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side—only to come down on something hard and squishy.
    â€œWhat the . . . ?” she began, and leaped away from the bed. Dropping to a crouch, she found three small orange triangles at the foot of her bed. The sticky thing she’d first stepped on was a strand of slimy pulp that she’d ground into the throw rug with her heel.
    Pumpkins. The triangles were pumpkin pieces.
    The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She lifted a cold pumpkin wedge and stepped into the hall. “Kirstin?” she called,but her voice echoed and died without answer. “Why are there bits of pumpkin in my room?”
    She crept down the narrow hall, but the apartment remained silent. Her roommate had apparently already left. Looking behind every door and in every closet, Jennica walked the apartment until she was sure it was empty. She checked the lock on the front door, which was bolted. They had found pumpkin pieces in her dad’s apartment—that was about all the cops had told her. And, of course, she had found one herself, lodged against a baseboard.
    She stared at the orange triangle, rolling it over in her hand. Where did you even get pumpkins in the springtime, she thought. Then she set it on the table and washed her hands. But the warmth of the water couldn’t take away the chill she felt. Someone had been here. In her house. Standing at the foot of her bed. The thought of someone standing there, in her room, staring at her as she slept . . .
    â€œOh God,” she whispered.
    What if the Holy Name parents were right and the killer was coming for her, too?

C HAPTER F IVE
    The knife moved with great speed. It cut easily through the man’s thick skin, carving a precise line through the flesh. The carver sniffed, and a moment later sniffed again with obvious irritation. He had a chronic nasal problem that made his detailed carving work ever more challenging. But he kept on without stopping, not losing a beat as he wiped the dampness from his nose and upper lip with the back of his shirtsleeve, never looking down, struggling not to break focus.
    He reached out to pull one of the subject’s eyelids open. It held that way, the white orb beneath swiveling crazily, pupil wide and black. The face wore a look of abject terror. The earlier disengagement of the model’s vocal cords kept the carving room quiet, however, as the carver preferred to work in silence. He could brook no distractions at this stage if he was to capture the essence of the man with his knives before the man’s life fled. So he was doubly irritated when his sinuses suddenly hitched up, trembled, and then he let out a series of six rapid-fire sneezes. Again he wiped his face with an increasingly wet shirtsleeve and continued his work.
    The carver had a kit of knives that he used, like the OR tray of a surgeon. He kept them in a black leather case that folded outward to reveal differently shaped blades, each prized instrument tucked into its own sleeve. His fingers used each as if it were an extension of him.
    His knives were relentless. Piece by piece, the face of the victim took shape in the pumpkin beside him. First he dippedhis knife into the model’s face, sampling the essence of the man with his blade, drawing something of the model into his tool. Then he moved his fingers to the pumpkin and slid the wet blade into the hard shell, carving the image of the man into the gourd, with the man’s blood as lubricant, and his lost soul as the bridge between flesh and portrait. The carver cut first with a long, curved edge, outlining the form, marking the way. Then he set the opener to the side and refined the incision with a tiny wire-thin implement: a shaper. His hands moved back and forth from pumpkin to knife kit in a blur. Time was short. Some blades were hooked, with edges on both sides. Others stabbed. Still others shaved. They all worked together to reveal the face beneath the surface.
    After three decades of carving,