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a couple of steps forward, toward the bin in the center of the room that was full of plastic dildos and other adult paraphernalia. He stopped short and stared at the clerk. I'm Eddy Goss, he said, as if there were no need to say more. Then, with a quick jerk of his hand he sent an armful of merchandise sailing across the store.
    The barrage of paraphernalia galvanized the clerk. Instinctively, he reached under the counter and came up with a pistol aimed at Goss. Get outta here, his voice trembled. Or I'm gonna blow your fucking head off!
    Goss scoffed and shook his head.
    You got ten seconds! the clerk warned.
    Goss just glared at him.
    The clerk shifted his weight nervously. His arms strained to hold the pistol out in front of him. Beads of sweat began building on his brow, and the gun started shaking. I'm not foolin', asshole!
    Goss was unshaken, convinced that this clerk didn't have the nerve to shoot him. But he'd had enough of this place for one day. I'm outta here, he said as he headed for the door and stepped outside.
    The sun had been shining brightly when he'd arrived at the bookstore, but it was overcast now, and dusk was near. He was hungry and thirsty, so he cut through the parking lot to the 7-Eleven next door. The store was empty, except for the Haitian clerk behind the counter. Goss opened a pack of Twinkies on his way down the aisle and stuffed them into his mouth as he reached the coolers in the back. He opened the glass doors, tossed the Twinkie wrapper behind the cold six-packs, and grabbed himself a tall can of malt liquor. He paid the clerk for the drink and left. He checked over his shoulder to see if the man was looking. He wasn't, so he grabbed a newspaper from the stand. He tucked it under his arm and headed down the dimly lit alley that led to the back of the store. He chugged down his malt liquor and threw the empty can onto the pavement. He found a secluded spot behind the store, by the Dumpster, and sat on some plastic bread crates beside a tall wooden fence that offered plenty of privacy. It was time.
    Goss tore into the paper and pitched the sports, classifieds, and other useless sections onto the ground until he found something suitable - a Victoria's Secret special advertising pullout. He flipped the pages until he found the right girl, one with a particularly demure expression, then he spread the pullout on the ground at his feet. He hurriedly unzipped his pants, spit into the palm of his hand, and reached down between his legs. His eye narrowed to slits as he imagined himself on top of the girl. His breathing became deeper and more rushed as his hand moved rhythmically back and forth.
    Fucking bitches, he gasped as his body jerked violently. He closed his eyes completely, then a second later opened them and inspected his handiwork. Son of a bitch.
    Slowly he stood up and zipped his fly, towering over the smeared pictures on the ground. He reached inside his pocket and tossed down something tiny that landed with a tick on the wet surface. It was a seed. A chrysanthemum seed.
    My card, said Goss with a quick, sinister laugh.

    Chapter 7
    Governor Swyteck woke at six o'clock Thursday morning. As he showered and shaved, his wife, Agnes, lay awake in bed, exhausted after a night spent tossing and turning. Harold Swyteck was not a man who kept secrets from his wife. Yesterday he'd fabricated a story about a bad fall to explain his disheveled appearance to his security guards. But he told his wife the truth - as much out of concern for her safety as out of a need to be honest.
    Agnes listlessly flipped on the television with her remote, tuning in to the local News at Sunrise. Harry was in it again, this time appearing with a group of ministers, priests, and rabbis who were endorsing his candidacy. As her husband gratefully acknowledged the clergy's words of praise, she felt a surge of pride, but then her thoughts returned to what he'd told her the previous evening.
    Agnes had always feared that a