Clay swallowed, he nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Any others?”
“The Regensburg. The Pilgrim’s Bridge.”
“That’s three arches.”
“Yes.”
More thoughts, back to back. “Do you like the Coathanger then?”
The Coathanger.
The great bridge of the city.
The great bridge of home:
A different kind of arch, a metal one, who rose above the road.
“I love her.”
“It’s female?”
“She is to me.”
“Why?”
Clay tightened his eyes, then opened them.
Penny, he thought.
Penelope.
“She just is.”
Why did it need explaining?
* * *
—
Slowly, the Murderer backed away, into the rest of the house, and told him, “See you soon.” But then he added, in a moment of hope and recklessness, “Do you know the legend of Pont du Gard?”
“I need to sleep.”
Of course he Goddamn knew.
* * *
—
In the morning, though, in the empty house, Clay stopped in the kitchen when he saw it—on paper, in thick black charcoal.
He let a finger fall, and he touched them:
Final Bridge Plan: First Sketch
He thought of Carey and thought of arches, and again his voice surprised him: