The cup of coffee sat in front of Honey-Pie. I thought she was going to pick it up and drink it. But when I walked around the table, I saw there was a ring inside it, half an inch above the liquid, on which gray skin quivered and wrinkled. It was maybe two, three days old.

There was a mattress, folded over on itself once and stained over the narrow blue and white stripes. I went to it and sat down.

Honey-Pie watched me as I hunkered back against the wall. I pulled my sneaker heels back against my ass and wrapped my arms around my knees. One knee was coming through. I was breathing hard, and my belly, pressing again and again against my thighs, felt funny. I shook back hair that was tickling my forehead; it fell again, still wet.

Sawyers was saying: “… makes at least thirty-one people dead today: by gunshot, rifle and pistol; by stabbing—knife, screwdriver, broken fire poker; by clubbing, with a rifle butt, with a pair of wireclippers; by strangulation, with jumper cables, bailing wire—and now the latest victims include a pregnant mother and her year-old child. That thirty-one does not include Michael Rhomer, tragically killed in the street because someone mistook him for the murderer. There are over half a dozen people in severe condition at Frontwater District Memorial Hospital. This city, I think it is safe to say, has never seen a day like this before. And we all hope it never sees one like it again. I’m going to be talking to Police Inspector Haley in a few seconds. Inspector Haley is going to explain what the police will be—Oh, yes. That’s right. Yes, this is Inspector Haley. Inspector?”

“Yeah? Well, we’re all agreed this has been pretty terrible.” It was the voice of the man in the rumpled suit. “Anyway, we’re sure he hasn’t gotten too far away. He’s only had minutes to run, this time. And the place is surrounded with just about everything we have. We got it from a couple of people at the bar where he did the first bunch in—people who knew him there—that the kid don’t even know how to drive. We’ve already done some checkin’ on him. We’re gonna catch him, soon now.”

“Can you tell us why you’re so sure the capture is imminent, Inspector?”

“Well, there’s that thing he always writes.… Is that all right to talk about? Do they know about that?”

“If they’ve been listening to their radios, Inspector. Ladies and gentlemen, Harkner—or the killer alleged to be Dennis Harkner—at the scene of each crime has written ‘All right,’ somewhere on the floor or a wall or a window. This time, it’s on the front of the barge cabin where the murder was committed. Would you tell us something about how he writes it, Inspector?”

“Huh?—well, in these big … Eh, with blood … Eh … blood. The murder victims’ blood. That’s pretty—you know—grim.”

“Yes, Inspector. And you were saying?”