“Do you think you can?”

“I don't know,” Johnny said, “but my headache feels a little better.”

He was fifteen minutes late getting to Jon's Restaurant in Bridgton; it seemed to be the only business establishment on Bridgton's main drag that was still open. The plows were falling behind the snow, and there were drifts across the road in several places. At the junction of Routes 3O2 and 117, the blinker light swayed back and forth in the screaming wind. A police cruiser with CASTLE COUNTY SHERIFF in gold leaf on the door was parked in front of Jon's. He parked behind it and went inside.

Bannerman was sitting at a table in front of a cup of coffee and a bowl of chili. The TV had misled. He wasn't a big man; he was a huge man. Johnny walked over and introduced himself.

Bannerman stood up and shook the offered hand. Looking at Johnny's white, strained face and the way his thin body seemed to float inside his Navy pea jacket, Bannerman's first thought was: This guy is sick-he's maybe not going to live too long. Only Johnny's eyes seemed to have any real life-they were a direct, piercing blue, and they fixed firmly on Bannerman's own with sharp, honest curiosity. And when their hands clasped, Bannerman felt a peculiar kind of surprise, a sensation he would later describe as a draining. It was a little like getting a shock from a bare electrical wire. Then it was gone.

“Glad you could come,” Bannerman said. “Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“How about a bowl of chili? They make a great damn chili here. I'm not supposed to eat it because of my ulcer, but I do anyway. “He saw the look of surprise on Johnny's face and smiled. “I know, it doesn't seem right, a great big guy like me having an ulcer, does it?”

“I guess anyone can get one.

“You're damn tooting,” Bannerman said. “What changed your mind?”

“It was the news. The little girl. Are you sure it was the same guy?”

“It was the same guy. Same M. O. And the same sperm type.

He watched Johnny's face as the waitress came over. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Tea,” Johnny said.

“And bring him a bowl of chili, Miss,” Bannerman said. When the waitress had gone he said, “This doctor, he says that if you touch something, sometimes you get ideas about where it came from, who might have owned it, that sort of thing.”

Johnny smiled. “Well,” he said, “I just shook your hand and I know you've got an Irish setter named Rusty. And I know he's old and going blind and you think it's time he was put to sleep, but you don't know how you'd explain it to your girl.”

Bannerman dropped his spoon back into his chili -plop. He stared at Johnny with his mouth open. “By God,” he said. “You got that from me? Just now?”

Johnny nodded.

Bannerman shook his head and muttered, “It's one thing to hear something like that and another to… doesn't it tire you out?”

Johnny looked at Bannerman, surprised. It was a question he had never been asked before. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

“But you knew. I'll be damned.”

“But look, Sheriff.”

“George. Just plain George.”

“Okay, I'm Johnny, just plain Johnny. George, what I don't know about you would fill about five books. I don't know where you grew up or where you went to police school or who your friends are or where you live. I know you've got a little girl, and her name's something like Cathy, but that's not quite it I. don't know what you; did last week or what beer you favor or what your favorite TV program is.

“My daughter's name is Katrina,” Bannerman said softly. “She's nine, too. She was in Mary Kate's class.”

“What I'm trying to say is that the… the knowing is sometimes a pretty limited thing. Because of the dead zone.”

“Dead zone?”

“It's like some of the signals don't conduct,” Johnny said. “I can never get streets or addresses. Numbers are hard but they sometimes come. “The waitress returned with Johnny's tea and chili. He tasted the chili and nodded at Bannerman. “You're right. It's good. Especially on a night like this.”

“Go to it,” Bannerman said. “Man, I love good chili. My ulcer hollers bloody hell about it. Fuck you, ulcer, I say. Down the hatch.”

They were quiet for a moment. Johnny worked on his chili and Bannerman watched him curiously. He sup-posed Smith could have found out he had a dog named Rusty. He even could have found out that Rusty was old and nearly blind. Take it a step farther: if he knew Katrina's name, he might have done that “something like Cathy but that's not quite it” routine just to add the right touch of hesitant realism. But why? And none of that explained that queer, zapped feeling he'd gotten in his head when Smith touched his hand. If it was a con, it was a damned good one.

Outside, the wind gusted to a low shriek that seemed to rock the small building on its foundations. A flying veil of snow lashed the Pondicherry Bowling Lanes across the street.

“Listen to that,” Bannerman said. “Supposed to keep up all night. Don't tell me the winters're getting milder.”

“Have you got something?” Johnny asked. “Something that belonged to the guy you're looking for?”

“We think we might,” Bannerman said, and then shook his head. “But it's pretty thin,”

“Tell me.”

Bannerman laid it out for him. The grammar school and the library sat facing each other across the town common. It was standard operating procedure to send students across when they needed a book for a project or a report. The teacher gave them a pass and the librarian initialed it before sending them back. Near the center of the common, the land dipped slightly. On the west side of the dip was the town bandstand. In the dip itself were two dozen benches where people sat during band concerts and football rallies in the fall.

“We think he just sat himself down and waited for a kid to come along. He would have been out of sight from both sides of the common. But the footpath runs along the north side of the dip, close to those benches.”

Bannerman shook his head slowly.

“What makes it worse is that the Frechette woman was killed right on the bandstand. I am going to face a shit-storm about that at town meeting in March-that is, if I'm still around in March. Well, I can show them a memo I wrote to the town manager, requesting adult crossing guards on the common during school hours. Not that it was this killer that I was worried about, Christ, no. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he'd go back to the same spot a second time.”

“The town manager turned down the crossing guards?”

“Not enough money,” Bannerman said. “Of course, he can spread the blame around to the town selectmen, and they'll try to spread it back on me, and the grass will grow on Mary Kate Hendrasen's grave and… “He paused for a moment, or perhaps choked on what he was saying. Johnny gazed at his lowered head sympathetically.

“It might not have made any difference anyhow,” Bannerman went on in a dryer voice. “Most of the crossing guards we use are women, and this fuck we're after doesn't seem to care how old or young they are.”

“But you think he waited on one of those benches?”

Bannerman did. They had found an even dozen fresh cigarette butts near the end of one of the benches, and four more behind the bandstand itself, along with an empty box. Marlboros, unfortunately-the second or third most popular brand in the country. The cellophane on the box had been dusted for prints and had yielded none at all.

“None at all?” Johnny said. “That's a little funny, isn't it?”

“Why do you say so?”

“Well, you'd guess the killer was wearing gloves even if he wasn't thinking about prints-it was cold out -, but you'd think the guy that sold him the cigarettes…

Bannerman grinned. “You've got a head for this work,” he said, “but you're not a smoker.”