn't it?"

He made a face which told me exactly what he thought of late risers in the medical profession.

"Okay, Sammy. Let me see." He held his hands extended in front of him indicating that I should do the same. Holding my hands in his, he examined them carefully, looking at the nails, the palms, fingertips. He did this slowly, turning them over and back again, staring at them as if expecting them to suddenly transform themselves.

"Feel this?" He squeezed.

"Yes."

"This?" He pinched the skin.

"Ouch!"

Then he pushed back on the broken fingers.

"Ow! Dad. Take it easy." I pulled my hands away.

"Okay, okay. Your feet."

"Not if you're going to torture me. "

"You've been tortured enough, let me look." I raised one leg at a time and rested the foot on his knee. We went through the pinching and squeezing routine again.

"Okay for Christ sake! It hurts. Happy?"

He made a face and ignored me. I hated it when he went professional on me.

"I can walk, so don't start anything."

"Fine. You know how you feel, I'm sure. The swelling's gone down a lot, so walking shouldn't be a problem." He reached behind him for the bag.

"Here. Take a look."

I reached in and brought out my running shoes.

"Knew you'd want out of here, and I figured these would be the only shoes you could wear. For a few days anyway."

He got up and ran his fingers through the tufts of hair sticking out over his ears.

"I suppose you'd like to leave as soon as you can?"

"It's not what I'd call a four star hotel, you know."

"I suppose not. Why don't you get dressed then, while I see about checking you out of here?"

"You mean, now?"

"Of course now. Unless you're not up to it."

"I'm up to it. Don't worry about that!" I stood up and rummaged through the bag. "Give me five minutes."

It was more like fifteen; dressing was a lot harder than I had anticipated. Two broken fingers, with pains shooting clear to my shoulders kind of slowed things down. Splinted the way they were and sticking out, they tended to get caught in my clothes no matter how I tried to hold them. Finally, I was dressed, albeit without a bra, and with my shirt-tails hanging over my jeans. I wished he brought me a sweat-shirt; the buttons were a bitch. I didn't bother with the socks either, but somehow I did manage to get the laces tied. The bra and socks went back into the bag. I checked to see if he remembered to bring me a toothbrush. No toothbrush. I put my coat over my shoulders, then checked to make sure I hadn't over looked anything and left, heading for the nurses' station.

"Hello, Miss. Leaving us so soon?"

"Yes. And thanks for taking such good care of me." I tried to read her name tag.

"It's Delma. Now you take care, huh? Doan' want to see you back in here." She flashed her perfect teeth at me again and pushed a wheel chair towards me.

I knew the rules and got in as she held it steady. My father took the bag and walked along beside me as Delma wheeled me towards the elevators. She stayed with me while he went for the car, then helped me into the Jag.

It was twenty minutes before we were home and installed in the house; ordinarily walking would have taken no more than five.

I looked around; it felt as if I'd been away an eternity. I had the sensation that everything was so much bigger, so much more open. I went into the living room and put on the CD player, adjusting the volume so Rodrigo's _Concerto Para Gentil Hombre_ filled the room. My father in the meantime clattered away in the kitchen.

"Maria left us enough _dolmathis_ to feed an army," he called. "I know it's early, but would you like some?"

The thought of Maria's cooking got my mouth watering, and I went into the kitchen.

"I'm starved, actually."

"Well, that's a good sign. But don't make a pig of yourself. Start with small meals, several if you like, but not too much at a go. Don't forget, it's been several days since your stomach's seen solid food."

"Don't I know it! And I could use a cup of coffee too." I looked at him questioningly.

"Don't see why not." He opened the pantry and brought out the tin.

"Let me make it," I said, and took the tin.

While I struggled to get the lid off tin and make the coffee, he fussed with setting the table. When the microwave timer beeped, he removed my plate steaming with a half dozen or so of the vine-leaf wrapped delicacies. The sauce had curdled slightly, the egg separating out. He brought the plate to the table and peeled away the plastic wrap.

I sat down and split a few of them apart to let the heat escape. The aroma was wonderful, the taste beyond description. I ate slowly, relishing every bite, every tiny grain of rice, glad that I was alive and so able to enjoy them.

He stood by the coffee maker leaning against the counter, his arms folded across his chest, and the sleeves of his plaid shirt turned back exactly two folds.

"Geoff said he'd be along sometime between twelve and one." I checked the time; it was just after eleven. I'd have time for a good, long bath.

I finished my lunch and my father insisted on doing the tidying up alone, so I went ahead and prepared my bath, soaking in water as hot as I could possibly stand it, letting the heat dissolve away my anger as well as the dirt and grime. The heat penetrated to the core loosening me up, weakening me in that delicious way a hot bath does. When the water began to cool, I pulled the plug, then stood up and showered to wash my hair and rinse off the scum that clung to me.

I put on fresh clothes, new under things -the dainty ones, and one of my new silk blouses -the pale blue one that went so well with the cream linen skirt. I even put on a pair of the sheerest panty hose I had. I needed to reassure myself of my femininity. I wasn't generally given to pampering myself but I made a promise to visit a beauty salon for a complete treatment. Perhaps I could convince Sue to come with me. The new clothes created the desired effect, giving me a psychological lift, giving me back some measure of what I had recently lost.

I didn't usually wear jewelry either, but I found the thin gold chain Geoff had given me long ago when we had been dating. I put it on, then dabbed perfume on my throat and upper chest. I looked in the mirror, and decided to leave the top two buttons undone, managing in spite of the broken fingers. But as they say, 'love conquers all'.

In the living room, I reset the CD player to repeat the earlier selections then sat on the sofa with my feet up on the coffee table; they were beginning to swell.

I'd no sooner settled when the door buzzer sounded. It looked at my watch, twelve-thirty.

From the window I could see it was Geoff, and like a school girl my heart started to thump. I answered as the buzzer sounded again, his impatience getting the best of him.

"So," he said, after hanging his coat and slumping in a chair. "You look great! How do you feel?"

"Pretty good. Not great -I still hurt some, but I can handle it."

He stared at me, measuring. My state of health no doubt. He was sitting well back in the chair with his hands clasped around a knee.

"How do you think we should play this?"

"You're the cop, you tell me."

"It's a touchy situation, Sam. You can't just walk up to a man's wife and tell her you think her husband is a serial killer."

"Jesus, Geoff, I know that! It certainly requires a little diplomacy."

"That's an understatement!"

"How do you think we should handle it then?"

"Okay. Tell we me what you know about her. What's she like?"

"Nothing. Zilch."

"You said you met her."

"Well yes. I did meet her. Once. But I hardly spoke to her let alone got to know the women."

"You're a good judge of people, what was your impression? Do you think she's rational, or someone who'd get hysterical, have a tantrum?"

"Geoff. I only saw the woman that one time. We said hello, introduced ourselves, and that was that. She was busy with her baby. How can I say if she's the hysterical type." I felt a pang when I thought of the legacy her father was leaving. "We'll have to play it by ear.

"Are you people still watching the place?"

"Yes, they're still watching. Nothing going down. So far he hasn't shown his face. He's not likely to come waltzing home, if you want my opinion."

"I suppose not. He's not that dumb."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" He made a face then stood up abruptly and said, "So. What do you say?"

"Now's as good a time as any? Let's go." I wasn't looking forward to this at all. Sarah's cherubic face kept intruding in my mind.

I put on my sneakers, feeling a little odd dressed as I was.

Geoff drove, weaving in and out of the traffic, impatiently using the horn. Twenty minutes later he rolled to a stop in front of the house. The tires scuffed the curb, he swore, then moved a few feet forward. After switching off the ignition he turned to me and said, "Ready?"

I made a noncommittal face and got out. He waited until I came around and we went up the stairs to face the wife, Geoff about a half pace behind me. I rang the bell and we waited. Long seconds ticked away, and I was about to ring again when the door opened. Denise was all smiles.

"Hi! Dr. Milland - Sam," she said, a little flustered. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Hello, Denise. Sorry about dropping in like this. This is Detective London. He's with the police." Her expression changed to one of panic and her hand went to her face.

"Oh, no! Has something happened to Alistair? Is he ...?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm sorry, we didn't mean to alarm you. Can we come in please?"

"Of course. If it isn't Alistair, what's wrong, what's happened? I was afraid you were going to tell he drowned or something. You're sure he's alright?"

We stood in the vestibule. "As far as we know, Alistair is fine," Geoff said.

"Then what's this about? By your looks this isn't a social call. And before we go any further, I'd like to see some identification." She stood her ground, blocking our way. "I sorry, Dr. Milland," she added.

"Of course," Geoff said, and took out his folder and showed the shield.

At this point she sagged a bit and stepped back to let us into the room where Alistair and I had first discussed the Four Horsemen. The room was tidy except for his desk.

"Alistair isn't home. He's away for a few days. He likes to get off by himself now and again and do a little camping. He works quite hard and has a lot on his mind."

I'll bet, I thought to myself.

"Do you know where he went?" Geoff asked. He stood with his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. He was a good head taller than Denise, but I don't think she was intimidated. I nodded to the chesterfield. He took the hint and we sat down, no point in appearing threatening.

"No. He just goes off by himself." She spread her arms wide. "Sometimes it's up north. Sometimes it's west. It varies. He just heads for the woods. The more remote the better he likes it."

She sat at his desk and faced us, her hands folded and resting on a bunch of papers. When I first met her, I'd have given her about twenty-two, but today I'd peg her on the other side of twenty-five, closer to thirty. She seemed a little warn, her edges frayed.

"Where are your children?" I asked.

"The boys are in school and Sarah's asleep. She's teething and hasn't been getting her rest. Look. I'm about out of patience. It's time you told me what this is about. Or are you going to keep me guessing the worst?" She tugged at the hem of her skirt, her voice hard and flat, a slight tremor revealing her anxiety. She pulled at a loose thread until I thought the whole skirt would unravel.

I looked at Geoff. His expression told me to carry the ball.

"Denise. I think... I ... uh, I'm sorry, there's no easy way to say this, but we think your husband is in very serious trouble."

"My husband? You mean Alistair?" I nodded.

"Alistair isn't my husband, Dr. Milland. He's my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, my brother! Now for God's sake, what the hell is going on here!"

I was caught completely off guard, but managed, to hide my surprise.

"Denise, I know this is upsetting, but please bear with us a moment longer. Like I said, the questions aren't easy, but can you tell us -does Alistair have a history of being violent? Does he get physical when he's angry?"

"Alistair? Violent?" She laughed. "No. I mean sure he gets angry, but I've never seen him react physically, if you mean like throwing a tantrum or smashing things."

"And as his sister," Geoff said, "you grew up in the same household?"

"Yes, of course we did." She answered cautiously, her eyes going back and forth between us.

"As children, you got along? With each other? And your parents?" I needed to explore their relationship, curious as to whether she had a husband and why she lived with her brother. And I was especially curious as to why Alistair had let me believe they were man and wife. Or had I made that assumption simply out of hand.

"I'd say so. We had differences. Like everyone. Nothing wrong with that I hope. Why do you want to know if he's violent?"

I leaned forward and thought a moment before answering her.

"Denise. What we have to tell you will be painful. As a matter of fact there's a good chance you won't believe us. But... please hear us out, okay? What we're about to tell you is the truth. But I have to warn you, it's pretty unpleasant."

By now she was visibly upset. She shivered and swallowed a couple of times.

"Maybe you'd better have a drink of water before we start."

She didn't say anything but Geoff found the kitchen, and brought her back a glass of water.

She took a couple of sips and said, "Okay, out with it. As long as he's not dead how bad could it possibly be?"

Geoff cleared his throat, looked at me, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. For a cop, used to the seamy side, he was uncomfortable. Archeology would have been a lot less painful.

I took my time explaining about my abduction, and the way he had treated me, downplaying the brutality, but the brutality was clear enough when I told her how the kids had found me, quite by accident, saving my life. She was horrified, so much that I couldn't bear to tell her the rest of our suspicions. Assault and kidnapping are serious enough.

"Dr. Milland," she said formally. "That's totally unbelievable. I don't doubt your word, but I can't believe it either.

"I can see," she continued, "where you've been badly hurt. And I'm sorry. Very sorry. But. Alistair? Do this..." She shook her head.

I shifted the subject, to let the facts sink in. There was no use arguing with her. She'd accept it. Given the facts, there was no other choice.

"Do you have a husband, Denise?"

"He died before Sarah was born. A construction accident. He didn't even know I was pregnant with her."

"I'm sorry." I said, but she didn't hear me.

"Alistair was so good to us. He took care of us. I could never get a decent job to keep us. I was eighteen when Mark and I married. Just out of high school" She ran her fingers through her short hair.

"Alistair is a bit older than you then?"

"Four years. He's thirty-two."

I'd have given him much more than that.

"Seems he was always looking out for me." She stood up and smoothed the skirt on her boyish slimness. The hem dangled.

"I could certainly use some coffee. Would you like some?"

We adjourned to the kitchen. Denise plugged the kettle in and Geoff put instant coffee into three mugs as if he was an old family friend. When we were seated at the table with our coffee Geoff said:

"Would you tell us about your childhood?"

"What on earth for? What does my childhood have to do with Alistair assaulting you?" she said to me.

Geoff seemed very poor at this; he cleared his throat again and gave me the eye.

"There's still something you haven't told me, isn't there?" she said accusingly. "My God, what really is going on?"

I took a deep breath letting it out slowly. "Denise. If you think what we said before is hard to believe, you'll find what I'm about to say impossible to consider -let alone believe. And at this point, and in all fairness to Alistair, we can't prove anything, at least not at this moment. But all the evidence points directly to him. There's no doubt about it as far as we're concerned." I stopped here and watched her face. There was no reaction, as if what was actually taking place in her kitchen could not be happening. I looked at her carefully, trying to read what might be going through her mind, and realized just how much she resembled her brother. Her eyes, that same exceptional blue, were her best feature. Not that she wasn't attractive, she was. Her features were plain, but with a delicacy that heightened her femininity. Alistair wore his hair longer, giving him a girlish quality. Her short hair made her seem not less feminine but vulnerable, as if the boyish look was a denial of her gender.

I took my time unfolding the story, cautiously peeling back the layers to avoid encountering the rot too abruptly. I explained all about the horses and what we thought they meant and told her too what Alistair claimed they really meant.

Geoff made an attempt to soften the overwhelming blows, by telling her that in spite of the evidence against him, it was all still circumstantial since they essentially only had my word for what had transpired between us.

She listened without interrupting, shutting her eyes tightly and shaking her head at times trying to make the whole horrible mess disappear.

Near the end of the narration, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and her face took on a determined look.

"Well then. Perhaps I will tell about our childhood. It won't excuse him for any of the things you say he might have done, but at least you might understand what could have driven him to do these terrible things.

"Alistair and I.... we were both abused as children. I know, I know. I said it's no excuse. If you believe the news, a lot of kids are abused and they don't go around doing....

"But like I said, we were abused and obviously my brother has never learned to cope with what happened.

"It wasn't an easy life for us. Why do you think I got married so young? I had to get away from my home. My father. And I was lucky, very lucky. Mark was a patient and understanding man. A saint. It was more than a year before we ever consummated our marriage. A year. Can you believe that any man would put up with that kind of nonsense? Mark did. After my father, well, sex was something I just couldn't handle. You know, in a healthy way I mean."

She buried her face in her hands. I looked at Geoff and he was swallowing hard.

She brought her hands down with a deliberate slowness and went on. "Alistair suffered too. Beatings. Terrible beatings. He knew what my father was doing to me, but he couldn't do anything. I'm sure he feels a lot of guilt because of it. Alistair just took the beatings, hoping it would divert my father's attentions from me. Well, I can tell you it didn't. If anything it made him more determined to have me. Poor Alistair. He never fought back. Just took the beatings. Later, when he was alone, he did his crying. I think that's what made my father beat him so badly; Alistair would never cry out, never shed a tear in front of him. The fact that he was so strong only got him more beatings. God, I think he got the worst of it." She stopped and drank some coffee, by now it was stone cold.

"Your family. Where are they now?" Geoff asked.

"Who knows. Probably still where we left them. Neither of us has ever gone back or even contacted them. They might even be dead for all I know. And care."

"As far as you know they're still alive then?" Geoff prodded.

"Yes, they're still alive. My father's a high school principal, can you believe that? And my mother. She pretended she didn't know what was going on. Blocked it completely. She was always busy. With the PTA. The ladies' church group." This suddenly struck her very funny and she laughed uncontrollably.

"Mother busy with her church work, while father beats son and screws daughter. And Alistair, the Reverend Andrews, is a crazy woman killer." She laughed and tears coursed down her face. At one point I thought we had lost her, but she came out of it on her own. Silence replaced the manic outburst.

"You said you hadn't acquired any skills after high school. How did your brother manage to continue his education?" I asked.

"Alistair left home when he was seventeen or eighteen. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to take me with him but, you know... he couldn't. He worked to put himself through. Did all kinds of things, but what really helped him get through school was his job at the stables."

"The stables!" Geoff said.

"Yes. Ironic, isn't it? He mucked out the barns. Did everything. The people he worked for really liked him. Eventually he was even a riding instructor.

"I remember, but barely -it was such a long time ago. When we were kids, Alistair was absolutely obsessed with horses. He used to draw them, paint them, make models, even make up stories about them. And read too. Always about horses."

"You kept in touch. With your brother, I mean, after he left home?"

"Oh yes," she answered him. "He came to see me regularly. Never to the house. He'd come to the school. Bring me things. You know, money if he had extra, little treats. The only thing we got from my father was food on the table and just enough clothes so there wouldn't be a scandal. That was it.

"And Alistair is still taking care of me -of us. And now that he needs my help, there's nothing I can do for him. Nothing that anyone can do." She looked at me imploringly. I had no answers. How do you help someone who's become a victim of her own victimization.

"The best thing we can do for your brother, is to find him. Keep him from committing anymore crimes." Geoff's voice was flat, and without emotion.

"Yes," I said in support. "There's no telling what he's liable to do. I know he wants to stop, but he's still fighting us. One side of him wants to punish the world for what's happened to him, to both of you; the other side wants this madness to end."

"Yes," she agreed. "But it looks like it's his punishing side that's in control. How do we stop him? I'm afraid he might do something terrible. Not that what he's already done isn't.. but..."

"I know what you mean, and we have the same concern." We didn't tell her we suspected him to commit some major act of barbarism.

"What do you want me to do?" She asked at length.

"For the time being? Nothing. But you'll let us know if he tries to get in touch with you?" Geoff took a card from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of her.

"Call me. Anytime. Night or day. My home number is on the back."

She read it, and put it between the pages of the novel she'd been reading. Geoff got up, and I followed taking the cue. He gave me a sidewise glance then started towards the front door. Denise stood, folded her arms, and looked like she was hugging herself.

"I'm sorry, Denise. I don't..."

"No, please don't apologize. If anyone apologizes it should be me. I should have been able to see the changes in him. I might have been able to prevent all of this.."

"How could you?" Geoff said. "There's no way you could have anticipated what he did. You're not responsible for him."

"Maybe not. But all the same, he's my brother, and I should have been there for him when he needed help."

"There's a limit," I said, "to what we can do for another person. Unless they ask for help, or show that they need help, how can we know? I haven't known your brother very long, and only as a sort of colleague at that, but he never gave me the impression he wasn't perfectly in control of his life." If anything I thought, he was too much in control, too adamant about what he had to do. "He's bright, sensitive. Articulate. His whole life seemed devoted to the service of others. It was only when he took me, ah -with him that I had any idea of his other self."

"I'm sorry that you had to go through all that. It must've been awful. I'm glad you made it out of there." She shrugged. In spite of what I had gone through, I felt sorry for her, and oddly enough, for her brother too.

"What's going to happen to him?," she asked.

When neither of us could come up with a reply, she gave the answer.

"He won't survive this, you know. I don't think he'll let you or the police take him alive. He's always been determined, headstrong. He always knew what he had to do to get what he wanted. And if what you've told me is true about him wanting to be stopped, well.... I think I know what that means."

I had to agree with her, but said, "Don't think like that. Alistair needs help. He's certainly not in control." I knew otherwise. He was very much in control. He was calculating, manipulative, determined and carrying out a well devised plan. Alistair knew what he was up to. I believed as she did though; he wouldn't allow himself to be taken alive. He knew too well what lay in store for him. Whether prison or incarceration in a mental institution, I didn't see him being able to cope with either one. For Alistair, there was only one way to find peace.

We'd been edging slowly towards the front of the house and by the time we were at the front door the baby began to cry. She excused herself and went to her. I followed her to the baby's room and peeked in.

"What a pretty room. So cheerful."

"Yes, it is lovely. Alistair did the wall papering."

Sarah was standing in her crib, her face red and tear-streaked. Abruptly, the crying stopped when Denise picked her up.

I tip-toed into the room. The Andrews genes were strong, the same facial features already predominating, even at this early stage of her development.

"Would you like to hold her?," she asked me.

"I'd love to." Sarah was all smiles and clung to me confidently, trying to pull out fistfuls of my hair.

"Ouch!" I cried and she laughed and tugged even harder.

Denise had spread a fresh diaper on the crib and took the baby from me who was reluctant to let go of my hair. I made a fool of myself by talking baby-talk while her mother changed her. When she was dry and happy, Denise picked her up and we left the room. In the hall, Geoff was grinning at me like an idiot.

Denise came out holding the child. As we were about to leave, Geoff said:

"Denise, one more thing. It would be an enormous help if you could let us have something of Alistair's. Like a tooth brush, a hairbrush. Or a comb maybe."

She stared at him for long seconds. Geoff started to speak.

"No, I understand. It's all about proof. Evidence. Something irrefutable."

She returned with the objects in a plastic baggie and showed us out. Her attitude towards us considerably cooler.

"Christ!" he said when we were on our way.

"What's the matter?"

"What a queer world."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. On one hand life can be so beautiful. So wonderful. You should have seen your face when you were holding the baby. And on the other hand you got guys like Alistair. Turns his sister and her family into victims too." His voice hollow.

"Did you notice the wallpaper?", he asked. "In the baby's room?"

"You mean the carousel horses?"

"Yeah. Crazy, isn't it?" He shook his head, and drove in silence for a few blocks. A horn blared and he slapped the steering wheel; a young blond boy in a muscle tee-shirt driving a souped-up rust bucket passed us in a cloud of exhaust. Geoff restrained himself from yelling obscenities and slowed to stop. The boy gunned his car through the intersection as the light went red.

"Asshole!" he muttered.

"Yeah, but unfortunately it isn't the assholes in the world that we have to worry about. Usually we can see them coming." This struck him very funny, and he laughed

"I never thought about it like that. You're probably right. The assholes or peacocks just keep on strutting around, showing off, proving themselves. And we accept that. Call it normal. Man playing out different roles, following patterns, putting on costumes. It's the guys in camouflage that you have to look out for.  But like our friend Alistair, sometimes they're too well disguised. Jesus! I hate this fucking job."

The irony in fact was he loved being a cop. He hated violence and unrest. He hated that which deviated. Geoff liked patterns. And predictability. He wanted to preserve the natural order, keep things moving smoothly. He was never interested in money or getting rich. He wasn't ambitious in the sense of rising in a political bureaucracy. He was more than willing to leave gamesmanship to the Emile Ouellettes. All Geoff wanted was to preserve the natural order of the universe. I watched him drive, his eyes raking the street, alert to the traffic, pedestrians, accumulating, gathering, processing information. Data, my father called it. He watched, monitoring, looking for anomalies, aberrations in the natural order.

"That young... guy," I said. "The one who passed us before with his radio blaring. Guys like him are no problem. Sure they break the rules a bit, but they're just testing the system. Like monkeys. They rattle the bars, checking to see if the cage is really locked. When they see that they can't get out, then it's business as usual. But guys like Alistair... they don't play by our rules. They make up their own as they go along."

"Christ. He's really something, isn't he?" He shook his head. "You'd think he'd have kept his head together. I know it was no picnic when he was growing up, but Jesus, he's a minister. Spends his life trying to help people. I just don't get it." He was silent for a while, concentrating on his driving. When we reached my place, he coasted to a stop in front of the house, switched off the ignition and turned sideways to face me. I spoke first.

"You know- maybe his career is what pushed him over the edge."

"How do you mean?"

"Being a priest. A minister. The church is supposed to be man's hope for redemption. Confess your sins. A life after death. Paradise and peace after enduring this world. Maybe the church and its philosophy wasn't enough for him.

"Don't forget the last clues,' I said. "The ones before the broken unicorn. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They represent man's fate for not abandoning his evil ways."

"Maybe you're right. He was so immersed in his religion that he took on the role himself. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. Something like that. He made himself the instrument of his own belief, the instrument of punishment."

"And working in the prison system didn't help either. I know, even as a cop, after a while you lose faith in humanity. All you seem to deal with is human shit."

"That too. Like he told me, criminals for the most part, don't see themselves as responsible for their condition. They blame society. And in Alistair's case, it looks like he started to believe it too. Considering what he and his sister had to go through, it's easy to see how he'd draw that conclusion."

"Child abuse. Christ, it's one of the most vicious and insidious crimes we have. By the time it gets reported - if it gets reported - the damage is done. And there's no way to undo the damage either."

"Exactly. And the sad part is that within the family it's rarely a secret. In most cases the father is the abuser and the mother is aware of what's going on. And the kids know this. They hate their mother for being so passive. Their father commits these atrocities and mom just lets it go on. Makes you wonder who the real monster is."

"Don't I know it! I've seen enough cases over the years. It makes me want to puke. I can understand why they grow up unable to form normal relationships. But you know, it's funny. Denise- in spite of what she went through- she got married, had kids. If her husband were alive, they'd seem a perfectly normal family."

"She had to work at it. You heard her. How tough it was. How long it took for her to learn to trust someone."

"I know. But in her case, it seemed to be working out. And her brother, shit. He went totally berserk. Denise fights like hell and comes out on top. Alistair, on the other hand... he goes completely the other way."

"It's all in the way we perceive things. How we react to stimuli, our environment. Sometimes our imagination is what brings us down."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Denise is obviously the stronger character. She's rooted in the real world, I'd say."

"I don't get you."

"She left home. She had to. What other choice did she have? And luckily she met someone who was sensitive and understanding. Compassionate. Denise went out of herself. She reached, stretched, tried to touch, and for her it worked.

"On the other hand, Alistair withdrew. He went into himself. Developed a fantasy life. Read a lot. Studied. Had his nose in the books all the time. He walled himself behind his imagination. Everything was horses. Reading, drawing, you name it; it came up horses. And when he found work, what did he do? Horses again. The division between fantasy and reality was a blur. After a while, he wasn't able to separate one from the other. He couldn't keep the two halves apart. And turning to religion? That's fantasy too. In a sense, this belief in an afterlife, this paradise to come- I'm not knocking it, I'm just saying that it's not rooted in reality. And now, with his apocalyptic warnings, it's still the God damn horses."

"I see what you mean. Between reality and his imagination, he's totally fucked-up."

"Yeah. Not exactly a clinical term, but yes, the man is totally fucked-up. And you know? The poor son of a bitch is right. Society is to blame."

"Come off it, Sam!"

"No. I'm serious. His mother. She let's this beast, her husband, destroy her children. She's active in the church. She's part of the moral majority. Hah! And his father. A school principal for Christ's sake. They both represent -are symbols of society -pillars of the community. And when Alistair sees them for what they are, monsters and hypocrites, he draws the only conclusion he can. Society is corrupt. And now he's making society pay!"

"I see your point," he said, "but I'm not sure I entirely agree. And no doubt that's exactly how his lawyer will argue, that his victims are the guilty party."

"Well..........something like that."

"I don't know. Sure society has something to do with this. But we can't lay the blame on the social order. Society can't be held accountable for the action of individuals."

"No, of course not. And I'm not suggesting that it should. I'm just thinking out loud I guess. Intellectually I see what could be the driving force behind him. Emotionally.... sometimes.... sometimes I think I could kill the bastard!"

He leaned over and took my hand. "Perfectly normal reaction. And I feel the same way. We're human. But.." He held up an index finger, "we keep things in perspective. We don't let our emotions run our lives. Not entirely."

"At least not the side of our emotions that pushes us to react so violently."

"Yeah. But for some reason human beings find it a hell of a lot easier to express themselves aggressively."

"Isn't that the truth? Being kind or gentle is viewed as some kind of weakness, something that has to be purged from our system. More with men than women though, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so. Right from the cradle, boys are trained to be tough. Don't cry. Don't be a wimp. Get back in the game and hit 'em hard!" He paused a moment then said, "You know, I never thought of it this way, but most violent crimes are committed by men, and I'll bet it has nothing to do with superior strength. More likely it's because we have been conditioned to respond to situations with that superior physical strength."

"Boys are taught to fight back, stick up for themselves, but girls, on the other hand, are encouraged to make-up, be gentle." I changed the subject abruptly, "Come on let's go in. I'm starved."

My father was home; he came to the door with a box of Greek pastries.

We ate in the dining room. I placed a large bowl of fruit and a container of cottage cheese on the table in the hopes it would neutralize the effects of the pastry. Geoff pinched off some grapes from the bunch and sliced a nectarine into wedges on his plate, ignoring the cheese. My father mumbled something about health food or health freaks and busied himself with a large wedge of baklava.

To appease him, I abused myself with a small wedge of the gooey pastry. My father, continuing to show contempt for my dietary habits, devoured a second piece.

Over coffee we told him about our visit with Denise.

"Sounds like their roles are reversed," he said.

"What does that mean?" I asked him.

"As I understand, from what you've told me, they didn't have what you would call traditional role models. Their parents, I mean. Consequently, they never became socialized into the family. A typical family. As much as any family can be typical."

"Go on," I said.

"You young people, would say they were pretty screwed-up as a result."

"No argument from me on that score," Geoff had pushed himself back from the table and crossed his legs to be more comfortable. They started to play with cigars again. My father continued, weighing his words, thinking aloud as he rolled the wrapper into a tight ball.

"These two children. Alistair and his sister. Denise is it? These two kids grew up in a state of total confusion. Their parents were not what you'd call ideal models. And kids know when something is wrong. The secrecy. The furtive looks. The booming silence. Mother's tears. Pain. Beatings." He threw the balled wrapper on the table. I watched the cellophane slowly unfold.

"What does Alistair do? He withdraws. He builds himself a little world in his mind. A safe place he can go to. And his sister? Little girls learn their role from their mother. That's what playing house is all about. It's much more than a game. Her mother played a passive role. By not objecting to what her husband was doing to her kids, by not stopping him, she was in effect, condoning his actions, giving her permission. She didn't fight against those terrible things. Things that without doubt terrified her children.

"So what does he do? What does this little boy learn from all of this? He sees his mother as an accomplice. He interprets her passivity, her so-called gentleness, as allowing this terror to continue. Therefore Alistair grows to hate her passivity. What in a normal context could be viewed as gentleness or sensitivity, he sees as weakness. As a result, he hates these qualities. And his mother. Eventually he comes to hate all women. He sees his mother every time he kills. He sees what destroyed him."

"You're saying that he's killing his mother over and over."

"Yes, Geoff. In my opinion."

"That tracks," I said, "but it's amazing his sister fared as well as she did - as she has."

"True, Sammy. But we humans have an enormous capacity - an enormous capacity for coping with disaster!" He punctuated the air with his cigar. "Denise manages to cope in her own way, and unfortunately, Alistair in his. Sadly, his methods have dire consequences. But... don't forget. In his mind he sees himself as doing what he must."

We were right back to that question about reality and fantasy. How we reacted to stimuli. How we coped with our environment. I said, "Our problem is still the same. We have to stop him. Keep him from killing more women."

Christ, that's what we've been trying to do all along." Geoff squinted from the smoke and made a face as he spoke. Why he pretended to enjoy cigars, I didn't know.

"Now that we know more about him, we might be more successful."

Geoff looked at me and said, "that and the fact he's supposedly off camping somewhere." He tapped ash onto his plate. I reached for the ashtray and shoved it between them. "I called in the license number. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"I rather doubt he's actually gone camping."

"You think Denise lied to us?"

"No, I don't think she lied to us. But I think Alistair lied to her."

Geoff made a face. "Maybe so," he said. "All the same it's worth a try. Besides the van's got to be somewhere. And if it's in the city or country, like I said, maybe someone will spot it, and we'll get lucky."

"He's not stupid, you know. He knows there'll be a manhunt for him. He's probably stashed it somewhere."

"You could be right, Sam, but we got to cover all the bases."

"Anyway," Geoff added, "we better put our heads together and come up with something about this Apocalypse thing. Any ideas?"

"These four horses?"

"Yes, Dad."

"The white one. That's the one with the bow. Right? The conqueror?"

"Right. Keep talking." I got up to get them, and placed them in front of him.

"And the red one, with the sword. Civil war, civil unrest, isn't it? And the black one with the balance. Famine. The pale horse represents the ultimate disaster. Ultimate punishment. Pestilence and death."

"That's right," I said, " According to the scriptures. And Alistair."

"Okay. But let's look at it this way. The white one. Consider that it means Alistair is conquered. By evil. Civil unrest means he's tormented. His soul, whatever, is torn apart. Famine means he's starved. Emotionally. And the last horse, the Pale horse -death. Alistair is totally destroyed." He lined them up one by one in single file as he spoke. They were all forging ahead, towards me.

"You know, Sammy. I think they represent the stages of destruction he's going through. His last act, whatever the hell it's going to be, will be the culmination of everything he's been telling us - with the horses I mean. Looks to me like his destruction will coincide with whatever it is he intends to do."

"Jesus, Gregor. Like some elaborate suicide?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Christ! But how many is he going to take with him?"

"That's what scares me. Dad... if you're right."

"Sammy, Sammy. I'm only guessing." He waved his cigar.

"Guessing or not, we've still got to stop this sorry son of a bitch. If he wants to kill himself, then okay. But.. I don't want him taking along any more women for company.." He jabbed the butt of his cigar in the ashtray breaking it apart and scattering embers.

"You know?," my father continued.  "I think Alistair is on some kind of a quest to achieve a sense of well-being, he seeking a balance of some sort, a kind of equilibrium in his psyche."

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Well... Man in order to survive has to have a number of things like food, shelter, and so on. He has to satisfy his need for security, and survival. When that's done, sex is next. Afterward, the last stage, he seeks ego satisfaction."

"That's standard stuff. What's your point?" I said.

"My point is that Alistair is working through the ego part. But he's trying to achieve it through sex. In his case it isn't working."

"And that's why he's killing women?"

"Partly, Geoff, partly. In order for man to experience happiness he has to complete his experience."

"I don't follow." Geoff leaned forward attentively.

"For example," I said, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but in order to enjoy something, we have to have a positive frame of reference. Every physical act, everything we do, providing we enjoy it, is accompanied by positive thoughts. Thoughts that are dredged up from the depths of our mind, from previous similar circumstances."

"Like if.... I don't know.... like when you come home from a holiday, your home, the familiar surroundings seem so much more, you know... The place seems to have more meaning."

"That's one way of putting it, Geoff. The brain is a storehouse of memories," my father continued. "We call up these memories and add them to our perceptions to complete the experience.

"Let me give you another analogy. Example. A man married for some time. Or in a relationship. Everything is working out fine, but life is humdrum. The bloom is off the rose so to speak. He still enjoys his partner but the experience has, shall we say, become routine. Okay?" Geoff nodded.

"So, one day he's out somewhere, with his friends, alone -it doesn't matter. Suddenly he thinks of his girlfriend, or wife, and feels an intense rush, a wave of joy. Happiness engulfs him as he brings her to mind.

"In the first case, the physical aspect exists in a kind of limbo- there's no rush. In the second the rush is there but without the physical side. Both situations are unresolved in a sense. The two sides must be brought together- to complete the experience."

"Okay," I said, "I buy all of that. But what has this to do with Alistair?"

"His experiences. His memories. They're not what we would term as positive. So when he completes or tries to complete the experience- he fails."

"You lost me, Dad."

He sat back and stared at the ceiling. "Look at it this way- and I'm over simplifying. Considerably. Alistair finds a victim. Rapes her. The act is less than satisfactory for him because he lacks the necessary memories to bring on fulfillment. So he kills her. He punishes her because she failed to make him happy. Of course he never considers he might be the one at fault because he always projects blame to protect himself. To avoid being responsible for the outcome."

"Yes, but how does..." I was confused to extent of being unable to formulate a question.

"Don't forget, Sammy. It's his sense of reality that's distorted. Don't we in the trade call this schizophrenia? Alistair isn't only psychopathic. He's distorting at a furious rate now. It's this loss of his sense of reality that makes him do these things. And instead of giving him pleasure, it only makes him feel worse about himself. It's a circle. A vicious circle."

"You're saying then, that his memories fail him, because they don't provide a positive link. When he completes an experience, he's unable to experience any satisfaction."

"Right."

"And consequently he keeps repeating the process in the hopes of one day achieving satisfaction."

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

"So," Geoff said, instead of being something exciting, the act is a let-down. This depresses him, forcing him to renew the experience in the hopes that the next time it will be satisfactory."

"Exactly. You see, he doesn't possess the proper mind-set. His memory lacks those positive images that most of us have in our storehouse. Consequently, when he's completed the physical act, the rape- any joy, if he's capable of experiencing joy, is very short lived. There is nothing positive in his memory bank to complete the experience."

"In other words, Gregor, he's a smash and grab artist. If you see it and you want it- take it!"

"Essentially yes. And with most things that come to us easily, it's difficult to appreciate them for long. Alistair has never learned to pursue his goals. He's lacks self-discipline. Like most criminals, part of him is still a child."

"Okay," I said. "But how does all this help us find him? Put a stop to what he's doing?" I was getting impatient with all the rhetoric.

"Well, at least we're getting a clearer picture of the man..."

"Sure, Geoff. But he's still out there. Plotting his next..."

"Sammy, at this point there's not much we can do. The police have his description and the license number of his van. Our best bet is to unravel his mind. You know, it just might show us where he'll make his next move."

"I'm losing my optimism, Dad." I got up. "Shall I make another pot of coffee?"

"Why not?" Geoff said. "Need help?"

"No thanks."

I was seething. Anger boiling inside me. I didn't know where to direct it. At Alistair? - poor misguided soul. At my father for his academic approach to the whole sordid mess? Or at myself for being so damn foolish as to let myself be abducted and have my escape foiled. I'd certainly have a share in the guilt for his next victims.

I stayed in the kitchen and waited for the coffee pot to do its thing. I could hear them talking, a dull murmur occasionally punctuated with short bursts of laughter.

When I brought in the coffee, they were both filling the room with smoke.

"So?" I said. "Anything new to add about our smash and grab artist?"

"Actually, Sammy..."

"What you're father was saying, is that reality is nothing but a head game. We give meaning to our perceptions by focusing on them. And for most of us, the outcome is positive. Thank God."

"Yeah. And we know Alistair is misreading the clues around him because -of his distorted perception. And we know he blames society. He can't find- and I hate the word- happiness because society stands in his way."

"As Gregor was saying, when you were in the kitchen, it's society. The rules. Restrictions of civilization. Those things thwart him. Society won't allow him to take what he wants, ergo, society is to blame."

"Sure. And he kills women to punish society. I know, I know, I know." I put my cup down too hard and sloshed coffee on the table cloth.

"But, shit," I continued. "That's the way it is. We can't reshape the world. We have rules and order. That's an integral part of us -of humanity. It keeps us functioning. Otherwise there'd be absolute chaos."

"That's just it, isn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean, Geoff?"

It's that structure, that's doing him in. Since part of him is still a child, he can't function by following those rules. Like Marx said, 'the deprived have the right to seize their neighbor's wealth."

"And you're saying, that Alistair is raping women- stealing sex- because he's deprived!"

"Well. It's a commodity, isn't it? He doesn't have it, so he takes it. Society has imposed limits and he's rebelling."

I hadn't thought of sex as a commodity, but he had a point.

"So we're back to society being at fault." I thought a moment and said, "I'd like to get back to the man and his childhood or upbringing."

"Sure, Sammy. What is it?"

"He rapes to achieve this... this.. what you call completion. It doesn't work so he kills. To punish. What about his mother? Didn't we say that she had to be weak and therefore Alistair would see her as an accomplice to his father since she did nothing to stop him?"

"If you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the problem."

"That's right, Geoff." My father put his head back, puffed and thought before offering an answer.

"We can't make it a neat little package you know. When Alistair rapes, he's doing a lot of things. One of those things might very well be an attempt to find love. Don't look at me like that Sammy, after all sex is the ultimate expression of love, and as a child he didn't experience love. His father beat him and his mother let it happen. He probably never got approval and a beating is no way to establish trust! Affection? I doubt if he was ever shown much. So he becomes confused.

"Now what does he do? He stalks his victims. Waits for the right moment, then he assaults and rapes her. But instead of satisfaction he feels revulsion. Don't forget he had to live through the sexual abuse of his sister. The sex act, the act of love, instead of being something passionate, warm, exciting, has become something horrific. Monstrous. As much as he tries to legitimize that act, give it a life, make it a meaningful, exciting experience -as it should be- instead he now sees himself in his father's role. At that moment he is his father. He is totally corrupt. In his confused state, he kills. These girls, perhaps in his mind represent his sister or his mother. Because they were passive, offered no resistance, he may see them too as being corrupt. They have to be punished for their evil ways. You've read Lolita? It's not uncommon to blame the child for leading the man on. So Alistair kills them for being corrupt, for corrupting him."

"So," Geoff said, "back to the mind-set thing. His lack of, I'll call it normal experiences, prevents him from being able to establish a real relationship with the opposite sex."

"That's it," my father said. "But watch how you use the word 'real'."

That word again. What the hell is 'real' anyway? Or fantasy? It seemed that reality in terms of a functioning society occurred when individuals shared the same illusions. And those illusions had to do with conduct, behavior that followed the prescribed norms, and conformed to those expectations the social order had set for its adherents.

A man deprived, my father said quoting Marx, covets his neighbours wealth. But it was Freudian if you considered that sexual deprivation resulted in lustful pursuits. Then again, it was the Victorians with their repression to counter self-indulgence that gave rise to pornography. Sex crimes evolved and burgeoned in the Victorian era. The notion that sex was infinitely wonderful as well as infinitely forbidden at the same time, would no doubt result in many confused minds and tormented bodies. Society imposes the restrictions, some quite unnatural, then devises a complex system of moral prohibitions and laws to enforce these restrictions. When the system disintegrates, society breaks down. Was this what happened to Alistair? Did the social order, as he knew it, collapse, leaving him with no alternative but to try and impose his own restructuring? And failing that- attempt to punish all for its failings?

"You know," I said, "I can't help it, but I keep thinking about those damned horses. I'm sure that's where the answer lies."

My father pushed them towards Geoff who passed them along to me.

"I'll bet my Jetta, they can tell us what his next move will be. If you're right, Dad. If he's trying to achieve what you call a sense of completion, the answer has to be in these horses. Especially these four."

I stood them in a row facing me. "They've got to tell us what he's going to do next. And more importantly, we have to figure it out. We've been playing around with these damn things for weeks. We've deduced a lot from them about him. I spent days as his hostage and had a glimpse of what's inside his mind. We've talked to his sister and we've learned what's seemed to have pushed him over the edge. With all that information and the trail he's leaving, with the horses, surely to God the three us can figure out what the hell he's going to do next!"

"Okay," my father said. "Let's try something else. I'll need some paper. And something to write with."

"In the den," I told him. He was back in seconds, sat down, and handed out the supplies.

"Let's try some free association."

"Dad, come on.."

"I'm serious, Sammy. We've been too intent. It's time now to loosen up. Let your mind wander."

""I don't see how this can possibly work."

"Indulge me, okay? Let's just play with it."

I made a face and didn't argue. At this point what harm could it do? I jotted some notes. Horses. Rider. Saddle . Rodeo.

"Say them out loud," he instructed. I obliged. Geoff picked it up and added, "Cowboys. Indians. Feathers. Bow and arrow."

"That's it. Keep 'em coming. Wild West. Buffalo." He was having a good time.

"We're getting off the track," I said, and added, "Apocalypse. Punishment. Retribution. Crime."

"Conqueror. Civil war. Famine. Annihilation," Geoff gave.

We kept this up until we had each filled several pages with scribblings. Geoff's paper even included doodles and rough drawings of horses and ponies, one with an enormous phallus protruding from its forehead. I looked at his paper.

"Can't seem to get away from that unicorn," I said.

"What..? Oh. I didn't even notice that I had done that. Is that what you'd call a Freudian Slip?"

'The unicorn and the Apocalypse Horses. They seemed to be the strongest elements. Let's focus on them."

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

"Sure it is. But stay loose, huh."

I put down my pen, got up, and brought back the newspaper.

"Don't quit on us," Geoff said.

"I'm not quitting. But if we're right in thinking that he's planned something big, maybe the paper can provide some additional clues. Remember when we were talking with Harry? Someone mentioned he might be planning something against a whole group of women. You two keep on with your word game, I'm going to check the papers."

I spread about four days worth of papers on the table in front of me. They went on associating freely while I turned pages gradually becoming more and more frustrated.

"Whoa," Geoff said. "Hang on a sec."

"What is it, Geoff?"

"Go back a couple of pages, will you." I flipped back.

"Easy. Not so fast. There." He took the paper from me and pointed to the picture. A young woman, horseback and jumping fence. The caption said: Celine Comptois Best Bet For Gold Medal.

"Well, well, well. Look at this." He scanned the article. This weekend, three days until the competition. An international meet. He looked up and said, "An international women's competition."

"Shit!," said my father as he reached for the paper.

Geoff turned and asked, "What do you think?"

"Maybe. Just maybe. We might have stumbled onto where he's planning his next move."

"Certainly worth exploring, Sammy. Seems to fit. Women and horses. He could be putting it all together for a final purge."

"Does it relate to our horses though. These last four?"

"Good question, Gregor. We need to know more about the meet. And I know just the person to call. Sam, where's your phone book?"

"What was that all about?" I asked when he came back from making his call.

"Just talking to a sportswriter I know."

"And...." I prompted. "Or is it a secret?"

"No. No secret. Just asked him to dig up information on this horse event. Since it's an international meet, maybe we should know who's who in the competition. These things mean nothing to me- I don't follow them- but since our friend Alistair seems fixated on horses.... you never know."

"Good idea," my father told him. "Maybe Alistair has someone in particular targeted. Anyway, it can't hurt to get as much information as possible."

I know, I said to myself. Data! Data! Data!

"Anyway, we're trying to put our heads together here," I reminded them.

Geoff cleared his throat, pushed his papers to the side, and reached for the horses.

"Where are the others?"

I got them from the den and he lined them all up in a semi-circle facing him. We had to push the dishes to the far side to make room on the table. Geoff absently set them rocking, the motion oddly hypnotic.

Eleven horses. Nine in an arc with the unicorn in front and center as if leading the charge. In front of it he placed the crippled unicorn laying it on its side.

"One more to make a dozen," he said.

"That is a dozen." I told him. "Don't forget the statue. The one in the park."

"Oh shit, that's right. Okay. A dozen. Twelve riderless horses. Twelve horses with their balls cut off."

"And the unicorns," I said. "Let's not forget who they represent!"

Geoff reached over and placed his hand on mine. "We haven't forgotten," he said, and his expression changed abruptly, a shadow clouding his face. He cleared his throat again and resumed talking.

"We know he's up to something big. We know that it's tied in with the horses, in particular, these four." He set them in motion with a flick of his finger, their rocking ominous. "But we still have to figure out how they relate to the final.. ah.. showdown."

"Yeah," I said. "That's the sixty-four dollar question isn't it? We figure that out, we'll know his target."

The phone rang and I got up to answer.

"It's for you, Geoff," I called from the kitchen.

I handed him the phone then went back and sat down. My father was totally absorbed in thought. I strained to hear, but Geoff's voice was barely audible. Just before he hung up I heard him say softly, but clearly, "Oh shit! Oh shit!" At that point my father looked up.

Geoff returned and sat down heavily. His face the colour of the Pale Horse.

"What is it, Geoff?" Not another one I hoped.

"That was Simpson. My sportswriter friend." He exhaled forcefully and added, "He pulled a list from the computer- of the big shots involved with this meet." He paused and looked at us.

"Go on," I said.

"You'll never guess who's heading the list."

"Who?" My father asked.

"Geoff leaned over and set the four horses in motion again. He said, "Princess Anne."

# Chapter 19

"Princess Anne!" He blurted. "Princess Anne!"

"That's what he said. She's officiating at the opening ceremonies. You know her interest in these things."

"Well, sure. Sammy, you know what this means?"

"Let's not jump the gun, here." I looked at them, their faces long.

"No," Geoff intoned, "We shouldn't jump to conclusions. But on the other hand..."

"On the other hand," my father interjected, "we have no choice. At this point we've nothing else. I'm afraid that given this circumstance we have to assume the worst and plan accordingly."

"Absolutely," Geoff agreed, and added for my benefit, "Christ, we'd better be safe than sorry!"

"Okay. Better safe than sorry. I can't argue that, but...."" I didn't finish. I was going to say we shouldn't put all our eggs in the one basket. What if we concentrated our energies here and were wrong. Suppose he struck elsewhere. But then again, if we ignored what appeared to be so obvious we could be courting disaster. My father was right. Jesus. Princess Anne. I didn't want to think about it. If we didn't follow our instincts, the consequences might be unthinkable.

"Alright," I said. "What do we do?"

"First, I've got to convince Ouellette that we've got a problem. If he pulls out all the stops to organize a massive operation and it turns out I'm wrong, his ass is in a sling and my career over!"

"And if you're right?" my father said.

"If we are right, Gregor- I come off smelling like a rose."

I watched his face as he mulled it over. I knew what he was thinking. Wrong, Geoff could kiss good-bye any opportunity for advancement. It would be easier to handle the successful assassination of a member of the Royal Family than face the consequences of mounting a very expensive, needless police operation. I also knew what his decision would be. Geoff viewed advancement as something that came about after the fact, for merit; he didn't tailor his behavior with the view of avoiding looking the fool.

He pulled a clean sheet of paper from the bottom of his pile and placed it on top of the sheaf.

"Okay, you two. Help me figure how I'm going to sell this to my boss."

"Just tell it like it is," I said. "Lay it on the line."

My father agreed. "Give him a brief rundown of everything to date. You know. How the horses relate. Sammy and the Unicorn. How Alistair is obsessed with horses. Don't forget what his sister said. That should do it."

"It should, Gregor." He tapped the paper with his pen then started his draft. At length he said: "If this doesn't sell him, I don't know what will."

"If this doesn't sell him," I said, "then we have to take the bull by the horns ourselves." I banged my fist on the table. "If Oeullette thinks this is all crap, then it'll be entirely up to us. As far as I'm concerned, I've reached a point where I don't care a hoot about Alistair's childhood. Sometimes I think I could strangle the son of a bitch myself!"

My father raised his eyebrows at me but said nothing. At this point I was in no mood to bleed for poor Alistair.

"I know how you feel, Sam. But there's damn little we can do on our own. Within the law. And that, however unfortunate you think it is, is how it's going to be. We need the department. No way I want any of us screwing it up. We're going by the book."

He looked at me. To hell with him. He didn't know how I felt. No one did.. He'd no idea of the fear, the humiliation, not to mention the physical pain, the bastard had put me through. My left hand throbbed painfully and I massaged it. No, he had no idea at all how I felt. I took a deep breath holding it then letting it out slowly. I closed my eyes, and I could see his face, see how he had enjoyed hurting me.

I had lost my compassion for him. For a while I had felt sorry and tried not to hate him, but my emotions had taken over. Perhaps he did merit compassion, maybe he did deserve to be treated humanely. That would be for the courts to decide, but I had none of the courts impartiality. Justice was blind; I wasn't. At this point, at this moment in time, given half a chance, I could kill him. And gladly.

"I better get over to the office. I've a feeling I'm going to have to do some fast talking." He looked at his watch. "We've only about seventy-two hours or so to get this show on the road. Everything has to be in place and ready to roll before the competition begins."

He got up, and I followed him out to the front. He put on his coat and said, "As soon as I know what we're going to do about this, I'll get back to you. You going to be okay?"

I nodded.

"You look beat. Try to get some rest." He leaned forward and kissed me. I put my arms around his neck and held him.

"I'll be okay. Don't worry. You just do your thing and convince Ouellette. Otherwise...."

"Yeah! Otherwise."

I closed the door and went back to the dining room; my father had already cleared the table.

After he left, I'd called Sue. She'd know where I could get hold of a gun.

"A gun! Oh, Sam. Whatever for, Dear? Some jealous wife got it in for you?" She laughed mirthlessly.

"Not exactly, Sue, Dear. But you've heard there's a rapist going around, haven't you? You know, the one who's supposedly sneaking in through the windows. Just before dawn?"

She couldn't have; I had just made it up. But no doubt from now on she'd sleep with her doors and windows unlocked.

"Why no, Dear. I might need a gun myself."

We talked a while longer but in the end she told me I could have the one her husband had left behind. As far as she knew, and that made it a certainty, it was untraceable. He'd acquired it, she said, through channels.

"Besides, Dear, I'm scared stiff of the thing. Wouldn't know which way to point it."

Anyway, she agreed to meet me for coffee the following morning and 'hand it off' to me.

# Chapter 20

We met for coffee at Dunn's and judging by the bags beside her in the booth, she had already been shopping.

She ordered a Danish to go with the weak coffee. My muffin was dry and crumbly, so I left it in a broken heap on the plate. She gabbed on and on alternately speaking loudly and abrasively then leaning forward conspiratorially to whisper a juicy bit of gossip. She bored me. And her constant finger-licking was loathsome. She interpreted my indifference as a preoccupation with the business that brought us together this morning.

When she had finished cleaning her fingers, she reached down into an enormous leather handbag and extracted a package. The gun was in a paper bag, the paper molded to it in a way that didn't conceal the form. I reached for it nervously, half expecting someone to sound an alarm. It was heavier than I thought it would be, and when I put it in my purse the strap cut into my shoulder from the weight.

"I hope you know how to use it, Dear. I wouldn't know which way to point it, I'm sure."

"Of course I know how to use it." I envisioned myself holding it in a semi crouch like what's-her-name in CSI.

"Tell you the truth; I'm glad to be rid of the thing. And if anyone asks, don't say where you got it, okay!" She made her eyes wide and bits of mascara dropped onto her cheeks.

"I won't," I promised. "Look, Sue. I'd like to stay and chat, but I really do have to run."

"Chat! Dear, I've been doing all the talking. You haven't said a word!"

"I know, Sue. I haven't been good company. I've a few things on my mind. I'll make up to you."

"Well, I hope one of the things is six feet tall with brown curly hair." She looked at me sideways, trying to be coy.

I got up abruptly, and held the strap to keep my purse from sliding off my shoulder, with the other hand I rummaged for some money.

"Mmmm," she said, sipping coffee, "my treat."

"Thanks. I'll call you. Promise. Next time we can do this right."

"Tah, Dear. And do take care." She pointed to my purse. I straightened, squared my shoulders, and headed for the door.

Inside, back at home, with the door securely locked, I sat at my desk with the bag in front of me on the blotter. Carefully I unwrapped the parcel, balled the paper and tossed into the waste basket. I sat with the thing pointed away from me, feeling foolish, careless, and ill at ease.

I knew how to use it, having learned and practiced both with revolvers and automatic weapons. It had been mandatory when I'd been hired to represent the police department. At least that's what Geoff had told me.

I picked it up feeling its heft. The balance and weight was comforting, and I felt an odd tingling in my lower abdomen, not unlike a sexual stirring that precluded arousal. It brought me back to the sessions I spent at the police shooting range. I understood the machismo of firearms and the swagger affected by the young recruits. But unlike the hotshot cowboys, I was afraid of guns and viewed the whole experience with mixed feelings. Using the gun, firing it, practicing to kill was a mesmerizing experience. The gun was magnetic, hypnotic, its power seducing.

I held it carefully; it was no Saturday Night Special. The stainless steel had a matte finish and the grips were rubber, neoprene the instructor called it. Neoprene combat grips. In spite of the short two and a half inch barrel, the King Cobra 357 Magnum was a real man-killer.

I spun the cylinder then ejected the shells, and inspected the revolver carefully. I don't know where she had stored it, but it was clean and smelled of oil. I inserted the bullets replacing only five of the six, leaving a chamber empty under the hammer. The sixth bullet I put away in the desk drawer. I wondered how her husband had acquired such a powerful and finely crafted weapon surreptitiously. I dismissed the thought and considered how I should carry the thing in a handy way without keeping it on my person. It had to weigh a good two or three pounds. I went into the bedroom, and in the bottom drawer of my dresser dug out an old leather hand bag, one I had bought in Provincetown years ago. It was plain but sturdy, with a flap held closed by a magnetic clasp, and stiff enough to support the weight of the gun without deforming. I adjusted the strap over my shoulder and practiced walking with it. After experimenting I found that if I rested my hand on the top of the bag, I could walk and keep it from swinging. I practiced until I could draw the gun quickly and easily.

Then I went to the kitchen for something to eat.

I sat at the table with a container of yogurt and half a honey dew melon. I filled the cavity with yogurt and began to eat and  I thought about Alistair and all the crimes- the murders he had committed. And I thought of our conversations and all the talks we'd had about crime, criminals, punishment, and the correctional facilities.

In order to kill, destroy a human life, one had to detach himself from the reality of the act. Murder, in spite of man's notorious reputation for violence, was not something an individual committed easily, unless he distanced himself from his victim, either physically or emotionally. As Alistair had argued, criminals projected blame, refused to be responsible for their circumstances, and by blaming others could excuse themselves. In Alistair's case, he was the Avenging Angel, the instrument meting out punishment, performing, in his own eyes at least, a necessary role.

Like other criminals, Alistair had personalized society making it responsible, the cause of his failures, his inadequacies. But in personalizing society he had also dehumanized his victims, made them responsible since they represented the collective he saw as the author of his misfortunes. It was this act of dehumanizing his victims that made killing them easy. By seeing them as part of a force instrumental in his destruction, it made it easy for him to eliminate them. This stripping away of an individual's character, identity, this dehumanization, makes it possible to justify anything from cannibalism to genocide.

Alistair, I kept telling myself, had forfeited his own humanity when he started his killing spree.

I finished my lunch, then went into the dining room. My father had left the horses when he tidied up. I sat down and stared at them, my head in my hands and my elbows on the table.

I picked up the two unicorns and stood them in front of me facing each other, noticing for the first time that the crippled one, except for the broken horn and leg, was an exact duplicate of the other.

I studied them, marveling at the man's artistry, reflecting on how creativity or intelligence did not preclude a disposition for criminality.

The unicorn, a beast that could only be tamed by a young maiden. And I was supposed to be that maiden, Alistair the beast. Or was I the crippled unicorn? In this queer menagerie, this carnival of symbolism he'd devised, perhaps the symbolic loss of his masculinity qualified him as the mythical maiden whose mission was to bring me to my knees. I shuddered at the thought, remembering how close he had come to doing just that. Anyway, at this point what did it matter? Either way, maiden or beast, I had to bring him down. 

# Chapter 21

Later that afternoon, Geoff called to see how I was holding up, concerned more about my emotional state than my physical health.

"You were out?" he inquired.

Yes, I needed a few things," I half lied. "I've been back a while. What's happening at your end?"

"The wheels are turning. Ouellette is busy checking to make sure all the angles are covered. He's letting me carry the ball, he says, but we both know what that means."

"Yes. If anything gets screwed-up, his ass is covered."

"You got that right!

"Listen, Sam. I've...."

I interrupted him and said, "Geoff, stop worrying. Nothing is going to get screwed-up. When this is over, you're going to be sitting behind Emile's desk."

"Fat chance!"

"Come on. Where's your optimism? You put an end to these murders, and you'll come out of it the hero."

"All I want is for this nightmare to be over. Christ, there's enough going on in the city.... All I want is to be able to make a difference, even a small one. I'm not interested in glory, you know that. Emile can keep his desk."

"What have you planned so far?'

"So far, I've put together a special team..."

"The SWAT guys?"

"Not exactly," he laughed, "but close enough. They're going to scout the area this afternoon. After we've got the lay of the land so to speak, we'll decide our strategy. At the moment our plan is to use two teams. One team of ten men will be in fixed positions- they're the sharpshooters- and we'll have a dozen officers in plain clothes mingling in the crowd. Of course there'll be the regular security too."

"What do you mean by fixed positions?"

"The men will be deployed on the grounds and in and around the building. Under cover."

"I want to see the place. When are you going there?"

"Uh.. I don't know, Sam..."

"Geoff, listen. I want to be involved. I am involved, damn it! I want to see the place. Besides, if we get lucky, I want to be there. Who knows? I might be able to talk to him, reason with him."

"Sam, after what he did to you I rather doubt anyone can reason with him."

"This is different."

"Different! If Alistair shows, it'll be different alright."

"I know, I know. I still want to be there, Geoff. Besides with all the security I shouldn't be in any danger."

"You kidding? We'll all be at risk."

"No greater than what you guys call the primary target."

"Maybe not, but that's not the point."

"What about the competition? Was there any talk of canceling or changing the programme?

"Not hardly. Once these things are set in motion there's no way to alter the course. The Princess insisted everything proceed as planned. You know how pigheaded Royalty can be."

"I suppose any change would alert him and put us at a further disadvantage."

"Exactly."

"Geoff, I said I want to be part of this." With or without his approval I'd find my way there.

"On one condition, Sam. You'll have to follow orders. I want your word on this. We can't afford any loose cannons."

He knew I wasn't much of a team player, but I agreed. "You're in charge, Geoff."

"Okay, then. Number one- I don't want you out of my sight. But if for any reason we have to be separated I want you to stay where I tell you. Agreed?"

"Yes, Geoff. Agreed." And I hoped I wasn't lying.

"Fine. I'll pick you up in an hour."

"No problem."

During the hour's drive he explained the procedure for putting the security plan into play. Again considerable politicking was involved because of overlapping authority due to jurisdictional boundaries. It had been agreed that Geoff and his teams would command the operation with peripheral support from the local authorities. A touchy business, he said, trying to coordinate the operation without treading on toes and bruising egos.

We arrived in mid-afternoon, the sky clear but the air sharp with a stiff breeze occasionally gusting.

The wind tugged at the flaps of his coat beating them against his legs. I was glad I wore my heavy sweater. My little finger began to throb so I loosened my grip on the bag and tried to relax and forget about the gun.

I followed Geoff. A man in plain clothes fell in beside us as we went up the broad wooden steps to the verandah stretching the length of the building. The two men spoke softly to each other ignoring me. We were at the back of the building, the verandah actually the outdoor extension of the restaurant. Inside, to our left, was the restaurant and souvenir shop. On the opposite wall stood the betting windows, now closed, as they would remain for the event.

We walked across the main floor area, through the large doors, to the grandstand. Outside, the place looked very much like any sporting arena, except that the seating structure didn't surround the oval track, but stood on one side like a broad, curving arc. I followed Geoff and the other man as we climbed the steps. They inspected the stands, checking the boxes and familiarizing themselves with the physical properties of the place. At the top, the other man gave Geoff his binoculars. Geoff scanned the track and the area beyond, the low hills in the distance covered in a thick stand of pines. He gave the man back his glasses not offering me a chance to look. That done, we went back down and into the building. The other man led us to a stairway hidden behind a locked door. The stairs brought us up to the roof. The man went up ahead, I followed with Geoff behind me. They were steep, ladder-like and very dirty. I held the handrail, gripping it lightly to avoid dirtying the bandage. At the top, the man unlocked and opened the door, pushing it outward. Bright light filled the dark well and I squinted as I emerged. The roof was a tar and gravel job and the stones scrunched as we walked across. Geoff, I knew by now would make no attempt to include me in the inspection so I made a point to study the area myself. The first thing I looked for was another access to the roof. I saw it at the far end. The top of a ladder, much like the ones in swimming pools, curved up from the side of the building. It was anchored securely to the roof with bolts through a metal plate. I walked around looking for all the world like I was enjoying the view, which was from this height, quite spectacular. I concentrated on the building, following behind the two men but conducting my own inspection. There were two shed-like structures sticking out like huge wedges. They enclosed the stairwells, one of which we had used. There were several vents, galvanized steel, streaked with rust and imbedded in patches of thick tar. A few feet from the stairwell structure stood a massive apparatus with vents and metal flaps that clanged in the wind. This I took to be the heating and air-conditioning unit.

Apart from the vents, stairwell structures and heating unit, there was nothing else. We walked the perimeter and when we got to the ladder, I leaned on it and tugged. Solid. Holding it securely I peered over the side. It went right down to the ground. We continued the walk around and when we reached the stairwell, the men stopped and looked out over the parking lot. We weren't that high, but it was enough to give me vertigo. Men, other cops, I guessed milled about the lot, communicating through their walkie-talkies. Geoff and the other man continued to talk and point, indicating who would be stationed where. I wasn't paying them much attention, but when I heard the word 'sharpshooter', my interest peaked. I didn't catch the number, but they would be deployed strategically in and around the grounds. There'd also be a command vehicle in the parking lot, where Geoff, presumably, would oversee the operation. I listened as they continued to discuss logistics and feasibilities, two generals mounting a major offensive. As we headed back downstairs, as an afterthought, Geoff questioned whether any men should be stationed outside the perimeter of the grounds near the woods. We went back up on the roof. After searching the area thoroughly with the binoculars, they decided to put some men in the forested area. I thought the distance, too great to present a threat if Alistair decided to use the forest as his vantage point, but this was Geoff's area of expertise so I didn't question his wisdom.

Geoff finished the inspection then left me in the restaurant while he concluded his business with the men in the command vehicle.

On the way home he explained that security couldn't be tighter; he and his force would be in constant communication through their field phones and nothing short of a miracle could help Alistair penetrate the wall of security.

The late afternoon traffic on the bridge was horrendous, reduced to two lanes instead of three because of construction and the added strain from the commuters diverted from the Mercier Bridge blockaded by the Mohawks to protest lagging talks with the government on the settlement of native land claims.. When we finally reached home, Geoff stopped and let me out, declining an invitation to come in for potluck meal. There was much he still had to do, in the way of completing the paperwork for tomorrow's operation. So we said good night after he reluctantly agreed to pick me up in the morning. Had he refused, I'd have gone on my own anyway, and I supposed he suspected as much. At least this way he'd be able to keep his eye on me.

I went in and kicked off my shoes; I hadn't worn my running shoes and my feet hurt. Tomorrow I'd dress sensibly.

After touring the place and checking the answering machine -only a message from Sue inviting me to dinner- I stripped and headed for the bathroom. I filled the tub, tossed in some bath beads, then stepped in gingerly for a good, long soak.

When the suds subsided and the temperature dropped, I pulled the plug and got out. I dried myself, rubbing until my skin glowed, then went to the bedroom and put on a flannel nightie; the days were still unseasonably warm, but the nights had become cool.

I found some leftover lasagna, heated it, then with a can of diet Coke went into the living room. I watched the news, flipping from channel to channel with the remote. Nothing new. The blockade would stay in place. When they flashed to the scenes of street rioting, I switched channels again. For several days, the peaceful people of suburban Chateauguay, frustrated by the blockade preventing them access to the city , had come out at night, hundreds strong, to pelt the police with rocks and firebombs. The rioters, many of them hardly into their teens, retreated when the police, dressed in riot gear, fired tear-gas grenades at them.

I switched channels, found an old Ginger Rogers movie on PBS and settled down to watch. When the film ended, I went to bed not bothering with the late news; I was tired.

Sleep didn't come easily as I thought of what lay ahead.

# Chapter 22

I woke up early, before the alarm. I leaned over and turned it off and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn't. I tossed, twisting the blankets into thick uncomfortable ropes. I got up, rubbed my burning eyes and headed for the shower. Instead of relaxing me, it had the opposite effect. Eventually I made coffee, thawed a package of croissants and rummaged around in the back of the pantry for a jar of blueberry jam that I knew had to be there. I drank several cups in the hopes that the caffeine would kick in and give me the jolt I needed and ate two croissants lathered with butter and jam. I felt bloated, but hoped that the caffeine and sugar would give me the charge I needed. By the time I'd finished eating and was dressed, it was still only seven-thirty, so I went for the paper.

Over yet another cup of coffee I read the thing from cover to cover. I read Ann Landers, warning me to practice safe sex. I read, 'Ask the Doctor' who told me sex needn't come to an end for me on my sixtieth birthday. Another article detailed the sexual abuses suffered by young boys in an orphanage run by the clergy.

The whole of society was totally preoccupied with sex. Contemporary sex had to be safe. Contemporary sex shouldn't end abruptly. Contemporary sex was also perverse.

I thought of Alistair and what his sister had told us. And I thought of his tormented victims. I closed the paper, drained the dregs from my cup, and checked the time. Ten to nine. I left the mess, got my jacket and purse and checked the revolver.  I'd give him until a quarter after. If he didn't arrive by then, I'd head out on my own.

I paced the room to kill time, checked myself in the mirror, adjusted my shoulder bag and its contents, and paced some more. I tied and retied the laces on my running shoes making sure they were secure but not so tight they'd make my feet swell.. My hands didn't hurt, that is they no longer throbbed, but I still had to be careful not to knock my fingers as the slightest bump sent pains shooting up my arms. I was about to check the time again, when I heard the sound of his horn. Nine-fifteen. I went out, slamming the door, and headed to the car. I had hardly time to belt myself in before he squealed away to make the intersection before the light changed.

We didn't speak much during the drive, both of us preoccupied with the events ahead but for different reasons. When we got there, the parking lot was slowly beginning to fill, but at this time most of the vehicles belonged to the security people and employees of the track and its sundry businesses. The command unit, an RV trailer was parked in the lot near the building. Geoff angled into a slot beside it. He got out and placed a tiny receiver into his ear, the cord, almost invisible disappeared into his jacket . I started to get out, but he held me back with a hand signal.. He stood there looking around, concentrating on whatever information was being fed into his ear. He wiped his brow. Whether it was a signal or he was actually wiping away sweat, I didn't know. After that gesture, he waved to me. I got out.

"Listen, Sam," he said as he walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He took out a pair of field glasses and a walkie-talkie, the antenna bobbing. "I want you -I'd like you to stay in the restaurant. Later, when the opening ceremonies start and everything's okay you can watch from the box reserved for us. Come on, I'll show you."

I followed, walking quickly to keep up. He pointed out where I was to sit in the restaurant. He didn't want to worry about me, he said, then he took me out to the box. Great seats, I thought. Another time I'd be able to appreciate them. I followed him back to the restaurant. He snapped his fingers at the waitress, and I flinched. She came over quickly. To my surprise, it was Joan. I was about to say something, but her look told me to keep my mouth shut.

Geoff ordered coffee. I'd never be able to drink another drop, and I scanned the place for a rest room.

"What are you looking for?" he asked suspiciously.

"The bathrooms."

"Over there," he pointed. I got up to go.

"Sam. I mean it. Don't do anything foolish...."

"I'm just going to the toilet," I said icily.

He nodded but didn't say anything. When I returned, he was holding a menu, and talking to Joan. He wasn't ordering food. Joan left as I sat down.

"I can't stay here with you," he said. He folded the menu and got up. "If you get bored, I guess you can go out to the box. Should be plenty to see, what with the horses and all. Here." He handed me the field glasses.

"Don't you need them?"

"Doubt it. All I need is this..." He patted the walkie-talkie. It wouldn't arouse suspicion; men with walkie-talkies were common enough at public events.

"You'll be okay Sam, don't worry. Just stay put and don't wander off!"

I was getting tired of his admonishing, and he made it worse by bending down and giving me a patronizing kiss on the cheek. I watched his back as he strode away and went out through the front doors. I looked down at the coffee he'd ordered for me, raised the cup to my lips then changed my mind. I picked up the glasses. Joan watched me. I winked at her then headed for our box in the stands.

I settled in the seat, and tried to get comfortable. The place was beginning to fill up. People laughing, jostling, smiling, waving, shouting at each other. Perfectly normal. I focused the glasses and scanned the milling crowd. There was a lot of traffic. Horses with grooms. Riders checking straps and saddles, and cinches, whatever. Men, some in top hats and morning clothes. A few women in severe suits and Queen Elizabeth hats. Gradually, the activity increased and the stands swelled. I looked at my watch; it was eleven-thirty; less than a half hour until the opening. I leaned back, tried to relax, and relied on my eyes for a while. Men, I presumed to be part of Geoff's team roamed, observing, watching, looking official in their beige maintenance uniforms, and heavy equipment belts.

"How are you doing?" His voice startled me and I jumped.

"Sorry, Sam. Didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine," I said. "Thanks for the glasses."

"No problem." He spoke automatically, his mind elsewhere, his eyes searching.

"I'm going up," he pointed to the roof. "You'll stay here?"

"Sure. Don't worry about me. There's plenty for me to see. Go on," I said.

I had no intention sitting alone and playing the dutiful little woman.

"See you later, then. Let's hope everything goes okay."

He gave me a thumbs up and left. I wanted to return the gesture, but with my middle finger raised. Instead I picked up the glasses and focused on the crowd.

At one end of the track, a line of limousines began arriving. The second car in the procession was a silver Rolls. It slowed to a stop not far from where I was sitting. A crowd of security men, in tight suits and mandatory walkie-talkies, converged on it. The door opened and one of the men leaned in to offer assistance to the disembarking passenger. It was the Princess. She stepped out, all smiles. Her escorts fell in beside her leading the way to a private reception. I picked up the glasses again and searched in earnest. Nothing untoward. But what did I expect to see? I scanned slowly, to keep the magnified images from jerking around. Horse people walking about, running, carrying blankets. One man with a bucket and sponge swabbing the flanks of a horse. Security men with their radios, maintenance workers. Nothing looked out of place.

But I knew he had to be here somewhere. I trained the glasses on the grounds again. The boy with the sponge was finishing up. He put the sponge in the pail and headed towards the enclosures for the horses. I followed him through the lenses and lost him momentarily, when a maintenance worker crossed in front of him. He was much closer to me than the boy, his upper body out of view, but I could make out that the blurry image wore a tool belt. And cowboy boots. Cowboy boots! I shifted slightly to keep him sight and thumbed the screw to bring him in focus. The other maintenance men all wore construction boots. It was seconds before I found him striding along towards the far end of the building.

It was Alistair, alright. He had cut his hair and looked like a recruit from boot-camp, but there was no mistaking the set of his mouth and the hard stare in his eyes. I held him in view until he disappeared. I got up and scrambled along the aisle dodging the laughing, ambling crowd blocking the stairs. I squeezed and shoved my way passed them, ignoring angry looks. Once inside, I headed for the door leading up to the roof. The crowd in the restaurant was just as thick, but I had to make my way cautiously to avoid drawing attention. Joan caught my eye and saw where I was headed. I reached the door before she did and tugged on the handle. Of course it was locked. By that time she had caught up with me.

"He's here, Joan. I saw him outside. Dressed like a maintenance worker"

Where?"

I told her.

"Hang on. I'll get Geoff on the radio. She had left her unit behind the counter and had to run back for it. I watched her; it took forever to get through to him.

By that time I'd given up on the door and started towards the parking area; I'd have to get to the roof via the outside ladder.

I started to run, but checked myself and slowed to a fast walk, remembering to let good sense prevail over blind enthusiasm. At the end of the building I stopped and peered around the corner before proceeding to the ladder. The way was clear so I sprinted to the ladder, then slipped the shoulder strap of over my head to keep it from sliding off as climbed. Ascending a vertical ladder isn't easy, especially if you're afraid of heights. The sensation is one of falling backwards. I held my breath, climbed slowly, and concentrated on mastering each rung one at a time, praying it was fastened securely to the wall. Near the top, I paused and looked up over the edge, then took the last two rungs, cleared the edge, and crouched down to let my heart recover. I fumbled in my purse checking for the gun, stood up, took several deep breaths then crossed the open roof. Geoff should be on the other side facing the grounds. At this point the air conditioning unit was between us. I moved ahead carefully not wanting to startle him and get myself shot in the process. I stepped carefully across the gravel to avoid announcing my presence.

I stood by the air conditioning unit concealing myself then peered around it slowly. I could see Geoff.

He couldn't have shot me. He was lying face down, spread-eagled on the gravel, his gun and walkie-talkie beyond arms reach. I ran towards him. He lay in a pool of blood, his head bleeding from a gash behind his ear. I checked his pulse, and reached for the radio, but before I could call for help I heard a voice:

"Drop it, Professor. Nice and easy."

I looked in the direction of the voice; it came from behind the stair enclosure. I put the radio down, and he stepped into view, a rifle with telescopic sights aimed at me.

"You're good, Professor. Real good. But I'm afraid you're too late."

"Come on, Alistair. Hasn't this gone on long enough? Put the rifle down." I took a step towards him.

"Don't move another step! I'd prefer not to shoot you, Professor. But make no mistake - I will. Believe me. As sure as I'm standing here I'll shoot you." He raised the rifle slightly, and I knew he meant it. I stood stock still. Alistair didn't relax, if anything, his finger seemed to tighten on the trigger.

"It won't do any good," I said. "Shooting the Princess."

"That's what you think. It's really the only way."

"You can't mean that. Haven't you killed enough people?"

"She'll be the last. Don't look so surprised. I know I won't get away. But I have to do it. After that it doesn't matter."

"You can't watch me and shoot the Princess at the same time."

"Well, I can kill you first, if you prefer?" I didn't move and I didn't challenge him. He looked at his watch. "She'll be out in less than five minutes. I want you to move over there- now! Go on! I'm a crack shot so don't get any bright ideas if you want to go on living."

He wanted me far enough away so when he trained the rifle on his quarry, he'd get a clear shot before I could interfere. He was in control. Geoff was down. I couldn't get to the radio, and if I reached for my gun he'd shoot me before I'd get it out of my purse. Why didn't he just shoot me and save himself the bother? I watched his eyes and waited. There was an outside chance that I could drop him when he took aim. In that split second he was distracted from me I might be able to do it. I'd have to be damn quick. Reach into my purse, pull out the gun -hope like hell it didn't get snagged- aim and shoot. Academic. But this wasn't the shooting range; I'd not only have to be quick but accurate. From this distance he would be hard to miss.

He was crouched in a marksman's stance at the edge of the roof, the rifle held so he could put a bullet through me in a blink of an eye.

Geoff was between us and hadn't moved; the puddle near his head congealed in the sun. I moved slightly, shifting so my shadow pointed at Alistair, the sun directly behind me. The seconds ticked off slowly. Sweat ran down my neck. The crowd below grew impatient. The loudspeaker crackled and the noise from the crowd abated. Alistair looked at his watch again, then glanced at me, and adjusted his stance. I tensed and flexed my fingers. I watched him. He controlled his breathing focusing his energy. I watched his hand, the right hand. His finger was outside the trigger guard. I took a slow deep breath, any second now. From where I stood I couldn't see the grounds, wouldn't know when the target was in view. I had to listen, and above all keep my eyes on his hand.

He shifted again, moving the barrel of the rifle more in line with the grounds. The rifle, the unicorn's horn. All crime, he told me had a sexual component. I watched him, when he trained his phallus on the Princess, when that finger moved, I'd blow his brains out. Beat that for an orgasm. He glanced sideways at his watch again. He was getting impatient. I concentrated on my breathing and tried to relax, steeling myself for what I had to do.

He shifted his weight, his cheek kissed the stock.

He was quick, but I was quicker. My left hand held the bag steady, and with my right, I brought out the revolver. In one fluid motion, I gripped my right wrist and bent my knees.

His finger never even found the trigger.

I fired four rapid shots. Alistair was thrown back against the ledge with a force that nearly knocked him over the ledge. The rifle clattered to the ground. He struggled for a second and tried to sit up. His mouth gaped. He moved his lips but no sound would come.

He looked at me and raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross; the priest forgiving the sinner. I should have shot him again; the bastard was giving me absolution. He died then. Slumped down, his head at an odd angle against the ledge, his eyes open in an expression of bewilderment. I left him and went to Geoff. I found a pulse at his throat, and was about to run to the stairwell, when I saw Joan standing there in the open doorway, gun in hand.

"Call an ambulance."

"On its way,'" she said. I cradled his head in my lap. It was finally over.

# Chapter 23

I hadn't killed Alistair.

My four shots had missed him completely.

Joan, as the shooting began, burst through the door and felled him with one shot.

Geoff was going to be fine; I'd just left him in the hospital. Alistair had bashed him with the rifle butt, and Geoff hadn't even known what hit him. He regretted having missed the action.

The wound was severe, and it had been touch and go for a few days, but the prognosis now was that he'd make a complete recovery. I would be four to six weeks, however, before he could go back to work. Of course he'd stay with me.

My father was thrilled, figuring this was the first step in re acquiring his son-in-law.

I should have been pleased that I hadn't been the one to end Alistair's life. I hated myself when I realized that fact. I headed down the hall from my office; took the stairs to the lecture hall to address my class.

Long weeks ago, I told them there could be no crime without intent. Unless you mean harm, the law fails to recognize that a crime was committed.

Now I had to tell them the corollary. There was no evil intent without crime. My bullets had missed Alistair. But that wasn't the point. I wanted to kill him. It was my intention to do so. I wanted to snuff out his life. I was filled with hate, rage and wanted revenge for what he had done. Not to the others. To me. Like Alistair, I had personalized the situation and lost my objectivity.

My bullets had missed, but I was still guilty as hell.

# COPYRIGHT

ISBN 978-0-9940847-2-9

Cover design by the author
