And on the heels of that: They'll catch Barclay before he gets to me.

Still, he needed to be cautious. The book tour dates and venues were easily accessible on his website. Each of them was only a few hours' drive from the Central New York Psychiatric Center in Marcy from which Barclay had somehow escaped.

The killer could easily be on his way to Harrisburg or Scranton or Reading while Martin sat here peddling his wares to the rubes.

He could be lying in wait in some cheap hotel room—much like the one Martin's agent had booked him in, a mere six blocks from the bookstore—waiting to spring his trap.

Would Barclay cut off his balls, as promised? Would he use them as a garrote to throttle the life out of him? Or would he use whatever was handy—a tire iron, a candlestick, a pair of scissors—as Martin had when the Mirror Man slipped on the mask and turned to reveal himself?

He wouldn't know until the moment came. It was the not-knowing that filled him with cold dread, like a man on Death Row never told how or when he'd be executed.

Just one day—surprise!—death by emasculation.

That's life though, isn't it? You never know when you're gonna buy a ticket. Never even sure what the ride's gonna be until you're at the top about to plummet.

He made a mental note to jot down that thought—or something with a touch more gravitas—into his phone.

Then he answered the girl.

"Give me a minute."

Martin lay on his back on the ugly covers of the hard, springy hotel bed, wearing nothing but his wristwatch. He needed a distraction from his thoughts, and as distractions went, Tish—whose full name was Letitia May Cotton, just about as Hee Haw as you could get—wasn't half bad.

They made out in the litter-filled alley behind Eugene's Magic Beans and Books. She kneaded his balls—still happily intact—as he drove them back to the hotel.

More sloppy kissing and fondling in the stairs up to the room, interrupted by the sudden presence of a maid carrying a vacuum in the hall, who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else in that moment. Inside the room, they dry-humped on the bed until Tish tore her lips free and announced she had to "tinkle."

He was getting antsy, watching his hard-on dwindle, and was about to reach for his phone to check the news when the bathroom door finally opened.

"I've got a surprise for you," she said in singsong, still behind the bathroom door.

About fucking time, he thought.

She stepped out sideways, one bare leg kicked out like a chorus girl's. Just the sight of her lean, tanned profile got him throbbing back to half-mast. One tit pressed against the door, ass against the jamb, she slipped something over her head.

What is that, a stocking? A latex hood?

He was never big on kink, but at least one part of him was intrigued, stretching to its full length.