Reflexively, Linda crossed her arms.  Her wide stance blocked the entire doorway, in spite of her slight figure. Her eyebrows scrunched together, in a way Denton had seen many times before.

He looked back down to finish untying his boots with his numb fingers, waiting for her to say what was on her mind.

"What do you mean they just let them go?" It was a demand more than a question.

"Bill said they didn't have enough evidence." Denton continued to fumble with laces.

The snow he had tracked in was already beginning to melt into the carpet, around him. At first, the small, hot vestibule was welcoming after being out in the cold, but now he was feeling uncomfortably humid under his coat. Linda had waylaid him the second he was through the door, wanting to know what he'd learned.

"What else did he say?"

There was little question she was upset with the turn of events. It came out as irritation bordering on anger, but also a small hint of the child she once was snuck into her voice. Denton didn't judge her. When Bill had given him the news, he had paled, and the pit of his stomach had dropped, sending a tremor through his body.

"It's not like we had a choice," Bill said, walking quickly down Kipling Street. "There was nothing to hold them on."

Denton took hurried steps, trying to keep up with him. The pace was faster than he was used to, and combined with the frigid air, he became short of breath. Bill had no problems, as his legs moved briskly with short, confident strides. He even took puffs from his cigar without pausing.

"There was nothing tying them to any crime. We searched the van and their houses."

"So they're innocent?" Denton asked, following Bill around the corner, onto Sycamore.

"I didn't say that." Bill slowed slightly. "There's something up with those three. But we had nothing to charge them with. And it didn't help they'd lawyered up so damn fast."

If Denton had gotten up early, he would have seen the icy fog that had filled the post dawn. It had long since dissipated, but the morning had remained damp and bitter. Both men huddled in their coats. Bill had on a black, down jacket that looked police issue. Denton wore his wool overcoat. He kept the lapels shut with a gloved hand to try and keep the wind from attacking his neck. When Bill had suggested the walk, Denton had foolishly left his scarf on the hook in the hall.

He had been anxious to meet his neighbor and got ready in a rush. The way Bill had spoken on the phone suggested that what they were about to discuss was too private to take place in either of their homes. The faint promise of answers had driven all other concerns from his mind.

Bill flicked a large chunk of ash into the gutter. "I have to hand it to you Dent, it was a good call. Even if it didn't turn up anything on them, they're now on our radar."

A woman was getting a couple of bags of groceries out of her car.

Both men smiled and waved to her.

"Mrs. Wiley, so nice to see you," Bill said. "Weather's turning."

Denton had seen her around but had never heard her name before. Linda always referred to her as The Church Lady. He had no idea if she called her that because the woman helped out at Bexhill First Congregational, or because Linda felt that she was overly judgmental. It certainly wasn't because she bore any physical resemblance to that old Saturday Night Live character.

She smiled back but didn't say anything, before slamming the car door and heading into the warmth of her house.

When she was inside, and they were alone again, Bill said, "Hard to believe that little fuck, Eddy Radcliff, had something to do with offing his own mother."

Despite being the one to report him, Denton found it hard to believe too. Or more likely, he didn't want to believe it. The boy at the house had seemed worn out and lost. He was more of a victim than a killer. But that had been in the house. It was a different story out by Federal Road.

"How could there have been nothing in the van? I saw them put a gas can in there. And I'm pretty sure Radcliff had an axe."

"You never mentioned an axe."

"I wasn't sure about it at first." Denton dodged a cloud of acrid cigar smoke the wind had blown his way.

"Well, it certainly wasn't in the van. Believe me if there had been any kind of blades or knives in there, we'd still be comparing them against all the tool marks the medical examiner documented from the victims."

Denton tried not to let his revulsion show in the brief silence that followed. An unwelcome image of hacked up, charred remains had burst into his head.

Bill licked his fingertip and ran it along the edge of the cigar, to even out the burn. "They must have ditched it and the gasoline. They only got picked up about two hours after you called. There would have been plenty of opportunity to toss them."

"So you think they were getting rid of the evidence that night?" "Beats me. But there was nothing there. There was also nothing to indicate the victims had been in the vehicle either. Forensics was thorough."

"So why are you convinced they're involved?" "Because, Dent, there was no evidence?"

Denton came to a stop for a second while Bill's words sank in. He jogged a few steps, until he was back beside him. "I know I'm not a police officer, but huh?"

"The van—it was too clean. Nothing but the three boys' fingerprints. We don't have the DNA results back yet, but I bet it's the same. Damn few samples, at any rate. I'll wager it was scrubbed down—recently. Something must have happened to spook them."

They turned up Cypress Avenue, taking the long route back home. Denton relived the conversation in front of Radcliff's House. I work with the police, he had told the boy.

A careless step on a frozen patch of slush sent Denton staggering backward. Bill reached out a hand, but Denton waved it off and steadied himself on his own.

When he recovered his balance, he asked, "So, one of them is Eddie, who are the others?"

"I can't tell you that, Dent. Radcliff's lawyer is threatening to sue if we release their names. Claims it'll irreparably damage their reputations. Got an injunction and everything."

"I'm not going to tell anyone." "I can't. Not on this one. The lieutenant is looking to hang anyone that leaks those names," Bill said with finality. "So what happens next?"

"We wait. If they're involved, they'll slip up eventually. In the meantime, we keep gathering evidence and building a case against them. You know, police work."

"What about the eights? The other victims, did they have the obsession too?"

"Yeah," Bill said, sounding strangely chipper about it. "Oddest thing. They all did. But we have a theory."

"What is it?" He didn't like how pathetically eager his voice sounded.

Bill stopped and looked around, as though he wanted to make sure they were completely alone.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone." 

"Who would I tell?"

Bill pursed his lips, while he appeared to consider the question. "How much does Linda know?"

"Only what's been in the news. I haven't said anything about the investigation to her.

A puzzled look crossed over Bill's face. "Alright, but this really has to stay between us. Swear?"

"I swear." Denton felt as if he were back in grade school. "We think it's a drug."

"What?"

"We believe that it's some new designer drug. Substance abuse is the cause of their personality changes. The eights are a weird side effect or something. We think that Eddie Radcliff and his gang were dealing it. Something went sideways. And they started killing off the people who knew about it—their clients. They burned the bodies, so we wouldn't find traces of the chemical in their systems."

"That doesn't make any sense." Denton's voice was filled with open disbelief. "There's nothing that could cause such a distinct preoccupation in all of its users. Psychotropic drugs interact with a person's neurochemistry in such a way that—"

Bill held up his hand. "Whoa. I don't know the science behind it. The agents that came up from Quantico worked it out. They seem pretty convinced."

"But it's impossible."

"Well, if you have a better theory, I'm all ears." He didn't sound open to hear alternative theories. He sounded annoyed and neither one of them said much after that.

Denton had managed to get his boots and coat off and get all the way through to the kitchen, while telling Linda selective parts of the conversation. He poured out a quarter cup of dregs from the coffee pot, happy to have a hot drink in his hand to warm his fingers.

"So that's all he told you? They're free but he thinks they did it." "You know Bill," he said. "He's pretty tight-lipped. Especially, with that stuff."

"Did you ask him if they had people following them?"

"No, I didn't think of it. He did say that those kids were on their radar."

"On their radar, what the hell does that mean?"

Denton didn't want to admit that he didn't know what it meant. Were the police watching them? Or were they just waiting for the next victim?

Before Linda could say anything else, he said, "Oh, I almost forgot..."

"What?" The question slipped from her lips quickly. It begged for the answer, as though Denton must surely be holding back some crucial piece of information.

"He'd like us to get together for the holidays. He wanted to know if we could meet Helen and him for dinner at the Bee and Bonnet next Saturday."

Denton had walked over to the sink and was looking out the window, but he could feel the daggers coming out of her eyes. Their points grazed the back of his neck.

After a long pause, she said, "Yeah, that'll be fine." He could hear her steps heading toward the back hall.

"I'm going to go get some work done." There was a small squeak, as she stopped and pivoted on the tile. "Oh, the radio's come up with a name for our killers: Mister Eight."

"Mister Eight, why's that?" Denton turned his head to look at her and hoped his voice hadn't wavered.

"Because there were eight bodies, I guess. Pretty stupid name, if you ask me, seeing that there's three of them. And what will they call them after they kill again? Mister Nine?"

Linda disappeared around the corner, leaving Denton standing there alone with the taste of acrid coffee grounds in his mouth.