"Sorry I'm late."

Denton Reed gave Linda a kiss and slipped into the seat across from her. He casually took what was meant to be a sip of his martini but was more of a gulp. All sense of cold was gone from the drink, which didn't bother him, since he was trying to work off the chill from the damp November night and the earlier events on Grimshaw Street.

He noticed Linda's glass was empty and the toothpick was bare of its olives.

"Sorry." He was keenly aware of how long she'd been waiting. "Do you want another?"

"No, but I'm ready for the wine." She turned her head to search out the waiter. Strands of her shoulder length brown hair lifted in the air with the movement. Denton was possessed with the urge to bury his fingers in it and press his wife's head against his chest. But instead he beckoned to Jeremy, their usual waiter. All he had to do was point at the table, a vague gesture at the flickering tea candle, for him to know what they wanted.

For as long as they had lived in Bexhill, this had been their Friday night ritual: dinner at 7th and Market. They would have dirty martinis to start, followed by a bottle of wine to go with the meal. They almost always ordered the Bin 16 Shiraz, except sometimes in the summer, when they might go with a white. They would often share an order of the fried calamari and then order the mains from the list of daily specials. Denton could count on one hand the number of times either of them had been late.

"So, what was so important?"

"Foley called an emergency meeting. The usual bullshit." It was easy to blame the chair. Simon Foley had been put in charge of the psychology department a little over a year ago and had taken on a demeanor similar to a South American dictator. Also, Denton knew there would be no follow up questions. No matter how much work might intrude on the rest of their weekend, it was not allowed to be discussed on Friday nights. Their dinner at the bistro across from Market Square signaled the start of a mini-vacation each and every week.

Denton had originally planned to tell her about the case Bill had pulled him into and that apartment with the number eight drawn everywhere. It was by far the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a long time and would make much better conversation than the rest of the small talk at his disposal. But at the last minute, he had decided it was better not to say anything.

In that moment, he understood why Bill had been annoyed by the patrolman talking about Mr. 8 and why there had been so few details about the killings in the papers. Crime wasn't unheard of in Bexhill, but news of a serial killer would scare the hell out of people. And he knew the odds were good that Linda would have several sleepless nights, if she believed there was one prowling around the town.

And it might not even be a serial killer. It was typical for one to follow a pattern when picking victims, but except for drawing eights, the dead had nothing in common. The first had been a single mother and the second had been what Bill had called a drifter. Which Denton took as Bexhill cop speak for homeless.

"Are you sure they were murders?" he had asked. Denton had started to wonder whether the eights might be something ritualistic. Perhaps these people belonged to some cult, and the leader was compelling them to commit suicide? It was no less awful, but it might be more plausible.

"Positive. There were weapon marks and attempts to destroy the evidence."

"How were they killed?"

Bill looked down at his shoes. "You'd probably be happier not knowing."

Of course, Denton thought. He thinks I'm squeamish.

Bill had been there two summers ago when Denton had spilt his breakfast out onto the dirt road. He remembered hanging onto the bumper of the police 4X4 for support, out there in Mt. Nazareth State Forest, with the images of the bizarre shrine fresh in his brain and the stench of the rotting flesh still in his nose.

"They have the prime rib for two tonight, should we get that?" Linda gestured to his unopened menu.

The prime rib was a rare specialty, but Denton said, "Not tonight. I'm not in the mood. Is that okay?" He picked up his menu to see what else there was and to hide his face, just in case it was betraying him by turning pale.

The thought of beef had brought back the full memory of that little shack in the woods—that terrible, hot little shack, with its altar, the strange bull carving, and the cow organs crawling with flies and maggots.

To calm down, he forced himself to think of that same spot, after the county had demolished the shack and carted off all traces of its existence. If only he could accomplish the same feat within his own mind and remove all memory of it. At least, the visualization trick worked, and he was able to regain his appetite.

"I think I'll have the gnocchi." He placed the menu back down on the table. "What are you going to have?

"I guess I'll go with the flat iron," Linda said.

"Sorry," he said again. In the subtle language of their Friday ritual, her order of the steak told him many things. Mainly, not only was he late tonight, but he was out of sync, like a dance partner whose timing was off.

"For what?" She genuinely seemed at a loss.

Denton gave a dismissive shrug as Jeremy finished pouring the wine. Linda raised her glass and toasted. "Happy weekend." Their glasses clinked against each other.

"Happy weekend," Denton said, trying hard to sound as if he meant it.

When dinner was over and the check was paid, they stepped out of the restaurant into the cold, night air. Denton started to head down 7th Avenue to the parked car, but Linda stopped him.

"Let's walk around the square." She tugged on his arm more as a gesture than an attempt to move him. Her smile was playful and in the dim glow of the restaurant sign, she looked like the young college girl he first met so many years ago. "I want to have a look." The city put up the Christmas decorations earlier in the week.

As soon as Thanksgiving was over, up they went. There was almost no variation from year to year: a big tree in front of the church, garland wrapped around the lampposts, and fairy lights everywhere. Denton would much rather just get home and have a glass of scotch by the fire, before going to bed. But he made an effort to smile and linked arms with Linda as they walked down the sidewalk, around the park.

It was just after nine, and most of the storefronts were already dark—closed up for the night and everyone either home or on their way. A fierce wind howled down 6th, sending dried leaves rustling along the pavement, as a faint reminder of the autumn that had slipped away one night before dawn, leaving a harsh December and the promise of winter. Denton shielded Linda from the gust with his body.

When he straightened out, three men were approaching them. They appeared as if from nowhere. Although, considering the noise they were making, Denton wondered how he hadn't noticed them earlier.

"I'm telling you, she's one of them." The tallest of the three was practically shouting. He had on a ratty lumberjack shirt instead of a jacket, and even in the dark, his face was clearly flushed.

The one wearing a dark green parka that was far too heavy for the evening's weather, just kept muttering with slurred words, "Shuh up. Just shuh up."

As they passed, Denton took an unconscious step to the side to ensure none of them came in contact with him. His move would have pushed Linda towards the curb, but she had instinctively pressed closer to him at the same time.

Denton examined their faces, and the sandy haired boy with a spray of freckles across his nose said, "No one can hide from us.

We're the Bexhill Gorillas." His voice was low, almost solemn, and Denton wasn't sure who was being addressed, or whether he was just thinking out loud.

Just another bunch of wasted college kids. This was why Milton had a bad name around town.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw them turning off of the square, heading home or maybe to another bar. They were probably more of a threat to themselves than to anyone else. Still, he was happy to see them gone and to be alone with Linda again, with the night back to its peaceful state.

He looked over at her and she glanced up at him and laughed. He joined her, chuckling over the ridiculousness of the young men's drunken antics.

"Students of yours?" she asked.

"Never saw them before. But I think it's safe to say somebody has just discovered beer."

Linda laughed again. She wiped an imagined tear from her eye. "We're getting old. It doesn't seem that long ago we were walking home from some bar with our friends, shouting and joking. Only we'd usually do it at two in the morning. I'm pretty sure our neighbors on Mercer Street hated us."

"Yes, but now we're respectable country folk."

He looked over the trees in the park. Each bare, black limb was wrapped with the small white Christmas bulbs, making them stand out against the charcoal sky.

"Remember the first time we came here?"

The wistful way Linda asked the question prompted Denton's memory to superimpose the way the park looked on that summer day over the scene in front of them.

"How could I forget?" They were barely settled in the house, but Linda was anxious to see the Farmer's Market that was set up in the Square on Saturdays.

"It was so hot that day," she said. "I'll always remember what a revelation those vegetables were. Farm fresh, what a difference from the city."

"Yeah, but we bought way too much." They ended up with more than they could eat, and a week later their fridge was filled with rotting produce.

"I'll never forget those blueberry muffins." Denton glanced up at the sky as if a platter of the baked goods was floating there.

Linda rolled her eyes, playfully with exaggerated annoyance. "You and those muffins."

They'd been the best he'd ever had. Baked by some local farmer's wife, the taste of them seemed enough to justify the move on that August morning.

After touring the Farmer's Market, they walked around the shops surrounding the Square, where they ended up buying a handblown glass vase. A little past noon, they settled into a booth at The Bee and Bonnet Pub for lunch, with their purchases piled next to them.

"So, are you still mad about coming here," he teased.

At first, Linda hadn't been very excited about the prospect of moving all the way out to Bexhill, but it was a stretch to say that she'd been angry. She knew that Denton couldn't easily turn down the position. He only had a limited term appointment at Columbia and Milton was offering full tenure. If his book hadn't been on the nonfiction bestseller list, there was no question that tenure would be unattainable for many years. The college may have been out in the sticks, but it was prestigious, and the job was almost too good to be true.

Linda's outlook was much improved by the time the moving truck was loaded. When the subject first came up, she couldn't bear the thought of quitting her job at her SoHo gallery and leaving her friends. But after months of hearing them tell her they would kill to be in the country and have more time for their art, she began to look at it as a blessing. Also, she had discovered that Bexhill had a small but thriving art community of its own.

"I'm still a little mad," she teased back. "You're going to have to do an awful lot to make it up to me."

They ordered a couple of pints that arrived ice cold. After taking a large drink to cool off, Linda said, "This town really is great. So quaint. We have to come to the Market every Saturday."

"Alright."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

And they had, right up until January. They bought all their produce at the Market, until it closed down in November. Then they did all their Christmas shopping there, avoiding the malls. But after New Year's, the bitter cold hit, and the thought of walking around the same old shops again just didn't seem very appealing. Since then, they went much more sporadically. They had become true residents of the town: Market Square was more for the tourists than the locals. It was where parents who visited their kids at school went to buy souvenirs to bring back home. Or where leafers, up from Manhattan or Boston, went to get some country crafts. Although it was hard not to feel drawn to it at Christmas, it was undeniably a special time of year.

They reached the church and stood in front of the giant tree. It was a fresh fir from one of the nearby farms. A small sign at its base stated, "Donated by Ripsman Arbors." Other than the lights and the golden star on top, there were no other decorations. They stood there, with their arms around each other, admiring it for a few moments. Then the rain began to fall.

It came slowly, in unenthusiastic drops. Denton wiped the first few off of his glasses, but it soon became futile.

They rushed back, cutting through the park. Halfway across, the skies opened up, and it became a downpour.

Denton unlocked the car with his fob from ten yards away. They were running by that point, even though they were both already soaked. Linda jumped into the car, but Denton paused, one foot through the door.

He stood frozen watching four squad cars barreling down Union Street one after the other, with their sirens blaring, the water that had pooled on the pavement spraying up from their tires. When they were gone, he sat down and closed the door. It had happened so quickly, Linda didn't seem to notice his hesitation.

Once again the night's peace had been interrupted.

Another victim of Mr. 8? Denton wondered, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.