'How many?' Cowart asked, almost whispering. 'Six? Seven? Every time you give a speech, does somebody die?'

Ferguson narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained steady. 'White man's crime, Mr. Cowart. Don't you know that?'

'What?'

'White man's crime. Come on, think of all the killers you've read about. All the Specks, Bundys, Coronas, Gacys, Henleys, Lucases, and our old buddy Blair Sullivan. White men. Jack the Ripper and Bluebeard. White men. Caligula and Vlad the Impaler. White men, Mr. Cowart. They're all white men. You take a tour of any prison and they're gonna point at Charlie Manson or David Berkowitz and you're gonna see white men, because they're the people who give in and get those strange urges. This is not to say that there ain't an occasional exception that maybe proves the rule, you know. Like Wayne Williams down in Atlanta; but there are so many questions about him, aren't there? Hell, there was even a movie on television questioning whether he was the one that did all those young men down there in that fair city. Remember that, Mr. Cowart? No, snatching little girls off the street and leaving 'em dead someplace dark and forgotten ain't typical of black men. What we do is crimes of violence. Sudden, uncontrollable bursts with knives or guns and noise. City crime, Mr. Cowart, with witnesses and crime scenes fairly dripping with evidence, so that when the cops get around to putting us in jail there ain't no questions left around. Raping joggers and shooting rival crack dealers and strong-arming convenience store clerks and assaulting each other, Mr. Cowart, ain't that right? Typical stuff that makes white folks buy fancy alarms for their 'suburban homes and feeds the criminal justice system with its daily quota of black men – but not serial killing. And you know what else, Mr. Cowart?'

'What?'

'That's the way the system likes it. The system isn't comfortable with things that don't quite match up into statistics and categories.'

Ferguson looked over at him. 'How you gonna write that story up, Mr. Cowart? The one that doesn't fit into some nice, safe, expected niche? Tell me, are newspapers real good at telling people things that strange? That unexpected? Or do you go about your business of reporting over and over again all the same old stuff, just with different faces and words?'

He didn't reply.

'And you think you're gonna write something like that without any proof?'

'Joanie Shriver,' Cowart said.

'Goodbye to her, Mr. Cowart. She's long gone. Best you understood that. Maybe make your friend Tanny Brown understand that, too.'

Cowart remained standing next to Ferguson's desk. He leaned across it, gripping the edges for balance. 'I will write the story, you know that, don't you?'

Ferguson didn't reply.

'I'll put it all in the paper. All the falsehoods, all the lies, every bit of it. You can deny it and deny it, and you know what, don't you?'

'What?'

'It'll work. I'll go down. Maybe Tanny Brown'll go down. But you know what will happen to you, Bobby Earl?'

'Tell me,' he said coldly.

'You won't go to jail. Nope. You're right about that. Not enough evidence. And a whole lot of people will believe you when you say it is all a setup. They'll still believe you when you say you're innocent. Most folks'll want to blame me, and the cops, and they'll rally around you, Bobby Earl. I promise.'

Ferguson continued to stare at Cowart.

'But you know what you're gonna lose? Anonymity.'

Ferguson shrugged, and Cowart continued. 'Come on, Bobby Earl. You know what you do when you've got an old house cat that likes to hunt? Likes to kill birds and mice and then drag them into your nice clean suburban house? You put a bell around that cat's neck, so that no matter how clever and quiet and stealthy that old hunting cat is, it can't ever get close enough to some poor little starling to get its claws around it.'

Ferguson's eyes narrowed.

'You think those fine churches still gonna ask you to come give that nice speech if there's just a little bit of a question remaining? You think they might be able to find some other speaker for that Sunday? One that they are damn certain isn't going to hang around or come back some other time and pluck some little girl off the street?'

Cowart saw Ferguson stiffen with anger.

'And the police, Bobby Earl. Think of the police. They're always going to wonder, aren't they? And when something happens, and it will happen, won't it, Bobby Earl? When something happens they'll be looking at you first. How many times you think you can do it, Bobby Earl, without making some little mistake? Forget something. Maybe get seen once. That's going to be all it takes, isn't it? Because you just make that one little mistake and the whole world's going to come down square on your head, and you won't be able to look up again until you're right back where you were when we had our first conversation. And this time there won't be any Miami Journal writer looking to help you get out, will there?'

Cowart watched as Ferguson coiled himself on the seat, rage spreading like gasoline fire across his face. He saw the man's hand edge toward the hunting knife and felt himself freeze with instant fear.

I'm dead, he thought.

He wanted to search around, try to find something to protect himself with, but he could not remove his eyes from Ferguson. For an instant, he remembered: I needed a word. A word that would summon Tanny Brown. But he had none.

Ferguson half rose from his seat, then stopped. Cowart felt his hand close on a sheaf of papers. Then Ferguson sat back down slowly.

'No,' he said. 'I don't think you'll write that story.'

'Why?'

Ferguson looked down on the table in front of him, where Cowart had placed his tape recorder. For a moment, Ferguson seemed to watch as the tape absorbed silence. Then he said, in a firm, distinct voice, leaning toward the machine, 'Because not a word of it would be true.' After another second or two passed, he reached over and punched off the Record button.

'You know why you won't write that story? I'll tell you why. There are a lot of good reasons, but first off, because you know what you don't have? You don't have any facts. You don't have any evidence. All you have is a crazy combination of events and lies, and I know some editor'll look at all that and think it has no place in the paper. And you know what else you don't have, Mr. Cowart? All newspaper stories are all made up of "according to's" and "police said's" and "spokesmen confirmed's" and all sorts of other folks contributing documents and reports, and that's where you get the bones for your story. The rest of the flesh is just the detail that you've seen and the detail that you've heard, and you haven't seen or heard anything important enough to build a story.'

'And that's one reason why you don't scare me, Mr. Cowart. Tell me,' he said. 'Do I scare you?'

Cowart nodded.

'Well, that's good. Do you suppose I scare your friend Tanny Brown, as well?'

'Yes and no.'

'Now that's a strange answer for a man who aspires toward precision. What do you mean?'

'I think he fears what you're doing. But I don't think he's scared of you.'

Ferguson shook his head. 'Tell me something, will you? Why is it that people always fear something happening to them? Personal fear. Like you right now. Scared that maybe I'll pick up this hunting knife and come over there and cut your heart out. Isn't that right? Just walk right over there and slice you from balls to throat and take out what I want. What do you think? You think I'm such an expert killer that I could do that? Then maybe stick your bloody remains someplace special, make it look like you stumbled around down here, got caught up with some of the locals, you know. Some of the folks down here aren't too partial to white people wandering around. Think I could make it seem like some gang maybe had a little fun carving up a white reporter who got lost looking for an address? Think I could pull that off, Mr. Cowart?'