"Sure, happy to."

"Okay, thanks. See you upstairs."

Alone in the basement room, Hannah gathered the lesson books and put them away in a cabinet, then straightened the chairs and picked up a pair of gloves somebody had dropped. Men's gloves, black leather, and very nice. She turned one in her hands, studying it, wondering if Joe would like a pair for his birthday the following month. He didn't usually wear gloves, but…

The wetness she felt on two of the fingers stained her own hand pink. Staring, Hannah felt a chill of unease. Just paint, probably, or… something like that.

A sound from the doorway spun her around with her heart in her throat.

"What have you got there?" he asked.

"No luck, huh?" Matt asked.

"No, sorry." This time Cassie and Ben were on the leather sofa while Bishop occupied one of the visitors' chairs in the sheriff's office. Cassie had just attempted once more to contact the killer's mind, without success.

Matt shrugged. "Worth a try."

"I'll try again later," Cassie said.

He nodded. "Well, like I told you two, we have a bit more on the killer – we think. He's collecting trophies. And maybe he killed Ivy Jameson out of spite. We've got a growing list of people Ivy pissed off in the weeks before she was killed, so it looks like the trick there is going to be narrowing the list to something manageable."

The music in Cassie's head was beginning to madden her, but she said, "Matt, remember what I told you yesterday, what Lucy Shaw said to me?"

"I remember. That somebody was the devil."

"What do you think about that?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Not much, I have to say. She's on the shady side of crazy, Cassie, and has been for more than ten years."

"What about her son?"

"What about him?"

"Is there – does he have any connection to any of the victims?" She rubbed her forehead irritably.

"Russell? Not that I know of."

Almost to herself she muttered, "He had a jacket on yesterday, so I didn't see his wrists… but the hands could have been right. I think."

Ben was watching her closely. "But you said you didn't see anything in Lucy's mind you could identify except kittens."

"No, I didn't. It's just a feeling." She returned his gaze, frowning. "I've missed something, I know I have. And there was something about meeting Lucy and her son that's really bothering me. Something I saw – or didn't see. Or just didn't understand."

Ben looked at the sheriff. "Who's their doctor, Matt, do you know?"

"Munro,Ithink.Why?"

"Will he be in church?"

Matt shook his head. "After doing that autopsy first thing this morning, I figure he'll be at his desk drinking straight scotch. What do you want me to ask him?"

"If Russell Shaw ever tried to commit suicide."

Matt pursed his lips, then reached for the phone.

Bishop, who had heard Lucy Shaw's story the previous day, said to Cassie, "Serial killers are rarely insane in any clinical sense, so it's highly unlikely he could have inherited a mental illness from his mother."

"That isn't what I'm thinking."

"What, then?"

"Ever since Ben told me about her, I've wondered what it was that triggered Lucy's illness. And after meeting her, I don't think she has Alzheimer's, or senility, or anything like that. I think something happened to her, some kind of shock that shattered her mind."

Ben said, "Such as discovering that she might have spawned a psychopath in the shape of her son?"

"Could be." Cassie rubbed her forehead again.

"The music again?"

"Yes, dammit."

"Music?" Bishop was still watching her. "You're hearing music in your mind?"

"Yes, but I haven't gone crazy, so don't get your hopes up."

Matt hung up the phone and said, "Doc's going to check his records. He made noises about confidentiality, but if he finds what we're looking for, he'll call back."

Bishop said to Cassie, "How long have you been hearing the music?"

"Off and on since yesterday morning."

"Since you woke up after the last contact with the killer's mind? After he caught you there?"

Cassie nodded slowly. "Yes. Since then."

Her head hurt. There was something over her head, her face, some dark material. For an instant the fear of smothering was uppermost in her mind, but then she realized that her wrists were bound behind her back. She was sitting on something cold and hard, and behind her was… She made her fingers explore hesitantly, and identified what felt like exposed pipe, cold and impossible to budge. Her wrists were bound together on the other side of the pipe, with a belt she thought. That wouldn't budge either, though she tried. And -

She heard the music first. Muffled by the bag over her head, the tinkling sound nevertheless identified it as coming from a music box. And it was playing… Swan Lake. Behind it, beyond it, was another sound, a muffled roaring sound that she knew she ought to be able to identify but couldn't.

That realization had barely registered in her mind, when she heard another sound, the faint scuffling of shoes against a rough floor, and she understood with a jolt of terror that she was not alone. He was there.

Instinctively, in total panic, she wrenched against the belt binding her wrists, succeeding in doing nothing except hurting herself. And drawing his attention.

"Oh, so you're awake, are you?"

"Please," she heard herself say shakily. "Please don't hurt me. Don't – "

The bag was jerked off her head, and she blinked in the sudden wash of light. At first all she saw were bare bulbs hanging down and, across the room, some hulking machinery with a small glass window that showed a fire inside.

Afire?

"I'm so glad you're awake." His voice was incongruously cheerful.

She looked up at him, focused on his face, and felt nothing but uncomprehending surprise. "You?"

"I just love the first moment of astonishment," he said, then bent down and slapped her across the face brutally with the flat of his big hand. "And the first moment of fear."

"Could the music be coming from him?" Bishop asked.

"He isn't psychic, not yet," Cassie objected, "so how could he be sending me anything?"

"Maybe he isn't sending it. Maybe he's put it in his mind – the way any person might recite a rhyme or count or calculate – in order to block out something. You. Maybe you've been touching his mind all along, and he's fighting to keep you out."

"Is that possible?" Ben asked her.

"I don't know. I suppose so. It might be a clever way to keep me out without expending much effort, distracting me with the music."

Matt said, "Does that mean you might be able to get through now?"

"I can try."

She did try, but knowledge that the killer could be using that endless tune to distract her was no help at all. "He has solid walls," she said, opening her eyes with a sigh. "And I don't understand that. There's no way he could have built them so quickly, not to protect himself from a recently perceived threat. And he didn't have them earlier, or I wouldn't have connected to him the way I did."

The phone rang then, and Matt answered it quickly. He said hello, then "yeah" a couple of times, his eyes narrowing. It was a short conversation, and when he hung up after a brief thanks, he was grim.

"What? "Ben demanded.

"Russell Shaw never tried to commit suicide as far as Doc Munro knows."

"But?" Ben asked, hearing the word in his friend's voice.

"But his son did. Mike Shaw apparently slit his wrists about twelve years ago, when he was only fourteen."

"His son?" Cassie echoed. "Lucy's grandson?"

"Yeah. The mother died in childbirth with Mike; Russell and Lucy raised him. He lived with them until about a year ago, then moved into one of those shacks out by the old mill about a mile from town."