He slumped over the hood of the car, his arms folded as a cushion under his head.

Ignoring the world, awash in self-pity, he didn't see Lisa Fallows, an FBI investigator on the scene, come sprinting from the restaurant, yelling for Agent Bell. The hurried words she shouted, audible to all within fifty yards, sank into his beaten consciousness, shaking him back to reality.

Her shrill voice carried: ". . .patron in the restaurant witnessed an older, black convertible—maybe sedan—stopped on the south end of the overpass about thirty minutes ago. Seen a white male get in."

Svenson sprang to his feet, alarmed and fully alert.

"Let's go!" Bell cried.

They jumped into the Berreta, Bell commandeering the driver's position from the young rookie.

THE black Pontiac LeMans sped onwards. The backdraft of wind blew wildly through the hair of the two occupants. The song on the compact disc was in the double digits for the number of times played. The newspaper was neatly folded again. And, but for an occasional passing car in the opposite direction, they were the only souls on this otherwise deserted stretch of highway.

They had driven in silence, but for the song playing on the stereo the last few minutes, and all the while Jake was experiencing conflicting emotions over the article he'd read. He wanted to applaud the works of the killer—the methods used in the murders, the acts of drama more than likely used to lure the victims, the evasion from law enforcement. Jake prized these all as great skills. He knew from his own experience that it took an artist to create a successful combination—a collage of mayhem—and a philosophic mind to produce the brilliant imaging to foresee such a portrayal. But at the same time, he was struck with a loathing for the black killer. That someone else could be compared to him! It made him nauseous to think that there was someone out there who would seek to steal away the enormous attention his recent works were receiving. He had one smug thought, though—there would never be another Nose Eater. Now that was original! And now he decided that he'd better do something to ensure the Nose Eater was headline news again.

Starting with Tucker.

This next murder he would commit would be so brutal, so nightmarish that it would leave the entire country speechless. It would send shivers of fright down the spines of the FBI and its so called "Serial Crime Unit." Jake thought that he wouldn't be surprised if a few of the agents who were on the case decide to make a career change. A career change to a florist.

In a more cheerful mood, Jake said, "So what brought you out to California?"

Tucker threw back his head with a full-throated laugh. Wiping an eye, he said, "I wanted to go on a road trip. See the states. I felt like I'd been cooped up for too long, if you know what I mean?" Jake nodded. He continued, "At first I just wanted to check out Texas, you know, see the Lone Star State for what it's worth. I'd never been to a ranch before. . .Anyway, I met a woman there, we stuck together for a little while, but then I decided to move on. Meet some more people. See some more action. Soon enough Texas brought me to New Mexico, and New Mexico brought me into Arizona. By then I decided I might as well go all the way to the ocean."

"California's beautiful country."

"I've liked it," Tucker commented. "San Diego was really nice, the beaches and everything. I think I liked it down there the most." He suddenly grimaced. "Only one thing wrong with California."

"What's that?"

"Like I said before, I'm not racist or anything. But California's just got too many niggers. It seems like they're everywhere."

Jake smiled. He was entertained by Tucker's southern bigotry. He wondered why the man thought that there were too many blacks in California. Surely there were a lot of blacks in Louisiana? Didn't he say that he'd lived in New Orleans? Jake realized now that he'd be doing humanity a favor by ridding it of this obviously prejudiced man.

Doing humanity a favor.

Jake laughed.

Tucker didn't notice. He'd leaned forward momentarily, peering at the gauges on the dashboard.

Jake jumped on the opportunity. He also looked at the gauges. He said, "Wow. . .You might want to think about getting some gas soon."

Tucker nodded. "That, partner, sounds like a good idea."

And then he hit the replay button on the car stereo.

Jake could feel a migraine coming on.

This was becoming a long trip.