“Good for you guys,” Lieutenant Hale said from the front seat.

“How could you let him get away?” Rosie asked him accusingly.

“Jesus, do you even know how he did it?”

“Well, strictly speaking, we didn’t let him get away,” Hale said mildly.

“It was Pier Security’s baby; by the time the first metro cops got there, your husband was long gone.”

“We think he stole some kid’s mask,” Gustafson said.

“One of those whole-head jobs. Put it on, then just boogied. He was lucky, I’ll tell you that much.”

“He’s always been lucky,” Rose said bitterly. They were turning into the police station parking lot now, Bill still behind them. To Gert she said, “You can let go of my hand now.” Gert did and Rosie immediately hit the door again. The hurt was worse this time, but some newly aware part of her relished that hurt.

“Why won’t he let me alone?” she asked again, speaking to no one. And yet she was answered by a sweetly husky voice which spoke from deep in her mind. You shall be divorced of him, that voice said. You shall be divorced of him, Rosie Real. She looked down at her arms and saw that they had broken out all over in gooseflesh.

His mind lifted off again, up up and away, as that foxy bitch Marilyn McCoo had once sung, and when he came back he was easing the Tempo into another parking space. He didn’t know where he was for sure, but he thought it was probably the underground parking garage half a block down from the Whitestone, where he’d stowed the Tempo before. He caught sight of the gas gauge as he leaned over to disconnect the ignition wires and saw something interesting: the needle was all the way over to F. He’d stopped for gas at some point during his last blank spot. Why had he done that? Because gas wasn’t really what I wanted, he answered himself. He leaned forward again, meaning to look at himself in the rear-view minor, then remembered it was on the floor. He picked it up and looked at himself closely. His face was bruised, swelling in several places; it was pretty goddam obvious that he’d been in a fight, but the blood was all gone. He had scrubbed it away in some gas-station restroom while a self-serve pump filled the Tempo’s tank on slow automatic feed. So he was fit to be seen on the street-as long as he didn’t press his luck-and that was good. As he disconnected the ignition wires he wondered briefly what time it was. No way to tell; he wasn’t wearing a watch, the shitbox Tempo didn’t have a clock, and he was underground. Did it matter? Did it-“Nope,” a familiar voice said softly. “doesn’t matter. The time is out of joint.” He looked down and saw the bullmask staring up at him from its place in the passenger-side footwell: empty eyes, disquieting wrinkled smile, absurd flower-decked horns. All at once he wanted it. It was stupid, he hated the garlands on the horns and hated the stupid happy-to-be-castrated smile even more… but it was good luck, maybe. It didn’t really talk, of course, all of that was just in his mind, but without the mask he certainly never would have gotten away from Ettinger’s Pier. That was for damned sure. Okay, okay, he thought, viva ze bool, and he leaned over to get the mask. Then, with seemingly no pause at all, he was leaning forward and clamping his arms around Blondie’s waist, squeezing her tight-tight-tight so she couldn’t get enough breath to scream. She had just come out of a door marked HOUSEKEEPING, pushing her cart in front of her, and he thought he’d probably been waiting out here for her quite awhile, but that didn’t matter now because they were going right back into HOUSEKEEPING, just Pam and her new friend Norman, viva ze bool. She was kicking at him and some of the blows landed on his shins, but she was wearing sneakers and he hardly felt the hits. He let go of her waist with one hand, pulled the door closed behind him, and shot the bolt across. A quick look around, just to make sure the place was empty except for the two of them. Late Saturday afternoon, middle of the weekend, it should have been… and was. The room long and narrow, with a short row of lockers standing at the far end. There was a wonderful smell-a fragrance of clean, ironed linen that made Norman think of laundry day at their house when he was a kid. There were big stacks of neatly folded sheets on pallets, Dandux laundry baskets full of fluffy bathtowels, pillowcases piled on shelves.Deep stacks of coverlets lined one wall. Norman shoved Pam into these, watching with no interest at all as the skirt of her uniform flipped up high on her thighs. His sex-drive had gone on vacation, perhaps even into permanent retirement, and maybe that was just as well. The plumbing between his legs had gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years. It was a hell of a note, the sort of thing that might lead you to think that God had more in common with Andrew Dice Clay than you maybe wanted to believe. For twelve years you didn’t notice it, and for the next fifty-or even sixty-it dragged you around behind it like some raving baldheaded Tasmanian devil. “don’t scream,” he said. “don’t scream, Pammy. I’ll kill you if you do.” It was an empty threat-for now, at least-but she wouldn’t know that. Pam had drawn in a deep breath; now she let it out in a soundless rush. Norman relaxed slightly.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said, and boy, was that original, he’d certainly never heard that one before, nope, nope.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said warmly. 7 certainly don’t.” Something was flopping in his back pocket. He felt for it and touched rubber. The mask. He wasn’t exactly surprised.

“All you have to do is tell me what I want to know, Pam. Then you go on your happy way and I go on mine.”

“How do you know my name?” He gave her that evocative interrogation-room shrug, the one that said he knew lots of things, that was his job. She sat in the pile of tumbled dark maroon coverlets just like the one on his bed up on the ninth floor, smoothing her skirt down over her knees. Her eyes were a really extraordinary shade of blue. A tear gathered on the lower lid of the left one, trembled, then slipped down her cheek, leaving a trail of mascara-soot.

“Are you going to rape me?” she asked. She was looking at him with those extraordinary baby blues of hers, great eyes-who needs to pussywhip a man when you’ve got eyes like those, right, Pammy?-but he didn’t see the look in them he wanted to see. That was a look you saw in the interrogation room when a guy you’d been whipsawing with questions all day and half the night was finally getting ready to break: a humble look, a pleading look, a look that said I’ll tell you anything, anything at all, just let off me a little. He didn’t see that look in Pammy’s eyes. Yet.

“Pam-”

“Please don’t rape me, please don’t, but if you do, if you have to, please wear a condom, I’m so scared of AIDS.” He gawped at her, then burst out laughing. It hurt his stomach to laugh, it hurt his diaphragm even worse, and most of all it hurt his face, but for awhile there was just no way he could stop. He told himself he had to stop, that some hotel employee, maybe even the house dick, might happen by and hear laughter coming from in here and wonder what it meant, but not even that helped; in the end, the throe had to pass on its own. Blondie watched him with amazement at first, then smiled tentatively herself. Hopefully. Norman at last managed to get himself under control, although his eyes were streaming with tears by that time.

“I’m not going to rape you, Pam,” he said at last-when he was capable of saying anything without laughing it into insincerity.

“How do you know my name?” she asked again. Her voice was a little stronger this time. He hauled the mask out, stuck his hand inside it, and manipulated it as he had for the asshole accountant in the Camry.