He went back over the transcript. The language was what he'd expect from Charlie Pope, except for the "forlorn hope." And, come to think of it, Ruffe had him referring to a razor strap. Maybe he'd said strap and Ruffe had misspelled it.

Back to the dictionary: strop meant "a strip of leather for sharpening razors." Huh. Again, the precision. He'd have to talk to Ruffe…

HE FINISHED DRESSING, picking out a good-looking Versace blue suit and tie, a subtle Hermes necktie, blue over-the-calf socks with small coffee-colored comets woven into them, and soft black Italian loafers. He looked at himself in a mirror, took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, and tried a smile.

Fuckin' Jack Nicholson, he thought. Except taller and better-looking. He tried to whistle going out the door, but his face hurt when he pursed his lips."

RUFFE IGNACE TOOK two big phone calls.

The first was from Davenport. Ignace was sitting in the basement of Minneapolis's scrofulous City Hall, reading about the New York Yankees-his team-when his phone rang.

Davenport: "You sure he said 'forlorn hope' and 'razor strop'?"

"Hey. How many times do I explain the word verbatim to you?" Ignace asked. "That's what he said."

"But maybe he said strap, instead of strop."

"Sounded like strop to me. I don't even know what a strop is. It's like a sharpening stone, right?"

"No, it's more like a strap."

"Strop, strap, what the fuck are you talking about?"

THEN LATER, the second call.

Ignace was walking along Sixth Street, heading back toward the paper, playing Ruffe's Radio: Thought I was a bum, shit, this jacket cost four hundred bucks. Wonder why they put the street cars right down the middle of the main street so they screw up traffic for the whole town? Look at that skinny chick, wonder if she's bulimic? She looks bulimic, looks sour… wonder how much Macallister makes, can't be two grand, can it? Maybe I oughta ask for another hundred, my review's when, when was the last one? March? lot a way to go…

Like that. He was mumbling to himself, standing on a street corner, watching the walk light when his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and slipped it open: "Ignace."

"Roo-Fay…it's me." The coarse whisper. No question.

"Mr. Pope? Is that you?" Ignace had a reporter's notebook stuffed in his back pocket. He fished it out, walked sideways to the wall of the nearest building, and sat down on the sidewalk, the cell phone trapped between his right shoulder and ear. "How'd you get my number?"

"I called at the newspaper and told them I was a cop and it was an emergency and they gave me your cell phone. And I was telling the truth: it's an emergency, all right."

"What?"

Pope laughed. "I got her."

Ignace didn't make the connection for a second, and again said, "What?"

"I got her. The next one."

Ignace started taking notes. "Who?"

"Carlita Peterson. I been watching her for three weeks. Got her in my car and I'm leaving right now, taking her up the thirty-five right into the deep woods. Know where's this old empty cabin up there, you can camp out."

"Ah, Jesus, man, you gotta stop. You gotta stop…"

"I ain't gonna stop, Roo-Fay," the whisperer said. "Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna spend a little time with her tonight, take the starch out of her. Then I'm gonna kick her out in the woods tomorrow, give her a one-minute head start-I won't look, either, I won't look which way she runs. Then I'm going out with my razor. Maybe she'll get away."

"Ah, Jesus…"

"My other woman drove me to it; I been walking around with a hard-on for three days, the way she talks, she just drives me to distraction. But this'll fix it for a while. You know how, after you fuck, you don't have to fuck again for a while? Well, after I take this next one, I won't have to worry about taking my woman."

"Ah, jeez…"

"Hey, don't tell me it don't give you a little tingle in the back of your balls, thinking about it."

"Listen, Mr. Pope. Please. Let her go. C'mon, you gotta get help, please let her go. I'll write whatever you want, I'll write your whole story, whatever you want to say, if you just let her go…"

"Hey, fuck you, Roo-Fay.Too late for all of that shit. But I'll tell you what-you got the rest of today and all of tonight to find us. I won't do her until tomorrow morning: but that's as long as I'm gonna go. You tell that to the cops."

Click.

IGNACE STARED DUMBFOUNDED at the phone for a moment, pushed himself up, unconsciously brushed the seat of his pants, took a couple of walking steps, then broke into a run, running as hard as he could, arms pumping, notebook in one hand, cell phone in the other, down to the paper, buzzing all the Way: Man, man-oh-man, Jesus, man.

CAROL STUCK HER HEAD in Lucas's office and said, "If your nose doesn't hurt too bad to talk, a guy named Rufus is on the telephone, He says he's a reporter from the Star-Tribune and it's urgent."

Lucas picked up the phone: "Davenport."

"He just called me," Ignace blurted. "One minute ago. On my cell phone."

"Ah, shit…," Lucas said.

"He said he took a woman whose name is Carlita Peterson, wait a minute, wait a minute, I got the number he was calling from…" Lucas sat up and shouted at Carol, "We're gonna need a phone number run… Get Dave, get Dave on the line…"

Ignace said, "You ready? Here it is…"

He recited the number and Lucas shouted it to Carol, who shouted back, "Dave's s running it…"

Lucas went back to the phone: "He said he's already got this woman?"

"That's what he said. He said he's going to take her up north and fuck with her for a while and then tomorrow morning he's going to turn her loose and hunt her down with his razor."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Same guy as last time."

Carol shouted, "Carlita Diaz Peterson, Northfield. It's a cell phone. The address is coming up."

Lucas yelled back, "Get the sheriff on the line. I think it's Rice County, but it might be Dakota. Get somebody over to her house. Tell the phone guys I want to know the location of the cell phone when he called…"

BACK TO IGNACE, the phone: "Are you at your office?"

"Yes."

"Stay there. I'll be there soon as I can. I'll need a typescript."

"I'll have it by the time you get here," Ignace said. He suddenly left his asshole persona and sounded like a worried human being: "Jesus, Davenport, he said he had her in his car, that he was already heading north."

LUCAS BANGED OUT the number for the co-op office, talked to Ray Reese: "Pull your socks up. The Star-Trib reporter got another call from Charlie Pope; he says he's taken a woman from Northfield and he's in his car heading for the Boundary Waters. Pull the trigger on the network. Now."

"Hang on."

Ten seconds later, Reese was back: "We're doing it. Anything else? You know where he's starting from?"

"Gonna get that in a minute. Tell everybody that Pope says he already picked up the woman. Tell them that: that he says he's got her, that if we miss him, she's gonna die. Tell them to be careful."

HE THREW THE PHONE back at the receiver and realized his hands were slippery with sweat: that didn't happen often. Up and out of the office: Carol was on the phone. "Where'd it come from? Where'd it come from?"

She waved him off.

He walked out of the office, ten feet down the hall, and then back, anxious to move, grating, "Where's it coming from?"

She was taking a note, then pulled the phone away from her ear: "It came from a cell in Burnsville." Burnsville was a big suburb right on the south side of the metro area: Pope was less than fifteen miles from where Lucas was sitting.