"The Devil?"

"As in Satan. Mephistopheles. Beelzebub."

The realization struck Martin with the force of a remembered trauma. "So Barclay wasn't after those women at all."

Sheila nodded, grave-faced. "Exactly. That's where you got it wrong, Martin. He was killing their children."

4

Triggers

AFTER SHEILA WENT home, Martin drank himself into a stupor. Thoughts of his impending death—not just a possibility now but a fact—circled his head like water in a drain. He had to flush them out if he wanted to get any sleep at all.

He puked on the Berber shag on his way to the toilet, and passed out around three in the morning on the cold bathroom floor. When he came to just past noon, his right upper arm and cheek were marked with red diamonds from the ceramic tiles.

While espresso brewed in the kitchen he stood under an ice-cold stream from the showerhead. He downed the espresso like a shot before making a second, which he sipped by the living room windows, squinting down at tugboats zigzagging the sun-dappled East River, at yellow cabs crisscrossing the bustle of Manhattan.

He'd have to brave a trip later this afternoon for a magazine interview. The interviewer refused to come to Brooklyn. For now, he had some free time to cure his hangover with carbs and coconut water. Maybe even a nap if he could manage it.

He felt like he could sleep for days, even after the influx of caffeine. But Barclay was still on his mind.

Enough for a sequel.

Part of him hoped Barclay was already cutting a bloody swath on his way to Mexico. That he was anywhere but here. But he knew—he knew—the killer was hiding out somewhere in the city, in the tunnels, under a bridge or a byway or in the sewers like a rat. Biding his time, waiting for the police to widen their search upstate and down into Jersey, Maryland and West Virginia, where a man could easily disappear in the Appalachians or the Catskills.

He was waiting for Martin to get complacent. To feel like he was safe.

Then he would resurface, bringing a trail of blood to his door.

The cell phone rang. He crossed to the kitchenette to answer it.

"Mr. Savage," the baritone voice said.

"Speaking."

"It's Detective Lumsden, NYPD Major Crimes. We met before. During the Barclay trial?"

"I remember you."

Lumsden said nothing for a moment, as if waiting for Martin to continue. Then: "I suppose you've heard what happened?"

"Of course, I've fucking heard. Frankly I'm surprised you didn't call me sooner, considering."

"We've had a lot on our hands, as you can imagine." Lumsden sounded on the verge of losing patience. "Nationwide manhunt and all. I just wanted to touch base with you. Let you know we've stationed a man at your building."

"That's not necessary—"

"Look, don't try to be a hero, Mr. Savage. This time the judge might not let you off the hook so easy."

He felt the anger returning. It was Lumsden who'd given him the nickname "Killer," as in "Killer Savage," and once the candid video hit the internet the name stuck. "It was self-defense and you fucking know it," Martin said. "He was wearing the fucking mask—he never would've put on the mask it he wasn't planning to kill me."