"I'm not a high-wire artist," he reminded me.

"No, sir."

"You expect me to walk a dangerously narrow line sometimes."

"I have great respect for your balance, sir."

"Son, that sounds perilously like bullshit."

"There's some bullshit in it, sir, but it's mostly sincerity"

Telling him what I found in the house, I omitted any mention of the black room and the traveling swarm. Even a man as sympathetic and open-minded as Wyatt Porter will become a skeptic if you force too much exotic detail upon him.

When I finished my story, the chief said, "What's got your attention, son?"

"Sir?"

"You keep looking over toward the pool."

"It's Elvis," I explained. "He's behaving strangely."

"Elvis Presley is here? Now? At my house?"

"He's walking on the water, back and forth, and gesticulating."

"Gesticulating?"

"Not rudely, sir, and not at us. He looks like he's arguing with himself. Sometimes I worry about him."

Karla Wyatt reappeared, this time with their first two dinner guests in tow.

Bern Eckles, in his late twenties, was a recent addition to the Pico Mundo Police Department. He had been on the force just two months.

Lysette Rains, who specialized in false fingernails, was the assistant manager at the thriving beauty shop that Karla owned on Olive Street, around the corner and two blocks from where I worked at the Grille.

These two had not arrived as a couple, but I could see that the chief and Karla were engaged in some matchmaking.

Because he didn't know-and never would-about my sixth sense, Officer Eckles couldn't figure out what to make of me, and he had not yet decided whether he liked me. He couldn't understand why the chief always made time for me even on the busiest of days.

After the new arrivals had been served drinks, the chief asked Eckles to come to his study for a few minutes. "I'll get on the computer to the DMV while you make some phone calls for me. We need to work up a quick profile on this odd duck from Camp's End."

On his way into the house with the chief, Bern Eckles twice looked over his shoulder at me, frowning. Maybe he thought that in his absence I would try to make time with Lysette Rains.

When Karla returned to the kitchen, where she was working on the dessert, Lysette sat in the chair that the chief had occupied. With both hands, she held a glass of Coke spiked with orange vodka, from which she took tiny sips, licking her lips after each.

"How does that taste?" I wondered.

"Sort of like cleaning fluid with sugar. But sometimes I have a low energy level, and the caffeine helps."

She was wearing yellow shorts and a frilly yellow blouse. She looked like a lemon cupcake with fancy icing.

"How's your mother these days, Odd?"

"Still colorful."

"I would expect so. And your dad?"

"He's about to get rich quick."

"What with this time?"

"Selling real estate on the moon."

"How does that work?"

"You pay fifteen bucks, you get a deed to one square foot of the moon."

"Your father doesn't own the moon," Lysette said with the faintest note of disapproval.

She is a sweet person and reluctant to give offense even at evidence of flagrant fraud.

"No, he doesn't," I agreed. "But he realized that nobody else owned it, either, so he sent a letter to the United Nations, staking claim to it. The next day he started peddling moon property. I hear you've been made assistant manager of the shop."

"It's quite a responsibility. Especially 'cause I've also moved up in my specialty."

"You're not doing fingernails anymore?"

"Yes, I am. But I was just a nail technician, and now I'm a certified nail artist."

"Congratulations. That's really something."

Her shy smile of pride made me love her. "It's not so much to some people, but it's a thrill to me."

Elvis returned from the swimming pool and sat in a lawn chair opposite us. He was weeping again. Through his tears, he smiled at Lysette-or at her cleavage. Even in death he likes the ladies.

"Are you and Bronwen still an item?" Lysette asked.

"Forever. We have matching birthmarks."

"I'd forgotten about that."

"She prefers to be called Stormy."

"Who wouldn't?" Lysette said.

"How about you and Officer Eckles?"

"Oh, we just met. He seems nice."

"'Nice.'" I winced. "The poor guy's already struck out with you, hasn't he?"

"Two years ago, he would've, yeah. But lately, I'm thinking nice would be enough. You know?"

"There's a lot worse than nice out there."

"For sure," she agreed. "It takes a while to realize what a lonely world it is, and when you do… then the future looks kinda scary."

Already in a delicate emotional condition, Elvis was wrecked by Lysette's observation. The rillets of tears on his checks became twin floods, and he buried his face in his hands.

Lysette and I chatted for a while, and Elvis sobbed without making a sound, and eventually four more guests showed up.

Karla was circulating with a tray of cheese dumplings that gave new weight to the word hors d'oeuvre, when the chief returned with Officer Eckles. He drew me aside and walked with me to the far end of the pool, so we could talk in private.

He said, "Robertson moved into town five months ago. Paid in full for that house in Camp's End, no mortgage."

"Where's he get his money?"

"Inherited. Bonnie Chan says he moved here from San Diego after his mother's death. He was still living with his mother at thirty-four."

Bonnie Chan, a Realtor famous in Pico Mundo for her flamboyant hats, had evidently sold the residence to Robertson.

'As far as I can see at this point," the chief said, "he's got a clean record. He's never even had a speeding ticket."

"You might look into how the mother died."

"I've already put out some inquiries about that. But right now I don't have any handle to pick him up."

"All those files on all those killers."

"Even if I had a legitimate way of knowing he keeps them, it's just a sick hobby or maybe book research. There's nothing illegal about it."

"Suspicious, though."

He shrugged. "If being suspicious was enough, we'd all be in jail. You first."

"But you're gonna keep a watch on him?" I asked.

"Only because you've never been wrong. I'll park somebody over there this evening, pin a tail on this Mr. Robertson."

"I wish you could do more," I said,

"Son, this is the United States of America. Some would say it's unconstitutional to try to prevent psychopaths from fulfilling their potential."

Sometimes the chief can amuse me with that kind of cynical-cop patter. This wasn't one of those occasions.

I said, "This one's really bad, sir. This guy, when I picture his face in my mind… I get spiders down the spine."

"We're watching him, son. Can't do more than that. Can't just go to Camp's End and shoot him." The chief gave me a peculiar look and added, "Neither can you."

"Guns scare me," I assured him.

The chief looked over toward the swimming pool and said, "He still walking the water?"

"No, sir. He's standing next to Lysette, looking down her blouse and crying."

"That's nothing to cry about," the chief said, and winked.

"The crying has nothing to do with Lysette. He's just in a mood today."

"What about? Elvis never struck me as weepy."

"People change when they die. It's traumatic. He's like this from time to time, but I don't know for sure what the trouble is. He doesn't try to explain himself to me."

Clearly, the chief was dismayed by the image of Presley weeping. "Is there anything I can do for him?"

"That's thoughtful of you, sir, but I don't see what anyone can really do. From what I've observed on other occasions, my sense of it is… he misses his mother, Gladys, and wants to be with her."