A GALLON OF TEA LATER I WAS CURLED IN BIRDIE’S ROCKER, DULLY observing Ryan. He was on his third call, this one personal, assuring someone he’d be a while. Judging by his end, the call’s recipient wasn’t happy. Tough.

Hysteria has its rewards. Ryan had arrived within twenty minutes. He searched the apartment and yard, then contacted the CUM to arrange for a patrol unit to stake out the building. Ryan had placed the bag and its grisly contents into another, larger bag, sealed it, and put it in a corner of the dining room floor. He would take it to the morgue tonight. The recovery team would come in the morning. We were in the living room, me sitting and sipping tea, Ryan pacing and talking.

I wasn’t sure which had the more calming effect, the tea or Ryan. Probably not the tea. What I really wanted was a serious drink. Want didn’t really describe it. Crave came closer. Actually, I wanted many drinks. A bottle I could pour from until there was no more. Forget it, Brennan. The cap’s on and it’s going to stay on.

I sipped my tea and watched Ryan. He wore jeans and a faded denim shirt. Good choice. The blues lit his eyes like colorizing on old film. He finished his calls and sat down.

“That should do it,” he said, tossing the phone onto the couch and running a hand over his face. His hair was disheveled and he looked tired. But, then, I probably didn’t look like Claudia Schiffer.

Do what? I wondered.

“I appreciate your coming,” I said. “I’m sorry I overreacted.” I’d already said this, but repeated myself.

“No. You didn’t.”

“I don’t usually—”

“It’s okay. We’re going to get this psycho.”

“I could’ve just—”

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The blue lasers grabbed my eyes and held them. A fleck of lint rode one of his lashes, like a pollen grain clinging to a pistil.

“Brennan, this is serious. There’s a guy out there that’s some sort of mental mutant. He’s psychologically malformed. He’s like the rats that tunnel under garbage heaps and slink through sewer pipes in this city. He’s a predator. His wiring’s twisted, and now he’s fed you into whatever degenerate nightmare he’s spinning for himself. But he’s made a mistake, and we’re going to flush him out and squash him. That’s what you do with vermin.”

The intensity of his response startled me. I could think of nothing to say. Pointing out his mixed metaphors seemed unwise.

He took my silence for skepticism.

“I mean it, Brennan. This asshole has dog food for brains. Which means you can’t pull any more of your stunts.”

His comment turned me churlish, a swing that didn’t need much of a push. I was feeling vulnerable and dependent and hating myself for it, so I turned my frustration on him.

“Stunts?” I spat at him.

“Shit, Brennan, I don’t mean tonight.”

We both knew what he did mean. He was right, which increased my annoyance and made me even more contentious. I swirled my tea, now cold, and held my silence.

“This animal’s obviously been stalking you,” he drummed on, persistent as a jackhammer. “He knows where you live. He knows how to get in.”

“He didn’t really get in.”

“He planted a goddamn human head in your backyard!”

“I know!” I screamed, my composure developing a major fault line.

My eyes slid to the dining room corner. The thing from the garden lay there, silent and inert, an artifact waiting to be processed. It could have been anything. A volleyball. A globe. A melon. The round object in its shiny black bag looked harmless inside the clear plastic into which Ryan had sealed it.

I stared at it, and images of the grisly contents washed over my mind. I saw the skull rising on its scrawny, picket neck. I saw empty orbits staring straight ahead and pink neon glinting off the white enamel in the gaping mouth. I imagined the intruder cutting the lock and boldly crossing the yard to plant his gruesome memento.

“I know,” I repeated, “you’re right. I’ll have to be more careful.”

I swirled my cup again, looking for answers in the leaves.

“Want some tea?”

“No. I’m fine.” He got up. “I’ll check to see if the unit’s here.”

He disappeared into the back of the apartment, and I made myself another cup. I was still in the kitchen when he returned.

“There’s one unit parked in the alley across the street. There’ll be another one around back. I’ll check with them when I leave. No one should be able to get near this building without being seen.”

“Thanks.” I took a sip and leaned against the counter.

He took out a pack of du Maurier’s and raised his eyebrows at me.

“Sure.”

I hated smoke in the apartment. But, then, he probably hated being there. Life is compromise. I thought about searching out my one ashtray, but didn’t bother. He smoked and I sipped without speaking, leaning against the counter, each lost in thought. The refrigerator hummed.

“You know, it wasn’t really the skull that freaked me. I’m used to skulls. It was just so... so out of context.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a cliché, I know, but I feel so violated. Like some alien creature breached my personal space, rooted about, and left when he lost interest in anything more.”

I gripped the mug tightly, feeling vulnerable and hating it. Also feeling stupid. He’d no doubt heard some version of that speech many times. If so, he didn’t mention it.

“Do you think it’s St. Jacques?”

He looked at me, then flicked his ash into the sink. Leaning back against the counter, he took a deep pull. His legs stretched almost to the refrigerator.

“I don’t know. Hell, we can’t even pin down who it is we rousted. St. Jacques is probably an alias. Whoever was using that shithole probably didn’t really live there. Turns out the landlady only saw him twice. We’ve staked the place for a week, and no one’s gone in or out.”

Hummm. Pull, exhale. Swirl.

“He had my picture in his collection. He’d cut it out and marked it.”

“Yep.”

“Be straight with me.”

He paused a minute, then, “He’d be my pick. Coincidence is just too improbable.”

I knew it, but didn’t want to hear it. Even more, I didn’t want to think about what it meant. I gestured toward the skull.

“From the body we found in St. Lambert?”

“Whoa, that’s your country.”

He took a last drag, ran tap water over the butt, and looked around for someplace to put it. I pushed off the counter and opened a cabinet containing a trash bag. As he raised up, I laid a hand on his forearm.

“Ryan, do you think I’m crazy? Do you think this serial killer idea is just in my head?”

He straightened and fixed his eyes on me.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. You could be right. Four dead women over a two-year period who’ve all been sliced up or dismembered or both. Maybe a fifth. Maybe some similarities with the mutilation. The object insertion. But that’s all. So far, no other tie. Maybe they’re linked. Maybe they’re not. Maybe there’s a truckload of sadists out there operating independently. Maybe St. Jacques did all of them. Maybe he just likes to collect stories about the exploits of others. Maybe it’s only one person, but that person is someone else. Maybe he’s fantasizing his next outing right now. Maybe the bastard just planted a skull in your yard, maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. But I do know some sicko asshole parked a skull in your petunias tonight. Look, I don’t want you taking chances. I want your word you’ll be careful. No more expeditions.”

Again the paternalism. “It was parsley.”

“What?” The edge on his voice was sharp enough to cut off any more flippant remarks.

“Just what do you want me to do?”

“For now, no more secret sorties.” He hooked a thumb at the evidence bag. “And tell me who that is over there.”

He looked at his watch.

“Christ. It’s three-fifteen. You going to be all right?”

“Yes. Thanks for coming.”

“Right.”

He checked the phone and the security system again, collected the plastic bag, and I let him out the front. As I watched his retreat I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes weren’t the only feature the jeans showed off well. Brennan! Too much tea. Or too little of something else.

At exactly four twenty-seven the nightmare started again. At first I thought I was dreaming, replaying earlier events. But I’d never really fallen asleep. I’d been lying there, urging myself to relax, allowing my thoughts to fragment and reassemble like shapes in a kaleidoscope. But the sound I now heard was present and real. I recognized what it was and what it meant. The beep of the security alarm told me a door or window had been opened. The intruder was back and had gotten inside.

My heart rate launched into orbit and I felt the fear return, first suffocating and paralyzing, then triggering a rush of adrenaline that left me alert but uncertain. What to do? Fight? Flight? My fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, and my mind flew in a thousand directions. How had he gotten past the police units? Which room was he in? The knife! It was on the kitchen counter! I lay there, rigid, gauging options. Ryan had checked the phones, but I wanted to sleep undisturbed and had unplugged the one in the bedroom. Could I find the cord, locate the little triangular plug, and make a call before being overpowered? Where had Ryan said the police cars were parked? If I threw open the bedroom window and screamed, could the police hear me and react in time?

I strained to hear every movement in the darkness around me. There! A soft click. In the entrance hall? I stopped breathing. My front teeth clamped my lower lip.

A scrape against the marble floor. Near the entrance hall. Could it be Birdie? No, this sound had weight behind it. Again! A gentle brushing, as though against a wall, not the floor. Too high for a cat.

An image from Africa jumped into my head. A night drive in the Amboseli. A leopard, frozen in the jeep headlights, crouched, muscles taut, nostrils sucking the night air, soundlessly closing in on the unsuspecting gazelle. Was my stalker similarly in command of the darkness, picking a deliberate path to my bedroom? Cutting off escape routes? What was he doing? Why had he come back? What should I do? Something! Don’t lie there and wait. Do something!

The phone! I’d try for the phone. There were police units right outside. The dispatcher would reach them. Could I reach it without giving myself away? Did it really matter?

Slowly, I raised the blankets and rolled flat on my back. The rustling of the sheets sounded like thunder in my ears.

Something brushed the wall again. Louder. Closer. As if the intruder was more sure of himself, less inclined to be cautious.

Every muscle and tendon tense, I inched toward the left side of the bed. The pitch black of the room made it hard to get my bearings. Why had I drawn the shade? Why had I unplugged that phone for a little extra sleep? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Find the cord, find the plug, punch 911 in the dark. I made a mental inventory of the objects on the nightstand, mapping the route my hand would take. I would have to slide down to the floor to reach the telephone jack.

At the left side of the bed, I raised onto my elbows. My eyes probed the darkness, but it was too deep to distinguish features except for the bedroom door. It was faintly backlit by some appliance with a glowing dial. There was no silhouette in the doorway.

Encouraged, I eased my left leg clear of the bed and slowly, blindly, groped for the floor. Then a shadow crossed the doorway, freezing my leg in midair and locking my muscles in catatonic fear.

This is the end, I thought. In my own bed. Alone. Four cops outside, oblivious. I pictured the other women, their bones, their faces, their gutted bodies. The plunger. The statue. No! screamed a voice in my head. Not me. Please. Not me. How many screams could I manage before he was on me? Before he silenced them with one sweep of his blade across my throat? Enough to alert the police outside?

My eyes darted back and forth, frantic, like those of an animal in a trap. A dark mass filled the doorway. A human figure. I lay speechless, motionless, unable even to launch my final screams.

The figure hesitated, as though uncertain of its next move. No features. Only a silhouette framed in the entrance. The only entrance. The only exit. God! Why didn’t I keep a gun?

Seconds dragged by. Maybe the figure could not make out my outline on the very edge of the bed. Maybe the room looked empty from the doorway. Did he have a flashlight? Would he turn on the wall switch?

My mind snapped out of its paralysis. What had they taught in self-defense class? Run if you can. I can’t. If cornered, fight to win. Bite. Gouge. Kick. Hurt him! First rule: Don’t let him get on top! Second rule: Never let him pin you down! Yes. Surprise him. If I could get to any exit door, the cops outside could save me.

My left foot was already on the floor. Still on my back, I eased my right leg toward the edge of the bed, millimeter by millimeter, pivoting on my buttocks. I had both feet on the floor when the figure made a jerky motion and I was blinded by the glare of light.

My hand flew to my eyes and I lurched forward in a desperate effort to knock the figure aside and escape the bedroom. My right foot caught the sheet, sending me headlong onto the carpet. I rolled quickly to my left and scrambled onto my knees, turning to face my attacker. Third rule: Never turn your back.

The figure remained on the far side of the room, hand on the light switch. Only now it had a face. A face distorted by some inner turmoil at which I could only guess. A face I knew. My own face was fast forwarding through a series of expressions. Terror. Recognition. Confusion. Our eyes locked and held. Neither moved. Neither spoke. We stared at each other across the air in my bedroom.

I screamed.

“Goddamn you, Gabby! You stupid bitch! What are you doing? What have I done to you? You bitch! You goddam bitch!”

I sat back on my heels, hands on my thighs, making no attempt to control the tears bathing my face or the sobs racking my body.