"How do you know this?"

"I just know!. . .No time to explain. Believe me—it's him. . .I just drove over the grass divider between the highway and I'm going back."

Agent Bell said, "I'll phone the Bureau and they'll take care of the Highway Patrol. We'll get a couple choppers and a roadblock set up around the truck-stop. . ." He let his voice trail off, and then added, "We'll turn around at the next exit."

Keeping his eyes on the road, Svenson reached under the seat, this time grabbing the blue police light kept on the floorboard. Once again his hand grazed the hardened human nose, but in his haste its odd texture never registered in his head. It remained undiscovered. The gruesome memento left by the hitchhiker wasn't intended to be discovered for a few days. But when the inevitable discovery would be made, it was intended to reveal to the federal agent his close encounter with the much sought after serial killer. But by then the agent would have already escorted more hitchhikers. He wouldn't know which hitchhiker the killer was. All he would know was that at some point the killer had been in the car. Seated next to him. Talking to him.

And that was exactly what Jake Blaine wanted the FBI man to know.

This was Jake's game. Jake made the rules.

Svenson slapped the light on the dashboard and then flipped the ON switch. Reflections of blue and silver flashed over the surrounding night. The needle on the speedometer passed ninety.

"This better be him," he muttered anxiously.

Svenson was convinced it was him, however. It had to be. The words spoken by the killer, unknowingly betraying his identity, rang hauntingly over and over through Svenson's head.

"I wonder what the killer does with those noses?. . ."I wonder what the killer does with those noses?. . ."I wonder what the killer does with those noses?. . ."

The Nose Eater. He eats them.

Doesn't he?

Damn. It was obvious. The question commonly asked by the media, the police, the FBI psychologists, was "Why?" Why does the killer eat the noses? Not, "What does he do with them?" Who cares what he does with them? And anyway, what he did with the noses was obvious—he leaves teeth marks all over the victim's face where the nose should be. Teeth marks. The Nose Eater.

And so the reddish-haired hitchhiker had asked a question that made no sense at all. As far as the general public was concerned the killer eats the noses. Plain and simple. Everybody knew that.

"I wonder what the killer does with those noses?"

An answer to "What" wouldn't mean a thing. It was the answer to "Why" that could prevent future deaths. That could lead to the killer's capture.

The person who would ask "What" is abnormal to the inquisitive norm. If he was abnormal, then he could also be anti-social. And if he was anti-social, he could be considered sociopathic.

Step one in catching a serial criminal—Svenson said to himself now—to catch a sociopath you first must learn to think like one.

JAKE Blaine was humming to himself when a gloss black '73 Pontiac LeMans slowed to a stop thirty yards down the on-ramp. Its convertible top was pulled back. The red brake lights cast an eery glow to the nearby guardrail. A waiving arm by the driver signaled Jake to approach.

His heartbeat surged and his hands began to clam up—the usual body responses whenever he felt a kill was soon in coming. He gave a reassuring shake to his backpack, the weight shifting as the two nine-inch sheathed knives slipped around into new positions.