The stories had run, front page, Sunday edition, above the fold, along with a police composite of the suspect that stared out in malevolent black and white from the hundreds of thousands of newspapers that hit the streets. The detectives working the case were, predictably, furious, thinking that their quarry would be scared off.

But that wasn't what had happened. The rapist hadn't committed any half dozen rapes. The number had actually been in excess of forty. Almost four dozen women had been assaulted, but most, in pain and humiliation, had refused to go to the police. Instead, they had gone home after being victimized, thanking their lucky stars they were still alive, trying to mend their ripped bodies and torn self-esteem. One by one, they had all called Edna, Cowart remembered. Tears and hesitancy, sobbing voices, barely able to wring through their misery the horror that had befallen them, but anxious to tell this reporter, if perhaps she could save another woman, somewhere, from falling prey to this man. Within a few days of the story running, they had all called. Anonymous and terrified, but they had called. Each one thought they had been alone, a solitary, single victim. By the end of the week, Edna had the full license plate number of the rapist's car, a much improved description of the vehicle and the assailant, and dozens of other small details that had led the police to the man's door one night, a fortnight after the stories ran, just as he was readying himself to head out.

Cowart leaned back remembering. He weighed Ferguson's threat in his hands to see if it had substance.

Do it, he told himself.

Take it all, all the lies, the mistakes, the illegally obtained evidence, everything, and put it into a story and run it in the paper. Do it right away, before he has a chance to move. Smash into him with words and then run and take your daughter and hide her.

It's the only weapon you have.

'Of course,' he said out loud, 'your buddies in the business are going to tear you limb from limb for writing that story. Then you're going to be drawn and quartered, keelhauled, and your head placed on a stake. After that, things are gonna get real rough, because your wife is going to hate you and her husband is going to hate you and your daughter isn't going to understand, but maybe, if you're lucky, she won't hate you.' But it was the only way.

He sat back on the bed and thought, You're going to bring the whole world down on your head and his head. And then, maybe everyone will get what they deserve. Even Ferguson.

Inch-high headlines, full-color pictures. Make certain the wires pick it up, and the newsweeklies. Hit the talk shows. Keep shouting out the truth about Ferguson until it's a din that deafens him and overcomes all his denials. Then no one will ignore anything. Surround him, wherever he goes, with notepads, flashbulbs, and camera lights. Paint him with attention so that wherever he tries to hide, he glows with suspicion. Don't let him slide into the background, where he can continue to do what he does.

Steal his invisibility. That will kill him, Cowart thought.

Are you a killer, Cowart?

I can be.

He reached over to the telephone to call Will Martin, when there was a sharp rap at the motel door. Probably Tanny Brown, he thought.

He got up, his head filling with the words of the story he was preparing to write as he opened the door and saw Andrea Shaeffer standing in the corridor.

'Is he here?'

Her hair was damp and bedraggled. Rain streaked her tan coat, making dark splashes. Her eyes pitched past Cowart immediately, searching the space behind him desperately. Before he could speak, she asked again, Ts Wilcox here? We got separated.'

He started to shake his head, but she pushed past him, glanced around the room, turned, and said, 'I thought he'd be here. Where's Lieutenant Brown?'

'He'll be back in a moment. Did something happen?'

'No!' she snapped, then, modulating her voice, 'We just lost sight of each other. We were trying to tail Ferguson. He was on foot and I was in the car. I thought he'd have called by now.'

'No. No calls. You left him?'

'He left me! When's Lieutenant Brown gonna be here?'

'Any minute.'

She strode into the small room and stripped off her damp raincoat. He saw her shiver once. 'I'm frozen,' she said. 'I need some coffee. I need to change.'

He reached into the small bathroom, grabbed a white bath towel and tossed it to her. 'Here. Dry off.'

She rubbed the towel over her head, then over her eyes. He saw that she lingered with the towel as it crossed her face, hiding for just a moment or two behind the fluffy, white cotton. She was breathing heavily when she dropped the towel away.

Cowart was about to continue asking her questions, when there was another rapping at the door.

'Maybe that's Wilcox,' she said.

It was Tanny Brown. He carried a pair of brown paper bags in his hands, pushing them toward Cowart as he came through the door. 'They only had mayonnaise, he said. His eyes took in the sight of Shaeffer, standing rigidly in the middle of the room. "Where's Bruce?' he asked.

'We got separated,' she said.

Brown's eyebrows curved upward in surprise. At the same moment, he felt a solid shaft of fear drop through his stomach. He blanked his mind instantly to everything save the problem at hand and moved slowly into the room, as if by exaggerating the deliberate quality of his pace, he could temper the thoughts that instantly threatened to fill his imagination. 'Separated? Where? How?'

Shaeffer looked up nervously. 'He spotted Ferguson coming out of his apartment and set off on foot after him. I tried to get ahead of them both in the car. They were moving quickly, and I must have misjudged. Anyway, we got separated. I looked for him throughout a five-, six-block area. I went back and tried to find him at Ferguson's apartment. He wasn't either place. I figured he either made his way back here or flagged down a patrol car. Or a cab.'

'Let me get this straight. He went after Ferguson

'They were moving fast.'

'Had Ferguson made him?'

I don't think so.'

'But why would he?'

'I don't know,' Shaeffer replied, half in despair, half in fury. 'He just saw Ferguson and exploded out of the car. It was like he needed to face him down. I don't know what he was going to do after that.'

'Did you hear anything. See anything?'

'No. It was like one minute they were there, Wilcox maybe fifty yards or less behind Ferguson, the next, no sign of anything.'

'What did you do?'

'I got out, walked the streets, questioned people. Nothing.'

'Well,' Tanny Brown asked, with irritation, 'what do you think happened?'

Shaeffer looked over at the big detective and shrugged. 'I don't know. I thought he'd be back here. Or at least have called in.'

Brown looked over at Cowart briefly. 'Any phone messages?'

'No.'

'Did you try calling whatever the hell precinct house is in that district?'

'No,' Shaeffer said. 'I just got here a couple of minutes ago.'

'All right,' Brown said. 'Let's do that, at least. Use the phone in your own room, so, in case he calls, this line won't be tied up.'

'I need to change,' Shaeffer said. 'Let me just…'

'Make the calls,' Brown said coldly.

She hesitated, then nodded. She extricated her room key from a pocket, nodded once toward the two men, started to say something to Tanny Brown, obviously thought better of it, and left.

The two men watched her exit.

'What do you think?' Cowart asked.

Brown turned and snapped at him, I don't think anything. Don't you think anything either.'

Cowart opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He merely nodded, recognizing that the detective's demand was impossible. The absence of information was inflammatory. They both sat, eating cold sandwiches, wordlessly waiting for the phone to ring.