Denton lay awake next to Linda, listening to drops of icy rain clicking against the bedroom window. The alarm clock's digital display read 4:22.

The missing girl plagued his thoughts. He was no closer to finding her or the mysterious Mr. 8. Ever since the day at the train bridge, it had been a frustrating waiting game, made all the worse by how tantalizing a lead Baye Feed and Supply seemed at the time.

After leaving the Food Fair, he went back to the car and reviewed his notes. He was determined to find out why Baye had seemed so familiar. Skimming the first page with his observations on the case, he came across it: the victim, Meyers, had driven a delivery truck for them. Although extremely tenuous, there might be a connection between the second and third victims.

He went straight there, but the trip did little more than confirm that they sold spray-paint, and Reynolds had been in there.

As Denton walked through the aisles, he managed to talk to a couple of clerks and an assistant manager. When he asked them about Meyers, they were all very sorry and still in shock that Gary had been murdered. None of them could think of anyone who would have wanted to harm him. They hadn't noticed any change in their delivery man prior to his death, but they didn't know him very well to begin with. Gary Meyers was usually on his route and very rarely at the store.

Only one of the clerks remembered Ray.

The older clerk adjusted some mason jars on a shelf, making sure they were perfectly in line. "Yeah, there was a bum who came in here a few times. About a month ago, I guess. Although, I thought his name was Callahan."

"Do you know what he bought?"

"No idea. Why're you asking? Is he causing problems in the stores around here?"

"No, he's not in town anymore," Denton said.

He returned home that night, dejected. He felt as if he were chasing ghosts.

His mood sank even deeper when Margery Biscamp appeared on the local news.

He first heard her name as they flashed a picture of her on the screen. It was a high school graduation photo of a smiling girl, with curly chestnut hair flowing out from under her white mortarboard. Linda was half watching the small set on the counter, as she made dinner. Denton glanced up from the emails on his phone at the mention of the "missing woman."

"Police are asking anyone with information on the whereabouts of Margery Biscamp to contact the Bexhill Crime Stoppers Hotline. She was last seen Friday afternoon on Milton campus near the Royal Street entrance." The news anchor announced this without any trace of emotion before he cheerfully launched into some banter with the sport's reporter about the Bruin's upcoming game against L.A.

If Linda had been paying attention, she showed no sign, as she dumped a box of pasta in boiling water with one hand and stirred the sauce with her other.

On Tuesday morning, there had been an article about Margery Biscamp in the Bexhill Gazette. Denton learned a few more details from it. Everyone knew her as Maggie. She was originally from Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. And her distraught parents had driven to town to be there for the search.

Her father was quoted, pleading to whoever had taken her, to return his baby girl to him. Her mother said that they were praying for her safety.

Since then, Denton had kept a lookout for updates. He scanned the websites of all of the local papers and TV stations obsessively, waiting for something new to come up about Maggie Biscamp.

None of the reports mentioned a van. He could only surmise that the police had been unable to get a description and it was no longer being pursued as a lead. Or perhaps they were keeping it out of the news, so the kidnapper wouldn't know that they had that information.

He tried to talk to Bill—he had so much he needed to discuss with him—but his neighbor had started keeping erratic hours and was never home in the evenings. When he called the station, he was always told that Bill was not in the office. The dispatcher offered to transfer him to his voice-mail, but after leaving four messages, Denton gave up.

The rain continued its drumming against the window. Denton turned over to his other side and flipped his pillow. He could just make out Linda's outline in the dark bedroom and could hear her breathing softly. At least she was still untroubled by these horrific events. He vowed he would keep it that way. But it was getting harder. Everyone in town now knew about the missing girl. How much longer before the talk of a serial killer would get out?

He tried to force himself to think of something else—anything else. He started walking his thoughts through the weekend getaway in June, when he and Linda drove to the coast.

He got as far as their first night at the bed-and-breakfast. It was a soothing memory, but his mind soon wandered, and then it was a different summer night—one from two years ago. He was sitting out on the Stahl's back deck with Bill after dinner. Linda and Helen had gone in to escape the mosquitos and to have dessert. The men stayed outside drinking a rare single-malt Denton had brought over. Bill smoked a cigar. It was an expensive hand rolled Dominican, and it was cartoonishly large. Denton had refused the offer of one.

"Let me ask you something," Bill said, after they had been alone for several minutes. "That stuff you do...could you profile a criminal using it?"

"Sure. I mean, in theory that would be one way to use the techniques." Denton was a little hesitant. It was always the problem with his particular field of study: what really was the practical application of psychoanalyzing a person by their possessions? As more than one critic had pointed out, there was no therapeutic advantage to the approach. It was far more beneficial to analyze the patient in person. He had often resorted to defending his theories in peer journals by pointing to cases where direct interaction was not possible.

"Several of my doctoral students have studied the application of my methods to criminology." At least two of them had, anyway. "Another potential use would be if you had a patient with extreme trauma, who is unable or unwilling to speak to their doctor. An analysis of the person's home could then be used to give insight into their mental state prior to the traumatic event."

This was his most often used defense: the hypothetical case of a man catatonic in a hospital bed, after suffering extreme psychological stress. But it was all theoretical. He had never actually used his methodology outside of an academic setting, and his critics never failed to pounce on that fact.

"No, I mean, could you profile a criminal?" Bill pointed at him with the stogie.

"Me? What do you have in mind?"

"Strange case." Bill took a good draw off of his cigar. "Someone's been going around mutilating cows. Not normally a big police matter. But it's got the dairy farmers up in arms. And some of them have pull with the mayor."

Bill rested the cigar in the ashtray and set his drink down. He leaned forward and in a quieter voice said, "Anyway, two of the farms hit are within city limits, so I'm involved. The perp acts at night. No witnesses. Kills the cows and takes parts—organs—away as trophies or something. This morning, we got a call from State Police. Rangers up on Mt. Nazareth found a shack filled with what looks like our missing cow parts. And there was also..." He stroked his chin with his thumb nail and paused as though he were searching for the right words. What he finally said was uncomfortably vague. "Other things."

Bill leaned back and finished his scotch in one gulp. "State Forensics has been called to come in and look for fingerprints and DNA, but livestock isn't high on their priority list. They might get to it by midweek, and then it'll be weeks before we get any results back. In the meantime, this nut-job is still out there, and I'm taking heat from my lieutenant."

He picked up his cigar and blew on the end to reignite the dying ember.

"When Forensics does finally show up, they'll bag everything and stick it in an evidence locker. Right now it's all just sitting there, just as the perp left it. I was wondering if you might take a look at it for us. See if you can come up with some insight, other than the fact he's one sick son-of-a-bitch, that is."

"Um, I can't promise anything, but I'll take a look."

Even now, years later, he couldn't fully understand why he'd agreed to it. Was it because it was a chance to finally prove his theory in real world conditions? Was it because it sounded exciting? Or was it because he was afraid to seem weak and inadequate in front of his friend?

The next morning, they parked at the Ranger's Station and got in a State Police 4X4 and drove up to the shack with a trooper.

The shack had been built from scraps of wood. It was a chaotic assembly of junk heap odds and ends. There was a door laying horizontal, forming the base of one of the walls. Denton spotted an old-fashioned washboard fitting in like a puzzle piece higher up. The thing looked like a clubhouse built by children.

"You'll want something to cover your mouth. The smell inside is pretty rank," the state trooper said.

Out in the open air, the odor was unbelievably horrible; he couldn't imagine how it could be worse inside. Denton wondered whether he had made a big mistake.

The trooper unlocked a padlock and held aside the police tape for him.

He proceeded alone. Bill stayed by the road leaning against the SUV. He called after him, "Just remember, look with your eyes not your hands."

He took a deep breath and shielded his mouth and nose with a handkerchief clenched tightly in his fist, before opening the door.

It seemed somehow larger on the inside. It was dark. The only light came from the open doorway behind him and the little bit that managed to seep in through the cracks. He struggled to take in the details as his senses were assaulted. Even with his nose covered, the smell was overpowering. The heat was unbelievable; the dismembered cow organs were literally baking in the July weather. The drone of flies seemed louder than they had any right to be. The combined effect made his brain sluggish and he was slow to comprehend the things he saw.

He lasted about a minute in there, before he ran out, the breakfast he'd eaten earlier rising in his throat.

Staring at the bedroom ceiling, he remembered the humiliation he had felt in that moment. Even though it was hardly his fault. Most people would have been sick with the heat and the smell of rotting flesh.

Directly in front of the door was an altar. The centerpiece was a large, crude carving of a bull's head. Several of the organs had been nailed to it. Each eye was bulbous and meaty, crawling with dozens of flies.

More organs lay on the floor. Some might have been placed there. Others had fallen, after rotting off of their hooks. There was a long length of intestine hanging from a ceiling beam.

As he thought about it, the intestines seemed to writhe and twist in his mind, until they formed a figure eight. The body parts—there were exactly eight of them—seemed to form two neat circles on the floor. The walls were covered in eights scrawled in blood.

At six thirty, the alarm rang, waking him up.