o I’m “522.”

I’ve been wondering why They picked that number. Myra 9834 wasn’t my five hundred twenty-second victim (what a lovely thought!). None of the victims’ addresses contained the number… Wait. The date. Of course. She was killed last Sunday—the twenty-second day of the fifth month—and that’s when They started after me.

So to Them I’m a number. Just like They’re numbers to me. I feel flattered. I’m in my Closet now, having completed most of my research. It’s after work, people are heading home, out to dinner, off to see friends. But that’s the great thing about data; they never sleep, and my soldiers can call in an air strike on anyone’s life at any hour I choose, in any location.

At the moment the Prescott family and I are spending a few moments together before the attacks begin. The police will soon be guarding the houses of my enemies and their families… But they don’t understand the nature of my weapons. Poor Joseph Malloy gave me plenty to work with.

For instance, this Detective Lorenzo—that is, Lon—Sellitto (he’s taken great pains to conceal his real first name) is suspended but more awaits. That unfortunate incident a few years ago in which the perp was shot and killed during an arrest… new evidence will arise revealing that the suspect did not in fact have a gun—the witness was lying. The dead boy’s mother will hear about that. And I’ll send a few racist letters in his name to some right-wing Web sites. Then get the Reverend Al involved—that’ll be the death knell. Poor Lon may actually do time.

And I’ve been checking Sellitto’s tethered individuals. I’ll dream up something for his teenage son by his first wife. A few drug charges, maybe. Like father, like son. Nice appeal to it.

That Polish fellow, Pulaski, well, he’ll eventually be able to convince Homeland Security that his wife isn’t a terrorist or an illegal. But won’t they both be surprised when his child’s birth records disappear and another couple, whose newborn vanished from the hospital a year ago, happens to learn that their missing boy might be Pulaski’s? If nothing else the little guy’ll be in foster-care limbo over the months it’ll take to sort things out. That’ll damage him forever. (I know this only too well.)

And then we come to Amelia 7303 and this Lincoln Rhyme. Well, just because I’m in a bad mood, Rose Sachs, who’s scheduled for cardiac surgery next month, will lose her insurance due to—well, I think I’ll make it past instances of fraud. And Amelia 7303’s probably pissed off about her car but wait till she gets the really bad news: her careless consumer debt. Maybe $200,000 or so. With a nearly usurious rate of interest.

But those are simply appetizers. I’ve learned that a former boyfriend of hers was convicted of hijacking, assault, larceny and extortion. Some new witnesses will send anonymous e-mails that she was involved, too, and that there’s hidden loot in her mother’s garage, which I’ll plant there before I call Internal Affairs.

She’ll beat the charges—statute of limitations—but the publicity will ruin her reputation. Thank you, freedom of the press. God bless America…

Death is one type of transaction guaranteed to slow your pursuers down, but the nonlethal tactics can be just as effective and are, to me, far more elegant.

And as for this Lincoln Rhyme… Well, that’s an interesting situation. Of course, I made the mistake of selecting his cousin in the first place. But, in fairness, I checked all of Arthur 3480’s tethered individuals and didn’t find any hits for his cousin. Which is curious. They’re related by blood, yet they’ve had no contact in a decade.

I’ve made the mistake of stinging the beast awake. He’s the best adversary I’ve ever been up against. He stopped me on the way to DeLeon 6832’s house; he actually caught me in the act, which no one has ever done. And, according to Malloy’s breathless account, he’s getting closer all the time.

But, of course, I have a plan for this too. I don’t have the benefit of innerCircle at the moment—have to be careful now—but journalists’ articles and other sources of data are sufficiently illuminating. The problem, of course, is how to destroy the life of someone like Rhyme, whose physical life is largely destroyed anyway. Finally a solution occurs to me: If he’s so dependent I’ll destroy someone he’s tethered to. Rhyme’s caregiver, Thom Reston, will be my next target. If the young man dies—in a particularly unpleasant way—I doubt Rhyme will ever recover from that. The investigation will wither; no one else will pursue it the way he’s been doing.

I’ll get Thom into the trunk of my car and we’ll head to another warehouse. There, I’ll take my time with the Krusius Brothers razor. I’ll record the whole session on tape and e-mail that to Rhyme. Being the hardworking criminalist that he seems to be, he’ll have to view the gruesome tape carefully to look for clues. He’ll have to watch it over and over again.

I guarantee it will ruin him for the case, if not destroy him altogether.

I go into room three of my Closet and find one of my video cams. Batteries are nearby. And in room two I collect the Krusius in its old box. There’s still a brown wash of dried blood on the blade. Nancy 3470. Two years ago. (The court has just turned down the final appeal of her murderer, Jason 4971, the grounds for reversal being fabricated evidence, a claim that even his attorney probably found pathetic.)

The razor is dull. I remember meeting some resistance from Nancy 3470’s ribs; she thrashed around more than I expected. No matter. A little work with one of my eight grinding wheels, then a leather strop and I’ll be in business.

Now, the adrenaline from the hunt was flooding through Amelia Sachs.

The evidence in her garden had led her on a convoluted trail but she had a gut feeling—excuse me, Rhyme—that this present mission would be productive. She parked Pam’s car along the city street and hurried to the address of the next person on her list of a half dozen, one of whom she desperately hoped would give her the final clue to 522’s identity.

Two had been unsuccessful. Would the third one be the answer? Driving around town like this was a sort of macabre scavenger hunt, she reflected.

It was evening now and Sachs checked the address under a streetlight, found the town house and walked up the few steps to the front door. She was reaching for the bell when something began to nag.

She paused.

Was it the paranoia she’d been feeling all day? A sense of being watched?

Sachs glanced around fast—at the few men and women on the street; at the windows of the residences and small shops nearby… But nobody seemed threatening. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to her.

She began to press the buzzer again but lowered her hand.

Something was off…

What?

Then she understood. It wasn’t that she was being watched; it was a scent that troubled her. And with a jolt she knew what it was: mold. She was smelling mold, the scent coming from the very town house where she now stood.

Just a coincidence?

Sachs silently walked down the stairs and around to the side of the place into the cobblestoned alley. The building was very large—narrow from the front but quite deep. She moved farther into the alley and eased up to a window. Which was covered with newspaper. Scanning the side of the building; yes, they were all covered over. She recalled Terry Dobyns’s words:!!!And the windows will be painted black or taped over. He has to keep the outside world away…

She’d come here merely to get information—this couldn’t be 522’s place; the clues didn’t add up. But she knew now that they’d been wrong; there was no doubt this was the killer’s home.

She reached for her phone but suddenly heard a scuttling on the alley cobblestones behind her. Eyes wide, forsaking the phone for the gun, she turned fast. But before her hand made it to the Glock’s grip, she was tackled hard. She slammed into the side of the town house. Stunned, she dropped to her knees.

Glancing up, gasping, she saw the hard dots of eyes in the killer’s face, saw the stained blade of the razor he held as it began its journey to her throat.