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she asked, unable to stop herself now.
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sydney said, speeding up a little.
    “Not too fast, Syd.”
    “First it’s a pep talk about the best of novels getting kicked around for years, then it’s ‘something’s the matter with it or it’d sell.’ What’m I supposed to believe? Or are you just trying to be nasty tonight?”
    “Nasty? I’m throwing out a suggestion about plotting. You say you’re so full of plotting—off paper.”
    It hit home, and Sydney smiled with a grim appreciation. “Yes,” he said emphatically. Yes, and sometimes he plotted the murders, the robbery, the blackmail of people he and Alicia knew, though the people themselves knew nothing about it. Alex had died five times at least in Sydney’s imagination. Alicia twenty times. She had died in a burning car, in a wrecked car, in the woods throttled by person or persons unknown, died falling down the stairs at home, drowned in her bath, died falling out the upstairs window while trying to rescue a bird in the eaves drain, died from poisoning that would leave no trace. But the best way, for him, was her dying by a blow in the house, and he removed her somewhere in the car, buried her somewhere, then told everyone that she had gone away for a few days, maybe to Brighton, maybe to London. Then Alicia wouldn’t come back. The police wouldn’t be able to find her. Sydney would admit to the police, to everyone, that their marriage hadn’t been perfect lately, and that perhaps Alicia had wanted to run away from him and change her name, maybe even go to France on a false passport—but the last was sort of wild, France involving complications not in character with Alicia.
    “Sydney!”
    “What?”
    “You went right past the house?”
    “Um.” Sydney braked and turned around.
    Mrs. Lilybanks’ house was a dark lump in the milky light of the half-moon, but to Sydney it did not seem blind. It seemed to be staring intently at their car as he drove it up the short driveway and into the shelter of their wooden garage. He’d have to plan his murder of Alicia more carefully and be far more cautious about removing the body because of Mrs. Lilybanks’ nearness, Sydney thought automatically and as impersonally as if he were thinking about the actions of a character in a story. Then in due time, he would get Alicia’s income, which would be nice. He would silence her voice permanently, that voice forever sabotaging him. Sydney thought of his rewards in a detached manner, too—freedom and a little more money—as if they were coming to someone else.
    S YDNEY’S AND A LEX’S JOINT N ICKY C AMPBELL EFFORT , Mark of the Killer , the tattoo story, was turned down by the third and last possible buyer with a note saying, “It isn’t bad, but it’s been done before.” The tired, terse rejection churned in Sydney’s brain for days. He took aimless walks along roads, always wanting to find some woods, to walk into the fields, yet he found no woods, and the fields, deserted as they were, looked to him as if they belonged to some watchful farmer who would ask his business if he set foot in them. Well, what was his business? Nothing. That would sound more suspicious than anything, Sydney supposed. Better to have an answer like, “I’m interested in rabbits and I thought I saw one disappear down a hole here.” He finally did venture into a few fields, but was never challenged. He would walk for miles, slowly, not thinking of food until he became hungry, which was always after 2:30 P.M. , when the pubs were closed and he could get nothing. Then sometimes he would find a small grocery store and buy a package of Kraft’s sliced Cheddar and an apple. It was out of anger and a sense of irony that his idea for The Whip came. When it came, Sydney turned and began to walk quickly toward home, thinking as he went.
    The Whip would be a criminal character who did something ghastly in every episode, and this wouldn’t be a serial, but