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