Savich saw another ripple in the dim light. A dark figure rose up from behind a worn sofa. It was Marvin Phelps, the man whose photo he’d first seen just an hour ago. He was walking toward John Marple, no, swaggering was more like it. What was he doing behind the sofa?

When Phelps wasn’t more than a foot from Marple, he said, his voice oddly deep and pleasant, “Are you awake, Jimbo? Come on, I didn’t hit you that hard, you pathetic wuss.”

Jimbo? Savich turned up the volume on his directional receiver.

“Do you know it will be dawn in another thirty-seven minutes? I’ve decided to kill you at dawn.”

Mr. Marple slowly raised his head. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and with his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t do anything about it. He licked at the dried blood beside his mouth.

“Yes, I’m awake. What do you want, Philly? What the hell is going on here? Why are you doing this?”

Philly? The two men knew each other well enough for nicknames.

Phelps laughed, and Savich felt his skin crawl. It was a mad old laugh, scratchy and black, not at all pleasant and deep like his voice. Phelps pulled a knife from inside his flannel shirt, a long hunting knife that gleamed even in the dull light.

Savich had expected a gun, not a knife. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Two dead high school math teachers, and now this. Not in pattern. What was going on here?

“You ready to die, Jimbo, you little prick?”

“I’m not a prick. What the hell are you doing? Are you insane? Jesus, Philly, it’s been over five years! Put down that knife!”

But Mr. Phelps tossed the knife from one hand to the other with easy movements that bespoke great familiarity.

“Why should I, Jimbo? I think I’m going to cut out your brain. I’ve always hated your brain, do you know that? I’ve always despised you for the way you wanted everyone to see how smart you were, how fast you could jigger out magic solutions, you little bastard-” He was laughing as he slowly raised the knife.