FRIDAY

Kierk wakes up from a dream of bodies. Carmen naked before him and then a fast-forwarding to that grinding underneath, the writhing, everything opening and the penetration and envelopment, her legs wrapped around him . . . So that on waking he rolls onto a taut bladder pressing from within and an erection now trapped uncomfortably underneath him.

Eventually he has to hurry down Broadway, late.

Approaching the CNS something catches his eye—a police cruiser and ambulance parked in front of the building, the alternating red and blue lights faded to almost nothing in the glare. Kierk begins to jog up, crossing the street during a break in the traffic, but as he gets close to the blinking ambulance, it, like a beast startled from sleep, pulls away from the curb.

“Hey!” Kierk cries, but it drives unhurriedly away down the cobblestone street toward the park. Despite being only a block off busy Broadway the street is a simmering quiet except for the bouncing and receding ambulance.

He turns to the still cop car but he can’t see inside the tinted windows. From a few feet away he stares at it for a while, his face scrunched up in the brightness, the car a dense machine radiating heat—he’s expecting it to jump into motion as well, or at least for a window to roll down. Finally, he walks up and knocks with one knuckle on the black driver’s-side window. When there’s no response he leans over and peers in, cupping his hands around his face, to only a dim and empty interior and the outline of a secured shotgun. The lights continue to blink in silence.

The CNS appears calm enough on the inside, although the security guard isn’t there to swipe Kierk’s card as usual. When he gets to the lab, he immediately heads over to Carmen’s sitting form. Coming up behind her, Kierk realizes that Carmen’s monitor is filled with information about how to create a psychological profile of a serial killer. FBI profiles, articles, and Wikipedia pages proliferate. In the mirror of the screen he sees her notice his reflection. Her face morphs to a smile, her eyes dancing to his.

He points. “Why?”

“Did you know that male serial killers generally kill for sex, but female serial killers kill for money?”

“I did not.”

“So a tenure-track position is basically a lot of money, and health insurance, and job security, and social standing—”

“Except Jessica is not a serial killer, and also accounted for because Mike took her home,” Kierk says sharply.

“I know!” Carmen says defensively. “It’s not like I was accusing her. Besides, that’s not why I’ve been reading about this, exactly. Listen, we need to go somewhere private.”

“What was that ambulance doing outside? Who got—”

Carmen nods excitedly. “I’ll tell you but I need somewhere private.”

He eyes her. “Actually, Carmen, I’m sorry I asked. I don’t have time for this right now.”

“What’s the matter with you? What’s going on?”