Dance said, "So after the man left the clock he was probably hiding in the closet or behind the door."
"Makes sense," Lucy said.
Dance turned to Sachs, who nodded with a smile and said, "Good. I better get to work." And she pulled open the closet door with her latex-gloved hand.
A second time they'd failed.
Duncan was driving even more carefully, meticulously, than he usually did.
He was silent and completely calm. Which bothered Vincent even more. If Duncan slammed down his fist and screamed, like his stepfather, Vincent would have felt better. ("You did what?" the man had raged, referring to the rape of Sally Anne. "You fat pervert!") He was worried that Duncan had had enough and was going to give up the whole thing.
Vincent didn't want his friend to go away.
Duncan merely drove slowly, stayed in his lane, didn't speed, didn't try to beat yellow lights.
And didn't say a word for a long time.
Finally he explained to Vincent what had happened: As he'd started to climb to the roof--planning to get into the building, knock on Lucy's door and get her to hang up the phone, he'd glanced down and seen a man in the alley, staring at him, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, shouting for Duncan to stop. The killer had hurried to the roof, run west several buildings then rapelled into the alley. He'd then sprinted to the Buick.
Duncan was driving meticulously, yes, but without any obvious destination. At first Vincent wondered if this was to lose the police but there didn't seem to be any risk of pursuit. Then he decided that Duncan was on automatic pilot, driving in large circles.
Like the hands of a clock.
Once again the shock of a narrow escape faded and Vincent felt the hunger growing again, hurting his jaw, hurting his head, hurting his groin.
If we don't eat, we die.
He wanted to be back in Michigan, hanging out with his sister, having dinner with her, watching TV. But his sister wasn't here, she was miles and miles away, maybe thinking of him right now--but that didn't give him any comfort. . . . The hunger was too intense. Nothing was working out! He felt like screaming. Vincent had better luck cruising strip malls in New Jersey or waiting for a college coed or receptionist jogging through a deserted park. What was the point of--
In his quiet voice Duncan said, "I'm sorry."
"You . . . ?"
"I'm sorry."
Vincent was disarmed. His anger diminished and he wasn't sure what to say.
"You've been helping me, working hard. And look what's happened. I've let you down."
Here was Vincent's mother, explaining to him, when he was ten, that she'd let him down with Gus, then with her second husband, then with Bart, then with Rachel the experiment, then with her third husband.
And every time, young Vincent had said just what he said now. "It's okay."
"No, it's not . . . I talk about the great scheme of things. But that doesn't minimize our disappointments. I owe you. And I'll make it up to you."
Which is something his mother never said, much less did, leaving Vincent to find what comfort he could in food, TV shows, spying on girls and having his heart-to-hearts.
No, it was clear that his friend, Duncan, meant what he was saying. He was genuinely remorseful that Vincent hadn't been able to have Lucy. Vincent still felt the urge to cry but now for a different reason. Not from the hunger, not from frustration. He felt filled with an odd sensation. People hardly ever said nice things to him like this. People hardly ever worried about him.
"Look," Duncan said, "the one I'm going to do next. You're not going to want her."
"Is she ugly?"
"Not really. It's just the way she's going to die . . . I'm going to burn her."
"Oh."
"In the book, remember the alcohol torture?"