Deborah took the card, glanced at it, and then dropped it on the seat as if it was made out of cobra venom. "Shit," she said. She turned off the car's engine. "Where did he leave it?" "With Cody," I said. She swiveled her head around and looked at the three of us, one after the other. "Why would he leave it with a kid?" she asked.

"Because-" Astor said, and I put a hand on her mouth. "Don't interrupt, Astor," I said, before she could say anything about seeing shadows.

She took a breath, but then she thought better of it and just sat there, unhappy at being muzzled but going along with it for the time being. We sat there for a moment, the four of us, one big unhappy extended family. "Why not stick it on the windshield, or send it in the mail?" Deborah said. "For that matter, why the hell give us the damn thing at all? Why even have it printed, for Christ's sake?"

"He gave it to Cody to intimidate us," I said. "He's saying, 'See? I can get to you where you're vulnerable.'" "Showing off," Deborah said. "Yes," I said. "I think so."

"Well goddamn it, that's the first thing he's done that made any sense at all." She slapped the heels of her hands on the steering wheel. "He wants to play catch-me-if-you-can like all the other psychos, then by God I can play that game, too. And I'll catch the son of a bitch." She looked back at me. "Put that card in an evidence bag," she said, "and try to get a description from the kids." She opened the car door, vaulted out, and went over to talk to the big cop, Suchinsky.

"Well," I said to Cody and Astor, "can you remember what this man looked like?" "Yes," said Astor. "Are we really going to play with him like your sister said?" "She didn't mean 'play' like you play kick the can," I said. "It's more like he's daring us to try to catch him." "Then how is that different from kick the can?" she said. "Nobody gets killed playing kick the can," I told her. "What did this man look like?" She shrugged. "He was old." "You mean, really old? White hair and wrinkles?" "No, you know. Old like you," she said.

"Ah, you mean old," I said, feeling the icy hand of mortality brush its fingers across my forehead and leave feebleness and shaky hands in its wake. It was not a promising start toward getting a real description, but after all, she was ten years old and all grown-ups are equally uninteresting. It was clear that Deborah had made the smart move by choosing to speak to Officer Dim instead. This was hopeless. Still, I had to try.