"Ginia West," Mrs. Brazil repeated as she finally noticed two of her sons coming toward her. He took the phone out of her hand.

West's intention had been merely to confess to Brazil that his story was rather wonderful and she appreciated it, and didn't deserve it.

She had not expected this impaired woman to answer, and now West knew it all. She didn't tell Brazil a thing other than that she was on her way. This was an order. West had dealt with all types in her years of police work, and was undaunted by Mrs. Brazil, no matter how vile, how hateful and hostile the woman was when her son and West put her in bed and made her drink a lot of water. Mrs. Brazil passed out about five minutes after West helped her into the bathroom to pee.

West and Brazil went for a walk in darkness broken by an occasional lighted window from old southern homes along Main Street. Rain was gentle like mist. He had nothing to say as they drew closer to the Davidson campus, which was quiet this time of year, even when various camps were in session. A security guard in his Cushman watched the couple pass, pleased that Andy Brazil might finally have a girlfriend.

She was a lot older than him, but still worth looking at, and if any one needed a mother figure, that boy did.

The guard's name was Clyde Briddlewood, and he had headed the modest Davidson College security force since days when the only problem in the world was pranks and drunkenness. Then the school had let women in. It was a bad idea, and he had told everyone he could. Briddlewood had done his best to warn the preoccupied professors as they were hurrying to class, and he had alerted Sam Spencer, the president back then. No one listened. Now Briddlewood had a security force of eight people and three Cushmans. They had radios, guns, and drank coffee with local cops.

Briddlewood dipped Copenhagen snuff, spitting in a Styrofoam cup as Brazil and his girlfriend followed the brick walk toward the Presbyterian church. Briddlewood had always liked that boy and was sorry as heck he had to grow up. He remembered Brazil as a kid, always in a hurry somewhere with his Western Auto tennis racket and plastic bag of bald, dead tennis balls that he'd fished out of the trash or begged off the tennis, coach. Brazil used to share his chewing gum and candy with Briddlewood, and this touched the security guard right down to his boots. The boy didn't have much and lived with a bad situation. True, Muriel Brazil wasn't hitting the sauce back then as bad as she did now, but her son had a lousy deal and everyone at Davidson knew it.

What Brazil didn't know was that a number of people who lived in the college community had plotted behind the scenes for years, and had raised money from wealthy alumni, even dipping into their own wallets to make certain that when Brazil was college age, he was offered an opportunity to rise above his situation. Briddlewood, himself, had put a few bucks in the pot, when he didn't have much to spare, and lived in a small house far enough away from Lake Norman that he couldn't see the water but could at least watch the endless parade of trucks hauling boats along his dirt road. He spat again, silently rolling the Cushman closer to the church, keeping his eye on the couple, to make sure they were safe out here in the dark.

"What am I going to do with you?" West was saying to Brazil.

He had his pride and was in a humorless mood.

"For the record, I don't need you to do a thing for me."

"Yeah you do. You got serious problems."

"And you don't," he said.

"All you got in your life is an eccentric cat."

This surprised West. What else had he dug up about her?

"How'd you know about Niles?" she wanted to know.

West was aware they were being stalked by some security guard in a Cushman. He was hanging back in shadows, certain West and Brazil couldn't see him creeping in the cover of boxwoods and magnolia trees. West couldn't imagine how boring that job must be.

"I have a lot in my life," she added.

"What a fantasy," Brazil said.

"You know what? You're a total waste of my time." She meant it.

They walked on, moving away from the campus and cutting through narrow roads where faculty lived in restored homes with cherished lawns and old trees. Brazil used to wander these lanes as a boy, fantasizing about people inside expensive homes, imagining important professors and their nice husbands and wives. Light filled their windows and seemed so warm back then, and sometimes draperies were open and he could see people moving inside, walking across the living room with a drink, sitting in a chair reading, or at a desk working

Brazil's loneliness was buried out of reach and unnamed. He did not know what to call the hollow hurt that started somewhere in his chest and pressed against his heart like two cold hands. He never cried when the hands pressed, but would tremble violently like a distressed flame when he thought he might lose his tennis match or when he didn't get an A. Brazil could not watch sad movies, and now and then beauty overwhelmed him, especially live music played by symphonies and string quartets.

West could feel rage building in Brazil as they walked. The mounting silence became oppressive as they passed lighted homes and dark thick trees armored in ivy and kudzu. She did not understand him and was beginning to suspect she'd made a big mistake thinking she could. So what if she'd worked hostage negotiation, homicides, and was experienced in talking people out of killing themselves or someone else? This didn't mean she was even remotely capable of helping a strange guy like Andy Brazil. In fact, she didn't have time.

"I want this killer," Brazil started in, talking louder than was necessary or wise.

"Okay? I want him caught."

He was obsessed, as if what this killer was doing was personal. West had no intention of getting into his space on this. They walked on.

Brazil suddenly kicked a rock with a fancy black and purple Nike leather tennis shoe that looked like something Agassi would endorse.

"What he does." Brazil kicked more rocks.

"What do you think it must be like?" His voice got louder.

"Driving somewhere in a strange city, tired, away from home, a lot on your mind. Getting lost, stopping to ask directions." Another rock skittered across blacktop.

"Next thing, you're being led to some Godforsaken place, behind an abandoned building. A warehouse. A vacant lot."

West stopped walking. She was staring at him as he furiously stomped ahead, wheeled around.

"Hard cold steel against your head as you beg not to die!" he yelled as if the crime had happened to him.

"As he blows your brains out anyway!"

West was frozen as she watched something she had never seen before this moment. Porch lights of nearby houses flipped on.

"He pulls your pants down and spray-paints this symbol! How would you like to die that wayf More lights came on. Dogs barked. West went into her police mode without a conscious thought. She walked over to Brazil and firmly took his arm.

"Andy, you're disturbing the entire neighborhood." She spoke with quiet calm.

"Let's go home."

Brazil stared defiantly at her.

"I want to make a difference."

She nervously scanned their surroundings.

"Believe me. You are."

More lights turned on, and someone had come out on his porch to see what crazy person had wandered into his quiet neighborhood.

Briddlewood had fled in his Cushman minutes earlier.

"Which is why we need to go," West added, pulling Brazil along as they started walking back.

"You want to help. Okay. Tell me what you have to contribute besides tantrums and words."

"Maybe we could plant something in one of my stories to trick him." He had an idea.

"I wish it were that simple," she said, and she meant it.

"And you're assuming he reads the paper."

"I bet he does." Brazil wished she would have an open mind, as he flew through possibilities of what subliminal propaganda he might plant to ensnare this monster.

"The answer's no. We don't plant stories."

Brazil hopped ahead again, excited.

"Together we could get him! I know it."

"What's this together stuff?" West said.

"You're just a reporter. Hate to remind you of that fact."

"I'm a volunteer cop," he corrected her.

"Uh huh. The gun less wonder."

"You could give me shooting lessons," he then said.

"My dad used to take me out to a dump in the county…"

"He should have left you there," she said.

"We'd shoot cans with his.38."

"How old were you?" West asked when they were in Brazil's driveway.

"Starting when I was seven, I think." He had his hands in his pockets, and was looking down as he walked, a streetlight lighting up his hair.

"Seems like I was in the second grade."

"I mean, when he died," she gently said.

"Ten," he said.

"I had just turned ten." He stopped, and did not want West to leave. He didn't want to go in and face the way he lived.

"I don't have a gun," he told her.

"Thank you, Jesus," she said.