monasteries that held them have crumbled away into ruins, and they were made of stone. But the books are with us still.”
“And looking at this note,” Velez Caputo prompted.
“Some illuminated manuscripts survived appalling treatment. In Ireland, they were dipped in cattle troughs because it was thought that their magic would protect livestock.” Dr. Cowan permitted herself a well-bred snicker, and Caputo used it as a shoehorn.
“Dr. Cowan,” she said in a tone that would have haltered an avalanche in midslope.
Dr. Cowan had her mouth open to say something, but she took a little bite out of the air instead. “Sorry?” she said.
“The note from the Incinerator,” Velez Caputo said briskly. “The one that will be on the screen as soon as the technical staff gets on the ball.” It appeared. “We’ll confine our discussion to that note,” she said, glancing at Schultz but meaning the words for Dr. Cowan. “Now, in what ways does this note- this note, Dr. Cowan- resemble an illuminated manuscript?”
“Well,” Dr. Cowan said, her mouth a straight line, “it’s written in gold, of course. One of those cheap metallic pens from Japan. An authentic illuminated manuscript, you understand-”
“Please,” Velez Caputo said. “It would have been written in real gold. We understand that.”
“Not pure gold, of course,” Dr. Cowan began.
“Ink with gold in it then,” Velez Caputo almost snapped. Schultz was beginning to enjoy himself. I, on the other hand, was feeling distinctly odd. I was hearing echoes.
Dr. Cowan had her mouth zipped tight. “What was the question?” she said, after a moment. Schultz grinned uncharitably. Norman was wilting.
“Other points of resemblance,” Velez Caputo said. “Looking at this note and this note only, Doctor.”
“The drawing at the bottom,” Dr. Cowan said, giving Caputo’s attitude back to her, with change. “It resembles a miniature, a painting on an illuminated manuscript. They’re not called miniatures because they’re small-
“Minium,” I said out loud. I felt as though I were saying it with someone else’s voice. Something that might have been a worm seemed to be crawling up my spine.
Velez Caputo shot me a glance, but Dr. Cowan rolled on.
“-but because they’re painted with a lead-based paint called minium. That’s one reason they lasted so-’
“What do you know about minium, Mr. Grist?” Velez Caputo asked me. I shook my head. The worm, or the tremor, or whatever it was, had just about reached my shoulder blades.
“The big initial at the very beginning,” Velez Caputo said, giving up on me and turning back to Dr. Cowan.
“It’s an historiated initial,” Dr. Cowan said tightly, and the little worm reached the back of my neck and set off a small firework inside my skull, and just for a moment I saw a face, a very young face, and then it broke and shivered apart like a reflection in water that’s been disturbed.
“… They have scenes painted in them,” Dr. Cowan said. Schultz was staring at me as though I’d popped out in spots. “Or around them, like this one,” she added, apparently unable to stop talking.
“So what does this tell us about the man who wrote this note?” Caputo asked, happy to be back on track.
My ears were humming, but I gathered that it meant that the Incinerator had some training in art history.
“We already knew that,” Schultz said, a bucket of cold water in Seat Number Two. He was looking at me, but I barely saw him. I was wondering whether I’d kept any of my notes. My God, it had been thirteen or fourteen years.
“… After this message,” Velez Caputo said. The studio went dark.
“I must say,” Dr. Cowan began angrily.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Velez Caputo said, dismissing her. The powder-puff brigade reassembled and began its repair work. Norman and a helper ushered Dr. Cowan off the set. She sounded a lot like Hermione.
“God damn it,” Schultz said to Velez Caputo, “where did you get that note?”
“Sources,” Caputo said airily.
“Simeon,” Schultz turned to me. “I promise you…”
“I know,” I said. “Skip it.” I was trying to reassemble the face I’d glimpsed.
“You’re next, Mr. Grist,” Caputo said as the tic started to count down from fifteen. I must have looked vague, because she said, “Mr. Grist?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
The lights snapped back on.
“Well,” Velez Caputo said, “this has been interesting. New information about the nation’s most dangerous serial killer.” Stang made a scornful sound. “And the man who probably has most to fear from this monster is here in the studio. Mr. Grist,” she said as the monitors reflected a two-shot, “let’s assume that the Incinerator is watching. Have you got anything to say to him?”
“I do,” I said, through the buzzing in my mind. The camera was now on me, as we’d been promised it would be.
“And what is it?” Velez Caputo said, checking her lipstick in a mirror held by one of the makeup girls.
“As you know, I got your letter,” I said to the camera. It was very hard to keep my eyes on the camera, as opposed to looking around the room for someone-Eleanor, or even Hammond-to whom I could speak directly. I’d been told, though, that skipping past the camera would look shifty and untrustworthy, so I forced myself to stay locked on the lens that had the red light beneath it, feeling like someone practicing a speech to an ashtray. “We all know what it said. It said I made you break the rules. It said, basically, that I’d betrayed you.” I took a deep breath and tried to keep my eyes on the camera lens.
“Well, I did. I betrayed you. I was frightened, and I didn’t remember you, and I betrayed you. But, and I ask you to believe me, I told the police to keep their distance. They didn’t.” Behind the cameras, I saw Hammond bristle. Too bad.
“I had a friend on the force,” I said, deviating from the script. “I trusted him to keep the cops under control. He couldn’t, but that wasn’t his fault. It was my fault for having involved him, and the LAPD, in the first place. So here’s what I’m saying.”
I looked over toward Schultz, and he nodded encouragingly.
“I’m saying no more cops,” I said between dry lips. “I’m saying that I’ve stopped working for Annabelle Winston. I’m saying that I’m hanging out there solo, and if you want to write me a letter, or talk to me, or burn me alive, there won’t be any cops around. Check out my street, if you’ve got the nerve.” The challenge had been Schultz’s idea, and I hadn’t been sure I’d use it until that moment. “Or else, wait a week and follow me. You’ll see. I’ll be clean.” I couldn’t look at the camera any longer, and I lowered my head.
“Are you finished?” Velez Caputo said.
“No,” I said. I encountered the camera’s gaze again and drew breath to steady my voice. “When you’re certain, come to me. Or make me come to you. But as long as I’m straight with you, no more women.”
“A courageous pronouncement,” Velez Caputo said, pleased to have it behind her at last. “I’m sure we all sympathize with Mr. Grist.” She beamed to demonstrate her sympathy. “But tell me, if you will,” she said, and the camera once again switched to a two-shot. “This man is after you. Tall, dressed in black rubber, a cheap fright wig on his head, and a bottle of gasoline in his hand. Tell us, Mr. Grist, aren’t you afraid?”
“Miss Caputo.”
“Velez,” she breathed invitingly.
“Velez,” I said to the whole nation on live television, “that’s a fucking stupid question.”
13
