“The one who wears the bumblebee jacket,” he said. Grace’s yellow jacket with the black hash marks, her black hair spilling across the shoulders.

This was the moment when the police should be tracing the call, closing in, catching the killer. But they hadn’t installed the equipment yet, and there had been a pervading feeling that these were only crank calls. The killer’s M.O., as Chief Henning called it, was to stalk his victims by car, not by phone.

Rose held the receiver in her sweaty hand while he supplied the graphic details. “Steel into flesh, like a warm knife into butter. I am going to eat her up, bite off that little nose, suck out those little eyes, chew on her rosy tongue.”

Rose listened, knowing, this is him. I have heard those words before. I have been in that dark place, I have seen and felt what he is saying.

Revulsion overwhelmed her. She found her voice. “Why her? Don’t hurt her. Let her go!”

The phone was dead.

Mom came running into the hall, Jerram came running out of his room, both of them shouting, “What’s the matter, Rose?”

“The killer,” she said, “the police …” At that moment the front doorbell rang. It was him. Rose shrank back. He had finished with Grace and had come for her.

Mom opened the door as Rose screamed for her not to.

“Hi! Merry Christmas everybody!” Grace said with a big smile. Behind her stood Gregory Paschek, grinning like an uncomfortable monkey. Their smiles slowly faded.

Mom regained her composure first. “Merry Christmas, dear. Rose isn’t feeling so well right now.”

“I’m feeling fine,” Rose said shakily. It had all been a dirty trick.

“You don’t look so fine,” Grace said. Gregory nodded in agreement.

“Come in and have some eggnog,” Mom said. Rose rushed up the stairs to the bathroom to throw up.

She told Silver Henning and Detective O’Hara what had happened. He had been out there, on their street, watching. Silver said he’d probably used the pay phone outside the Daycare Center building at the bottom of Franklin Street. It would have taken less than a minute to drive down there after spotting Grace.

“This sicko is enjoying himself,” O’Hara said.

“Isn’t it about time you did something?” Dad said.

“We’re trying, Mr. Potter.”

“Trying isn’t good enough. This time it was a sick joke. Next time …”. He left the words hanging.

But Silver said they had made progress. There was a connection now between a blue car and some stains found at Mrs. Wollenschaft’s house in Westley. They had been rust stains after all, but in checking, the police had found some traces of human blood in the basement drains. Mrs. Wollenschaft’s tenant had a blue car. But he was away somewhere and not available for questioning.