Ipry back the index finger on the corpse's left hand. There is a small tattoo ofa swan. I look at Kenneth Beckman, and say, in my best broken Italian:

    'Benvenutoal carnevale!'

    Welcometo the carnival.

    Beckmanstaggers against the wall, horrified by the sight, the fresh surge of decay inthe air. He tries to speak, but the words bottleneck in his throat.

    Ilift the Taser and place it to the side of Beckman's chest. Blue lightningstrikes. The man folds to the floor.

    Fora moment the room is silent.

    Assilent as a womb.

    Itake the three killing instruments out of their sheaths, lay them on the table,next to the salon-quality hair trimmer. I open the hidden cabinet concealedbehind a door that has a touch latch, revealing the recording equipment. Thesight of the matte-black finish on the six components, free of dust and static,fills me with an almost sexual sensation. The warmth coming off the components- I always warm everything up at least an hour before a session - coats me in athin layer of perspiration. Or maybe that is just anticipation.

    Beckmanis shackled to the table with tape over his mouth. His head is held in place bya neurosurgical clamp, a precision device used to fix a patient's head to atable during stereotactic procedures for the placement of electrodes, anoperation requiring rigid immobilization. A year ago I ordered the apparatusfrom a German firm, paying by international money order, receiving the productthrough a series of remailers.

    Islip on a surgical gown, stand next to the table, open the straight razor. Withthe index finger of my left hand I probe the soft skin on the man's forehead.Beckman howls into his gag, but the sound is muffled.

    Thatis about to change.

    Witha steady hand I make the first cut across the forehead, just beneath thehairline, taking my time. I watch the skin bisect slowly, revealing the glossypink tissue beneath. The surgical clamp does its job well. The man cannot movehis head at all. With a foot pedal I press Record, then remove the gag.

    Theman gulps air, pink foam leaking from the corners of his mouth, lie has severedthe tip of his tongue.

    Hebegins to scream.

    Imonitor the sound levels, make a few adjustments. Beckman continues to shriek,blood running down both sides of his face now, onto the polished stainlesssteel of the table, onto the dry enamel of the floor.

    Afew minutes later I blot the blood on Beckman's forehead, clean it with analcohol pad. I go to work on the man's right ear. When I am finished I take outa measuring tape, measure down from the ait on the forehead, mark the spot witha red felt-tip pen, then take the second killing instrument in hand, hold it tothe light. The carbon tip is a dark, lustrous blue.

    Onefinal check of the sound levels and I set about my penultimate task. Slowly,deliberately - largo, one might say - I proceed, knowing that just a few feetaway, on the other side of the outside wall, the city of Philadelphia ispassing by, oblivious to the symphony being composed inside this common lookingbuilding.

    Thenagain, has not the greatest art in history come from humble surroundings?

    Zig,zig, zag.

    Iam Death in cadence.

    Whenthe power drill reaches its full RPM, and the razor-sharp bit nears the skincovering the frontal bone, in an area just above the right eye, Kenneth ArnoldBeckman's screams reach a majestic volume, a second octave. The voice is offkey, but that can be fixed later. For now, there is no need to hurry. No needat all.

    Infact, we have all day.

Chapter 4

    SophieBalzano sat at one end of the long couch, looking even smaller than usual.

    Jessicastepped into the outer office, talked to the secretary, then entered the mainoffice, where she chatted with one of Sophie's Sunday- school teachers. Jessicasoon returned, sat next to her daughter. Sophie did not take her stare off herown shoes.

    'Wantto tell me what happened?' Jessica asked.

    Sophieshrugged, looked out the window. Her hair was long, pulled back into acat's-eye barrette. At seven, she was a little smaller than her friends, butshe was fast and smart. Jessica was five-eight in her stocking feet, and hadgrown to that height somewhere during the summer between sixth and seventhgrade. She wondered if the same would happen for her daughter.

    'Honey?You have to tell Mommy what happened. We'll make it better, but I have to knowwhat happened. Your teacher said you were in a fight. Is that true?'

    Sophienodded.

    'Areyou okay?'

    Sophienodded again, although this time a little more slowly. 'I'm all right.'

    'We'lltalk in the car?'

    'Okay.'

    Asthey walked out of the school, Jessica saw some of the other kids whispering toeach other. Even in this day and age, it seemed, a playground fight stillgenerated gossip.

    Theyleft the school grounds, headed down Academy Road. When they made the turn ontoGrant Avenue and the traffic halted for some construction works, Jessica asked,'Can you tell me what the fight was about?'

    'Itwas about Brendan.'

    'BrendanHurley?'

    'Yes.'

    BrendanHurley was a boy in Sophie's class. Thin and quiet and bespectacled, Brendanwas bully-bait if Jessica had ever seen it. Beyond that, Jessica didn't know alot about him. Except that on the previous Valentine's Day Brendan had givenSophie a card. A big glittery card.

    'Whatabout Brendan?' Jessica asked.

    'Idon't know,' she said. 'I think he might be ...'

    Trafficbegan to move. They pulled off the boulevard, onto Torresdale Avenue.

    'What,sweetie? You think Brendan might be what?'

    Sophielooked out the window, then at her mother. 'I think he might be G-A-E.'

    Ohboy, Jessica thought. She had been prepared for a lot of things. The talk aboutsharing, the talk about race and class, the talk about money, even the talkabout religion. Jessica was woefully unprepared for the talk about genderidentity. The fact that Sophie spelled the word out instead of saying it -indicating that, to Sophie, and her classmates, the word belonged in thatspecial classification of profanities not to be uttered - spoke volumes. 'Isee,' was all that Jessica could come up with at that moment. She decided notto correct her daughter's spelling at this time. 'What makes you say that?'

    Sophiestraightened her skirt. This was clearly difficult for her. 'He kind of runslike a girl,' she said. 'And throws like a girl.'

    'Okay.'

    'Butso do I, right?'

    'Yes,you do.'

    'Soit's not a bad thing.'

    'No,it's not a bad thing at all.'

    Theypulled into their driveway, cut the engine. Jessica soon realized that she hadno idea how much Sophie knew about sexual orientation. Even thinking about thewords 'sexual orientation' in connection with her little girl freaked hercompletely out.

    'So,what happened?' Jessica asked.

    'Well,this girl was saying mean things about Brendan.'

    'Whois this girl?'

    'Monica,'Sophie said. 'Monica Quagliata.'

    'Isshe in your grade?'

    'No,'Sophie said. 'She's in third. She's pretty big.' Consciously or subconsciously,Sophie balled her fists.

    'Whatdid you say to her?'

    'Itold her to stop saying those things. Then she pushed me and called me askank.'

    Thatbitch, Jessica thought. She secretly hoped that Sophie had cleaned thelittle shit's clock. 'What did you do then?'