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For this he would even make omelets. Frittatas. Crepes.
    Greg rested his cheek against Artie's head, sighing softly. At peace.
    Half turning, Artie put an arm around him, holding him loosely, sitting quiet.
    "Do you still want eggs?" His fingers explored Artie's, curious. There was a scar there, a little bump here.
    "Hmm?" The cheek against his belly was stubbled and rough, rubbing as Artie turned his head a little more. "Oh, sure. Whatever."
    He smiled. Artie didn't want eggs. Artie was happy where he was,
except ... Greg frowned, fingers searching out a sore spot on
Artie’ neck, rubbing. "Better?"
    "Uh-huh. Oh, good." They sort of ... oozed. Artie scooted and pulled
and pushed, and the next thing he knew they were both sitting in the
chair, sort of squashed.
    He just moaned, drew the quilt over them both. Artie fluttered against him, and he nodded. "You're fine. Stay. This is good."
    "Okay. Okay, sure." Artie stayed. Right there. Happy as anything. He could tell that by the smile.
    The jazz started up again on the CD player. Artie liked it well enough, for jazz.
    "Don't worry. The Celtic stuff you like better is next." Greg closed
his eyes, fingers moving and searching, even after they were both
asleep.

Chapter Three
    He's made an impact.
    Interesting, to watch the professor walk up and down the stairs in
the back, so careful not to touch the wall, the stairway, anything. So
interesting to see the long fingers wrapped in plastic gloves, taking a
book off a shelf and handing it, so carefully, to a wide-eyed,
stammering customer.
    A pretty customer.
    She's not collectible, but part of him wants to reach out, grab her
perfectly manicured little hand holding a pointless book on love
potions and aphrodisiacs, and slice deep into the skin. Take that wrist
and rub it over the professor's face, drip blood in those eyes, in his
mouth, make him scream and sob and drown in it.
    It's a pretty fantasy. The idea of watching the man writhe and
groan, of seeing the stains ruin the pristine white sweater. Such a
pretty thought.
    Still, the time isn't right, and he wants to know, needs to know, really. Needs to know how worried he should be.
    He slips out of the shop, nodding at the fat woman who always gets
the mail and watches the professor like a hawk, smiling at her, and
waiting patiently for her smile in return. The garbage cans are in the
back and he takes a cloth from his pocket. He'd used it, only this
morning, hand moving furiously as he listened to the tapes he
has—five tapes, four sweet, dear screams, one deep, genteel
cultured voice.
    The garbage goes out every night. Every night before the professor
heads up. He slides the cloth over the handle, his thumb swollen and
aching, throbbing as he rubs himself over the galvanized steel. See
what this tells you. See if you can see me.
    After all, the collection needs to be protected at all costs.
    * * * *
    They didn't say a word about it.
    Artie just wasn't sure if he was happy or pissed.
    Three days later they still had no leads on the girl, on the
blood—hers or the stuff on the book—and no fucking prints
except for one serial shoplifter Greg could watch out for now.
    Greg opened the mail religiously, but nothing new came. Hell, even
Alice knew what to look for. Artie figured the guy must be choosing his
next victim, just out there, on their streets. It chafed like a bad
pair of jeans. Damn it.
    "What have you got for me, babe?" Poor Leah. She looked so tired.
    There were papers everywhere, scribbled on, drawn on. Every fucking
angle that they could see together. And they didn't have a
motherfucking thing. "Bupkes."
    "Shit. There's got to be something, honey." There had to be. He
nodded to a couple of guys that passed by, vice detectives if he
remembered right. "What about all those missing persons files?"
    Leah leaned across the desk, tugged the files over. "Okay, stud.
Here goes. There's been thirty-five verified missing persons in the
city so far this year. I got six under