As Vincent was glancing up at the full moon, a shockingly white disk visible for a moment through a canyon of buildings, the Watchmaker reflected aloud, “How long did it take them to die? Interesting.”

Vincent had known the Watchmaker—whose real name was Gerald Duncan—for only a short time but he’d learned that you asked the man questions at your own risk. Even a simple query could open the door to a monologue. Man, could he talk. And his answers were always organized, like a college professor’s. Vincent knew that the silence for the last few minutes was because Duncan was considering his answer.

Vincent opened a can of Pepsi. He was cold but he needed something sweet. He chugged it and put the empty can in his pocket. He ate a packet of peanut butter crackers. Duncan looked over to make sure Vincent was wearing gloves. They always wore gloves in the Band-Aid-Mobile.

Meticulous . . .

“I’d say there are several answers to that,” Duncan said in his soft, detached voice. “For instance, the first one I killed was twenty-four, so you could say it took him twenty-four years to die.”

Like, yeah . . . thought Clever Vincent with the sarcasm of a teenager, though he had to admit that this obvious answer hadn’t occurred to him.

“The other was thirty-two, I think.”

A police car drove by, the opposite way. The blood in Vincent’s temples began pounding but Duncan didn’t react. The cops showed no interest in the stolen Explorer.

“Another way to answer the question,” Duncan said, “is to consider the elapsed time from the moment I started until their hearts stopped beating. That’s probably what you meant. See, people want to put time into easy-to-digest frames of reference. That’s valid, as long as it’s helpful. Knowing the contractions come every twenty seconds is helpful. So is knowing that the athlete ran a mile in three minutes, fifty-eight seconds, so he wins the race. Specifically how long it took them tonight to die . . . well, that isn’t important, as long as it wasn’t fast.” A glance at Vincent. “I’m not being critical of your question.”

“No,” Vincent said, not caring if he was critical. Vincent Reynolds didn’t have many friends and could put up with a lot from Gerald Duncan. “I was just curious.”

“I understand. I just didn’t pay any attention. But the next one, I’ll time it.”

“The girl? Tomorrow?” Vincent’s heart beat just a bit faster.

He nodded. “Later today, you mean.”

It was after midnight. With Gerald Duncan you had to be precise, especially when it came to time.

“Right.”

Hungry Vincent had nosed out Clever Vincent now that he was thinking of Joanne, the girl who’d die next.

Later today . . .

The killer drove in a complicated pattern back to their temporary home in the Chelsea district of Manhattan, south of Midtown, near the river. The streets were deserted; the temperature was in the teens and the wind flowed steadily through the narrow streets.