“When did you start again?” asked the Reverend, gesturing toward the cigarettes.

“I didn’t,” said Jackson. “But you’d be surprised how many confessions I’ve gotten from people after they’ve had a chance to relax with a smoke.” He looked at the guy at the end of the bar. “Not that this is an interrogation or anything.”

“No,” replied the guy. “But I suppose it’s a confession, nonetheless.” He took the cigarette, fired it up, and pulled in an almost-desperate drag of smoke; listen closely enough, and you might have heard the cancer cells cheering. “Oh, man, that tastes good.” Another sip of coffee, another deep drag on the smoke. “Have any of you ever heard the name ‘Ronald Spencer’?”

None of them had.

“I’m guessing at least one of you know him by his other name,” said the guy. “‘Uncle Ronnie’.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Jackson.

The Reverend stared at him for a moment. “Well…?”

“‘Uncle Ronnie’ was the name of a serial killer from a ways back—at least fifteen, twenty years ago,” said Jackson. “He targeted children in Kentucky, Indiana, and Ohio. He always left a note of apology on the victim’s body, and always signed it, ‘I’m Sorry. With Love, Uncle Ronnie.’ The killings stopped around 1983. He was never caught.” Jackson’s gaze was now intensely focused on the guy at the end of the bar. “How old are you, friend—and while we’re on the subject, what the hell is your name, anyway?”

“I just turned twenty-eight. I was three when the ‘Uncle Ronnie’ killings stopped, so I think that qualifies as an alibi.”

Jackson continued staring at him. “And your name?”

The guy cupped the mug of coffee in his hands, staring down into the dark liquid. “What’s it matter?”

Before Jackson could answer, the Reverend said, “I think we should call him ‘Henry’—after William Sydney Porter, better known, of course—”

“—as O. Henry,” said Jackson. “I thought we’d already established that we’re an incongruously literate bunch.” He regarded the guy at the bar for a moment. “All right, for the sake of getting on with things, I’ll go along with calling you ‘Henry’—for now.”

“Thank you,” said Henry.

Grant refilled both his and Henry’s coffee mugs. “So, what about ‘Uncle Ronnie’?”

Henry took another drag from his cigarette, picked up the figure of Mr. Hands, and said, “Well, for one thing, his full name was Ronald James Williamson, and he killed his first child when he was still a child himself…”

Part One:

The Mount of Saturn

“Procul omen abesto!”

Far be that fate from us!

–Ovid

Amores, I.xiv.41

“Where’re she lie,

Locked up from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny.”

–Richard Crashaw (1612? – 1649)

Chapter One

His full name was Ronald James Williamson, and he killed his first child when he was still a child himself—not that killing had been his intention, it never was the intention, it was often his only choice (hence the notes of sincere apology he began leaving on the bodies of his victims); he simply wanted to find a way to make the Hurting stop.