He doesn’t answer. He stops behind a telephone pole and smells creosote. The figure at the fence moves to the left, to the one o’clock position, and he starts to cross the street.

Lucy says, “You ten-four?”

Benton doesn’t answer, and the figure is so close, he can see the dark shadow of a face, and the distinct outline of a hat, then arms and legs moving. Benton steps out and points the pistol at him.

“Don’t move.” He says it quietly in a tone that commands attention. “I’ve got a nine-mil pointed right at your head, so stand real still.”

The man, and Benton feels sure it’s a man, has turned into a statue. He doesn’t make a sound.

“Step off the road but not toward me. Step to your left. Very slowly. Now drop to your knees and put your hands on top of your head.” Then, to Lucy, he says, “I’ve got him. You can close in.”

As if she’s a stone’s throw away.

“Hold on.” Her voice is tense. “Just hold on. I’m coming.”

He knows she’s far away—too far away to help him if there’s a problem.

The man has his hands on top of his head, and he’s kneeling on the cracked, wet blacktop, and he says, “Please don’t shoot.”

“Who are you?” Benton says. “Tell me who you are.”

“Don’t shoot.”

“Who are you?” Benton raises his voice above the sound of the rain. “What are you doing here? Tell me who you are.”

“Don’t shoot.”

“Goddamn it. Tell me who you are. What are you doing at the port? Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I know who you are. I recognize who you are. My hands are on my head, so there is no need to shoot,” the voice says as rain splashes, and Benton detects an accent. “I’m here to catch a killer, just like you. Am I right, Benton Wesley? Please put away your gun. It’s Otto Poma. I’m here for the same reason as you. It’s Captain Otto Poma. Please put the gun away.”

Poe’s Tavern, a few minutes’ ride from Marino’s fishing shack. He could use a beer or two.

The street is wet and shiny black, and the wind carries the smell of the rain and the scent of the sea and the marshes. He is soothed as he rides his Roadmaster through the dark, rainy night, knowing he shouldn’t drink, but he doesn’t know how to stop himself, and anyway, why does it matter? Ever since it happened, he has a sickness in his soul, a feeling of terror. The beast within has surfaced, the monster has shown himself, and what he’s always feared is right in front of him.