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I’ve tried. But I can’t. I swear I can’t. I hold off as long as I can, and then I cruise the streets and ... and I do it again.”
    “You weren’t cruising the streets tonight,” Erin said slowly. “You targeted me specifically.”
    “Because I need you.”
    “What for?”
    “You’re going to treat me, Doc. Cure me. Fix it so I don’t have to kill anymore. You’re going to set me free.”

 
     
     

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    9
     
    Erin let the echo of his words settle in the room’s stillness. Though she knew what she had heard, somehow it seemed unreal to her, a ridiculous joke.
    “That’s why you brought me here?” she said finally.
    “Yes.”
    “For ... therapy?”
    “It was the only way.”
    “If you were to turn yourself in, you’d receive comprehensive treatment—”
    “ No.” She’d pressed one of his buttons. Watch it. “I’ve got no intention of ending up in the nuthouse or on death row. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I’m not willing to submit to ... punishment.”
    His voice quavered on the last word. Erin wondered what sort of punishment had been inflicted on him in the past, and by whom.
    “Anyway,” he added, “it would be unfair.”
    Careful now, no hint of judgment: “Would it?”
    “Of course. I told you, I can’t help what I do. It’s outside my control. So why should I be held accountable?”
    Pointless to argue. Better to change the subject, reinforce the connection he was looking for.
    “And you feel I can help you,” she said.
    “You’re a shrink. You’ve got the training. And unlike the so-called experts on TV, you won’t be engaged in armchair analysis. You’ll be working with me directly. Besides, you have specific qualifications for treating me.”
    “Do I?”
    “I’ve read your articles. Some of them, anyway. The one in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology was particularly interesting.”
    How had he gotten hold of that? The Journal was a scholarly publication, not available at newsstands.
    The university library carried it, though. Was he a professor? A part-time student?
    “I’m not certain,” she said cautiously, “that my writings suggest any particular expertise in the area of ... multiple homicides.”
    “You’ll see things differently once you’ve read the details of my case. It’s all there, in that folder you were so curious about.”
    She remembered the sheaf of newspaper clippings. His resume, apparently. The public record of his crimes.
    “Anyway,” he added coolly, “you don’t want to convince me that I picked the wrong person for the job. That would be counterproductive from a survival standpoint.”
    Nice way of putting it. “You’re right.”
    “Okay, then. Here are the terms of my deal with you. I’ll come in every night, for as many hours as necessary—intensive psychotherapy.” Every night. Presumably he had a day job. “You’ll get to the root of my problem and help me resolve it. After that, I’ll let you go, unharmed. You haven’t seen my face, don’t know where you’re being held, so you won’t be able to lead the police to me. It is possible for you to live through this ... if you can cure me.”
    “I see.”
    “But try any funny business—any more nonsense like that possum act—and you’ll pay for it. You’ll pay very dearly.”
    “I won’t try anything.”
    “Even assuming you cooperate fully, you’ll have to get results. If the treatment goes nowhere ...”
    The chair squealed like an untuned violin under the restless shifting of his weight.
    “Let’s just say I’ve been feeling it again the past couple of months. Stronger and stronger. My ... compulsion. I’ve found myself making preparations, buying certain equipment, without even realizing it. Just like all the other times.” He took a breath. “My point is, I don’t know how long I can hold off doing what I’ve done three times before.”
    She didn’t need to ask who his fourth victim would