When he’d first seen it, knowing Duncan’s obsession with time, Vincent had said, “Too bad there’s no clock tower. Like Big Ben.”

“That’s the name of the bell, not the clock.”

“On the Tower of London?”

“In the clock tower,” the older man had corrected again. “At the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament sits. Named after Sir Benjamin Hall. In the late eighteen fifties it was England’s largest bell. In early clocks, the bells were the only thing that told you the time. There were no faces or hands.”

“Oh.”

“The word ‘clock’ comes from the Latin clocca, which means bell.”

This man knew everything.

Vincent liked that. He liked a lot of things about Gerald Duncan. He’d been wondering if these two misfits could become real friends. Vincent didn’t have many. He’d sometimes go out for drinks with the paralegals and other word-processing operators. But even Clever Vincent tended not to say too much because he was afraid he’d let slip the wrong thing about a waitress or the woman sitting at a table nearby. Hunger made you careless (just look at what had happened with Sally Anne).

Vincent and Duncan were opposites in many ways but they had one thing in common: dark secrets in their hearts. And anyone who’s ever shared that knows it makes up for vast differences in lifestyle and politics.

Oh, yes, Vincent was definitely going to give their friendship a shot.

He now washed up, again thinking of Joanne, the brunette they’d be visiting today: the flower girl, their next victim.

Vincent opened the small refrigerator. He took out a bagel and cut it in half with his hunting knife. It had an eight-inch blade and was very sharp. He smeared cream cheese on the bagel and ate it while he drank two Cokes. His nose stung from the chill. Meticulous Gerald Duncan insisted that they wear gloves here too, which was kind of a pain, but today, because it was so cold, Vincent didn’t mind.

He lay back on the bed, imagining what Joanne’s body looked like.

Later today . . .

Feeling hungry, starving to death. His gut was drying up from the craving. If he didn’t have his little heart-to-heart with Joanne pretty soon he’d waste away to steam.

Now he drank a can of Dr Pepper, ate a bag of potato chips. Then some pretzels.

Starving . . .

Hungry . . .

Vincent Reynolds would not on his own have come up with the idea that the urge to sexually assault women was a hunger. That idea was courtesy of his therapist, Dr. Jenkins.

When he was in detention because of Sally Anne—the only time he’d been arrested—the doctor had explained that he had to accept that the urges he felt would never go away. “You can’t get rid of them. They’re a hunger in a way. . . . Now, what do we know about hunger? It’s natural. We can’t help feeling hungry. Don’t you agree?”

“Yessir.”