Only at the last, when the man was upon him, and the knife buried in his body for the third and last time did he see the face of his killer closely. He knew the man. Not from personal contact, but from the covers of magazines. It was one of the sons of the house of Geary. There was no expression on his handsome features; he looked, in the two or three seconds that Niolopua saw him plainly, like a man in a trance: eyes glazed, mouth slightly open, face slack.

With a little grunt he pulled out the knife, and Niolopua fell forward onto the veranda, his outstretched hand a few inches shy of the door. The Geary didn't attempt to hurt him again; he had no need. He'd done his work. He simply waited on the steps, staring down at his victim. Niolopua had fallen face down, the blood that ran out of his mouth and nose soaking into the boards of the veranda. In the final seconds of his life he did not feel his spirit soaring up to some hurtless place, from which he could watch the scene below, but stayed there in his head, looking down at the grain of the wood on which he lay, as they soaked up the blood issuing from his nose and mouth. His body tried for breath one last, agonizing time, but it didn't have the strength. He shuddered, and made a little moan as the life went out of him; then he was gone.

Mitchell stood looking down at the body, mildly astonished at his own vehemence. He hadn't anticipated the flow of rage he'd feel when he had sight-or thought he had sight-of Galilee Barbarossa. He'd almost felt led by the hand which clasped the knife; but oh, the satisfaction he'd felt as the blade had sunk into the man's flesh; the sheer pleasure of the deed. Moments later, of course, he'd realized his error. But those few seconds when he thought he'd killed Galilee were so sweet, so blissful, that he was eager to have the bliss again, this time with the right man.

He went back down the stairs onto the lawn, and crouched down, running his knife into the earth to clean it. A minute ago it had been a cheap little kitchen knife, plucked off a shelf in a general store. But it was on its way to becoming something altogether extraordinary. Initiated now, it was ready for its legendary work. He stood up, and turned to face the house. It was completely quiet, but he had no doubt that the felons were inside; he'd heard his wife earlier, Rachel, sobbing like a whore.

Thinking of the sound she'd been making, he climbed the stairs, stepped over the body of whoever it was his knife had killed, and sliding the door aside, went into the house.

Galilee's period of lucidity hadn't lasted long. He'd come to the surface of his comatose state to say: we 're not alone, and then he'd sunk back into it again, his eyes flickering closed. But what he'd said had been enough to make Rachel feel uneasy. Who was here? And why hadn't he been distressed at the fact of some other presence in the house? Reluctantly, she slipped him out of her, and climbed off the bed. The moment she was no longer touching him she felt cold; the room seemed almost icy, in fact. She went down on her knees to dig through her bag for something warm to wear. Shivering violently, she pulled out a sweater and put it on. As she did so the door creaked, and she looked up to see a shadow of a shadow, nothing more, flit across the room. It was so subtle a sight she wasn't even certain she'd seen it; and when she studied the place where it,had gone, she could see nothing. She got to her feet, deeply unnerved now. She looked at the bed. Galilee lay inert, his body still aroused, his eyes closed.

She went to the table beside the bed-still keeping her gaze on the place where the shadow had come and gone, and switched on the lamp. The light was strong, but it illuminated the corners where the shape she'd seen had moved. The room was empty. Whatever she'd seen had either gone, or been a figment of her exhausted and over-stimulated senses. She went to the door, and opened it. The landing was dark, but there was enough light spilling from the bedroom to allow her to find her way to the top of the stairs. Despite the sweater, she was still cold. Maybe it was simply fatigue, she thought; she'd go and find Niolo-pua, tell him she needed to sleep, and then go and lie down beside Galilee. As for what he'd said; she would disregard it, there was nothing here.

As she formed the thought something brushed her shoulder, as though an invisible presence were passing her by, walking in the opposite direction. She turned, looking back down the landing to the open bedroom door. Again, nothing. Her body was simply so exhausted, it was playing tricks on her. She started down the stairs. There were no lights on below, but there was sufficient light from the moon to allow her to find the switch beside the kitchen door. As she did so she caught sight of a figure at the other end of the room, close to the front door. This time she didn't doubt her senses. This was no corner-of-the-eye illusion; it was a solid reality. While she watched he finished what he was doing-locking the front door-and then turned back and looked at her. She knew him, even in silhouette. Her heart began to slam against her ribs.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"What does it look like?" he said. "I'm locking the door."

"I don't want you here."

"You can't be too careful, baby. There's bad people out there."

"Mitchell. I want you to leave."

He dropped the front door key into his breast pocket, and then sauntered toward her. He was wearing a white shut beneath his jacket, and it was spattered with blood.

"What have you done?" she said.

He looked down at his shirt. "Oh this," he said, lightly. "It looks worse than it is." He glanced past her, up the stairs. "Is he up there?" She didn't answer. "Baby, I asked you a question. Is the nigger up there?' He'd stopped walking now; he was maybe three strides from the bottom of the stairs. "Did Tie try to hurt you, honey?"

"Mitchell…"

"Did he?"

"No. He didn't hurt me. He's never hurt me."

"Don't try and cover for him. I know how trash like that think. He gets his hands on someone like you, someone who doesn't know how they work, and he manipulates you. Gets in your head, tells you all kinds of lies. None of it's true, baby. None of it's true."

"Okay," she said calmly. "None of it's true."

"See? You knew. You knew." He tried on one of his smiles; one of those dazzlers he'd lavished on journalists and congressmen. It was designed to melt its recipient. But it simply looked grotesque; a death's-head smile. "That's what I told Loretta. I said: I can still save her, because she knows in her heart that she shouldn't be doing this. You know it's wrong. Don't you?" Rachel didn't reply, so he pressed the point. "Don'tyou?" he said.

She heard the rage, barely concealed, and decided it was best to nod along with what he was saying. His voice became softer. "You have to come home with me," he said. "This is a bad place, baby."

As he spoke his gaze flickered toward the stairs and a look of puzzlement crossed his face.

"All the things that have gone on here…" he said, his tone a little distracted now as he watched the stairs "… things he did… to innocent women…"

He slowly moved his hand to the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a knife. Its blade had dirt on it.

"It's got to be stopped…" he said.

His eyes came back in her direction. She saw the same lunacy she'd glimpsed when he'd come to the apartment and taken the journal; but it was no longer a hint; it was dear as day.

"Don't be afraid, baby," he said. "I know what I'm doing."

She dared a glance toward the stairs, afraid that Galilee had crawled out of bed and was there on the landing. But there was nobody. Just the dim light thrown from the bedroom. It was flickering a little, as though something was moving up there at the top of the stairs; its presence negligible, but its motion strong enough to make the light pulse. She was not entirely sure that Mitchell saw it. Nor did she want to ask him. She didn't want to unseat what was left of his delicate equilibrium. If he went upstairs now, he'd find a completely vulnerable victim. And to judge by the state of the knife, and the blood on his shirt, he'd already done some violence.