thread of something that must be hope. It would be gone by the morning, but he welcomed its temporary respite. He felt it because he believed he knew what had been said between the lines, that what the policeman had said was less important than what he had not.
The female investigator had shown identification, but the man had never been named. With the dedication of someone who believed in the magic of articulation, that naming and containing events in words could subdue them, Michael Becker had read as much as he could concerning the previous crimes of the man who had taken his daughter. He had been on the Internet, and found copies of the news pieces, even sought out a copy of the supermarket hackbook on unsolved crimes. He had done this at the expense of, among other things, his work. He hadn’t touched Dark Shift since the night of the disappearance. He privately thought it was unlikely he ever would, though his partner was as yet unaware of this, and kept frantically rescheduling the meeting with the studio. Wang had money, and his contacts appeared inexhaustible. He was plugged into the city in a way Michael could never hope to be. He’d survive.
Through his research Michael had learned, or been reminded, that in addition to the LeBlanc girl and Josie Ferris and Annette Mattison, another young woman had disappeared at around the same time. This girl had been the daughter of a policeman who had been involved in the apprehension of two previous serial killers. There had been speculation, of a quiet kind, that she had been targeted as a taunt, a punishment for her father’s successes. He had become involved in the investigation of her disappearance, against the advice of the FBI, and at least one newspaper had implied that he was believed to be making concrete progress where they were manifestly failing. Then he had simply dropped out of sight. The policeman’s name had been John Zandt. The Delivery Boy, as Michael Becker had reason to know, had not been apprehended. A retrospective published a year after the disappearances had reported that a Mrs Jennifer Zandt had returned to Florida to be close to her family. The journalist had been unable to discover what had happened to the detective.
Michael thought that tonight, whatever was on television, he and his wife should talk. He would tell her what he believed concerning the man who had come to see them, and he would suggest that when the other policemen and women came to visit, the well-meaning people with whom they now shared a horrible familiarity, they should not mention this evening’s visit.
And something else. Though his faith in words had been deeply shaken, he clung to the belief that words and names were to reality what pillars and architecture were to space. They humanized it. Just as DNA took the random chemicals and turned them into something recognizable, language could take inexplicable phenomena and tame them into situations about which something could be said, and thus about which something could be done.
He would no longer think of The Delivery Boy. He would call him The Upright Man. But in the meantime he would assume the worst. The policeman was right. More than that, Michael Becker realized that it was what Sarah would want.
Nokkon Wud be damned. If the fates demanded this level of tribute, then they could go fuck themselves.
They were sitting outside the Smorgas Board, a combination café and surfer hangout about eight yards down the street from where the Becker girl had been abducted. They had been for an hour, and the place was near to closing. The only other customers were a young couple hunkered around a table a couple of yards away, listlessly sipping something out of big cups.
‘Are you thinking, or just watching?’
Zandt didn’t respond immediately. He sat beside Nina, observing the street. He had barely moved. His coffee was cold. He had only smoked one cigarette, and most of that had burned away unnoticed. His attention was focused entirely elsewhere. Nina was reminded of a hunter, though not necessarily a human one. An animal that was prepared and able to sit, to wait, for as long as it took, without boredom, rage or pain to distract it.
‘They don’t all come back,’ she said, irritably.
‘I know,’ he said, immediately. ‘I’m not watching.’
‘Bullshit.’ She laughed. ‘It’s either that or you’ve had a seizure.’
He surprised her by smiling. ‘I’m thinking.’
She folded her arms. ‘Care to share?’
‘I’m thinking what a waste of time this is, and wondering why you brought me here.’
Nina realized it hadn’t really been a smile. ‘Because I thought you might be able to help,’ she said. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘John, what is this? You know why. Because you helped me before. Because I value your advice.’
He smiled again, and this time she actually shivered.
‘What did I achieve last time?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Tell me. What happened?’
‘You know what happened.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘All I know is that you told me that you were getting somewhere. And you started getting secretive and not telling me anything, despite the fact that up until then you’d relied upon me to feed you stuff out of the Bureau. Stuff you wouldn’t have gotten otherwise because you’d been specifically barred from taking part in the investigation by your own department. I did you a favour and you cut me out.’
‘You did me no favours,’ Zandt said. ‘You did what you thought would do you the most good.’
‘Oh, fuck you, John,’ she snapped. The two slackers at the far table jerked upright, like puppets whose master had suddenly woken up. Heavy vibes.
She lowered her voice and spoke fast. ‘If that’s what you really think of me, then why don’t you just walk away, go back to fucking Vermont. It’s going to snow hard there real soon. You could just bury yourself in it.’
‘You’re telling me that you helped me out of consideration for my family?’
‘Yes, of course. What the hell else?’
‘Despite the fact you’d helped me be unfaithful to my wife.’
‘That’s pathetic. Don’t blame me for what your dick did.’
She glared at him. Zandt stared back. There was silence for a moment, and then she abruptly let her eyes drop.
He laughed, briefly. ‘That supposed to make me think I’m in control?’
‘What?’ She silently cursed herself.
‘Looking away. Kind of an animal kingdom thing. Male ego massaged by a sign of submission. Now I’m back to being king of the hill, I’ll do what you want again?’
‘You’ve gotten really paranoid, John,’ she said, though of course he’d been right. She realized she spent too much of her time with fools. ‘I just don’t want to argue with you.’
‘What do you think the deal with the hair is?’ he said.
She frowned, thrown by the sudden switch. ‘What hair?’
‘The Upright Man. Why cut the hair off?’
‘Well, for the sweaters. So he could embroider the names.’
Zandt shook his head, lit a cigarette. ‘You don’t need
