"You're being a little cute with me, Mr. Fletcher. You keep not telling me why you have that list of names."

"I'm not trying to be cute, I'm just trying to tell you the parts that matter before I tell you the part that makes it all so hard for anybody to believe, including us. I mean, we want you to take this seriously"

"So far I'm listening serious, and I'm waiting for you to talk serious."

"Yes. Can you- first can you just tell me if our list really does correspond? I mean, was Jonathan Lee, was he ever called 'Jack.' Did Alexander Booth go by the nickname 'Sandy'?"

"Mr. Fletcher, I'm still on the phone with you. Doesn't that answer your question?"

"Yes, I guess so." Step took a deep breath. "Mr. Douglas, that list was written by my wife."

"She's the psychic?"

"No, she's the mother. I'm the father. The other person who assembled the same list is a psychiatrist. Our son's former psychiatrist. It's our son who came up with these names."

Douglas let out a stream of air into the phone. It occurred to Step that he was probably smoking. "Well now, that's interesting," he said. There was a pause on the line, as if Douglas was thinking. Then he spoke again.

"Does your son live with you?"

"Of course," said Step.

"Does he have a job? I mean, is he working today, or is he home?"

"Mr. Douglas, our son doesn't have a job and of course he lives at home. For heaven's sake."

"Mr. Fletcher, how old is your son?"

"He turned eight in June."

There was a loud squealing sound over the phone. Step thought: He just sat bolt upright, and his chair squeaks. "Eight years old?"

"Yes sir," said Step.

"Jesus H. Christ," said Douglas.

"I suppose so," said Step.

"I mean, you said your son's psychiatrist, your son came up with the list-I thought you were telling me your boy might be the serial killer. Hell, I've been having my boys here check out your address and I've got three patrol cars heading for your house right now and you're telling me that your son is eight?"

"Yes!" said Step. He leapt to his feet, started pacing as he talked, urgently. "I'm only thirty-two myself, for pete's sake. Don't send a bunch of police cars here, we're not going anywhere! I was thinking about my son as a possible victim, that maybe this guy's been stalking us, stalking our son, trying to scare us or maybe even setting us up or something and you're sending police cars to arrest him?"

"Oh, Step!" cried DeAnne. "That's insane! Are they really-"

Douglas started talking again; Step held up a hand to make DeAnne be quiet so he could hear. "... already called them off, don't worry." Douglas chuckled. "See, we're a little excitable around here. The SBI wants to shove us aside on the investigation and so we kind of feel the tiger breathing down our necks, you know. But those cars are going back on patrol and so don't you folks worry. Still, I'd kind of like to come on over and talk to y'all. Think that's possible?"

"We'll be here all afternoon," said Step.

"Give me about thirty minutes, then."

DeAnne immediately began worrying about what might happen if the kids woke up and found a policeman in the house.

"He's a detective," said Step. "He'll be in a suit."

"And they'll be in the family room, and there's no way to shut this door so they can't hear."

"So we'll take him in the bedroom and close the door."

"With our room in the mess it's in?"

"So throw the bedspread up over the bed," said Step.

"You really don't care, do you!"

"I really don't think the appearance of our room amounts to a sparrow's fart in a hurricane compared to what he's coming over here to discuss, that's true."

"That's your philosophy. Mine is that I don't want him to think he's just found another lowlife family who don't care about their living conditions."

"But we don't care or our bedroom would already be cleaned up," said Step plaintively. But he followed her into the bedroom and joined her in a flurry of straightening. They were done, with a couple of folding chairs set up, when the doorbell rang. It had only been fifteen minutes.

"Maybe it's not him," said DeAnne.

It was Douglas, all right, standing on the porch, lighting up a cigarette. After the normal civilities, but before inviting him in, Step cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, but we don't smoke."

It took Douglas a moment to realize that this actually meant that he was expected to respond in some way.

"You mean to tell me you don't ever have any visitors who smoke?"

"We don't even own an ashtray," said Step. "And we have a new baby, which means that we just can't have smoke in the house."

"Well don't that beat all. Antismokers in a tobacco town. My daddy worked in the tobacco factory all his life. What's North Carolina coming to?"

"As soon as that's out," said Step, "we'd be honored to have you come in."

Douglas hooted, then dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. "No offense intended," he said.

"None taken," said Step. "And vice versa, I hope."

This really wasn't the best beginning to their conversation, Step realized. And since the kids were still asleep, or at least quiet, DeAnne sat down across from Douglas in the living room while Step went back and quietly closed the kids' bedroom doors. When he got back, they had apparently got right down to business, because DeAnne was showing him the list.

"Well, you know, this could have been written anytime," said Douglas.

"It's not evidence anyway," said Step. "I mean, how could it be? But if you need corroboration, Stevie's psychiatrist at the time, Dr. Alice Weeks, has a copy of this list--which DeAnne gave her back in early June.

And she made her own list of the others."

"We deliberately kept the nicknames out of the papers," said Douglas. "We do that, among other things, so that we can tell the hoaxers from the real thing. Like they'll 'remember' seeing a man dragging a little boy along saying, Hurry up, Alex, only we know that Alexander Booth would have told anybody who asked him that his name was Sandy. So it's a fake."

"And so you took us seriously," said Step.

"Jack was the clincher," said Douglas. "Your wife was telling me while you were down the hall there that these are the name's your son gave to his imaginary friends."

"That's right."

"Pretty amazing," said Douglas. "And then this forty-five, this record. Comes in the mail. Every breath you take."

"We didn't think that much of it, after a while. Till the article."

"I'm not surprised."

"But, I mean, an anonymous package like that, it had to be meant to scare us."

"Oh, no doubt about it," said Douglas. "The trouble is, it doesn't help us much."

"No?"

"It almost certainly didn't come from the serial killer."

"Oh," said Step. "Well I guess that's a relief."

"But how do you know that," said DeAnne, "since you don't know who the serial killer is?"

"We've got psychological profiles. Some guys, they try to tease the cops. Son of Sam, you know. Taunting us. They want to get caught. But then there's the Ted Bundy types. Smart. Cool. All they care about is not getting caught. Bundy never sent letters to the papers. Bundy never tipped his hand to anybody. I mean, he had a girlfriend that he was sleeping with during half the time he was going out killing those women, and she never had a clue. She knew he did some shoplifting and stuff, but had no clue about the killings. This serial killer-if there is one, cause it's not like we can prove it yet-he's like Bundy. He's smart, and he doesn't want to get caught. He's scared of getting caught, and he doesn't like being scared. He isn't in this for the thrill. He's in this for-something else."

"What?" asked Step.

"I'm not here to tell you about serial killers," said Douglas. "It'll ruin your sleep for a long while. It's sure as hell ruined mine. Begging your pardon for my language, ma'am."