injuries. Let's put it this way: there is no way in the world that anybody could have 
done to himself what that maniac did to you.'
   'And they still don't know who did it?' asked John.
   'See for yourself,' Jack told him. He produced a folded copy of the Philadelphia News 
from his coat pocket. The second lead read, 'Chestnut Hill Slasher -Police Admit "We're 
Still At Square One.'"
   'They have no clues whatsoever,' said Jack. "There were no footprints, no fingertrips, 
no tire tracks, no fibers, no apparent access to the house, and no apparent escape route. 
No authorized vehicles were seen in the vicinity, no vagrants, nothing. Whoever it was 
who attacked you, and whatever the reason, he came and went like a goddamned ghost.'
   John said, 'I've been lying here trying to think who could have done it. I guess it 
must have been the same person who tore up our bedroom on Third Street. But who! And why? 
Neither of us knew anybody who hated us that much.'
   Jack ran his hand through his hair. "The police questioned Pete Marcowicz - you know, 
Jennifer's ex.'
   'And?'
   'He could have had some kind of motive for attacking her, I suppose. Jealousy, 
revenge, who knows? He was pretty stuck on her, wasn't he? But that night he was staying 
with some friends in South Philly, and his friends all testify that he was totally 
smashed. He couldn't even stand up, let alone drive all the way to Chestnut Hill and 
murder anybody.'
   John lay silent for a while. Then he said, 'Dr Freytag should be operating at the end 
of next week, if I'm strong enough. They're going to try to get my arms working. At least 
I'll be able to blow my own nose.'
   'Don't you worry, John,' Jack told him. 'Nancy and I will be taking extra-special care 
of Lenny while you're getting well. And everybody down at the News is rooting for you.'
   'What are they doing?' asked John with unconcealed bitterness. 'Taking up a collection 
to buy me a wheelchair?'
   Jack gave him a wry smile. 'You're alive, John. That's what counts.'
   John said, 'I'm not so sure. But thanks anyway.'
   John ate a small lunch of corned beef and cabbage, fed every forkful by the saintly 
Sister Perpetua. It was exhausting, eating like this, with his head lifted up on Sister 
Perpetua's arm, and he was beginning to find his paralysis deeply frustrating.
   At first, he had found the severity of his injuries peculiarly comforting. They were 
proof to everybody that he had suffered almost as terribly as Jennifer. In one sense, 
because he was still alive, he had suffered more, and he would certainly suffer longer. 
All this had helped to assuage the guilt that he had survived while Jennifer had died.
   Being paralyzed also meant that everything was done for him. He was fed, he was 
washed, he was changed. He had been forced to surrender all of his adult 
responsibilities. He was a baby once again, the center of everybody's attention, and the 
focus of their pity. But now he was beginning to understand the true horror of having an 
active mind in a helpless body. Even if he wanted nothing more than a sip of water, all 
he could do was to grope for his buzzer with his teeth, and wait for somebody to find the 
time to bring it to him.
   As the hours went by and his pain began to ease, he began to think about the outside 
world once again, flickers and flashes of happy memory like an album of Kodachromes being 
ripped out onto the bed. The small agonies those thoughts brought were so intense that he 
forced himself to empty his mind and concentrate on the hairline cracks in the ceiling, 
or the time, or what Sister Perpetua must look like under her habit. Did she wear black 
stockings and a garter belt? Were her thighs fat and white?
   So many pleasures that he had taken for granted were gone forever, even if Dr Freytag 
was able to give him back the use of his arms. He would never again be able to amble 
around Chinatown on a Saturday morning, elbowing his way into the Lung Fung Bakery. There 
would be no more visits to Reading Terminal Market for a giant hoagy from Di Gulielmo, to 
be eaten hot and crusty all the way down Arch Street while kicking a Coke can. And 
jogging around the East Park Reservoir was out of the question, as was his famous run 
through the Italian Market, on the same route that Sylvester Stallone had taken in Rocky, 
chased by crowds of small boys jeering, 'Rock-ee! Rock-ee!'
   He would never know a woman again. He would never be able to make love. It would be a 
surgical miracle if he were capable even of masturbation.
   God, he thought, his eyes filling with tears of frustration. A life sentence of 
wheelchairs and loneliness and adult-sized diapers and Hustler magazines. The awfulness 
of it was overwhelming. He was still in a state of deep depression when Sister Perpetua 
came in with Sergeant Clay and Detective Clay. They stood behind her, tall and polite, 
both wearing sport coats, one blue, one brown, and permanent-press slacks to match.
   Sergeant Clay said, 'We understand the seriousness of your condition, Mr. Woods. We 
also want to tell you that you're not a suspect. So, if you prefer, we can come back to 
see you some other time.'
   That's all right,' said John in a clogged voice. 'I think I could use some company.'
   Sergeant Clay drew up a chair and sat close to the bed. He and John looked at each 
other for a long time without speaking. John had never noticed before how fine the 
texture of Sergeant Clay's skin was. It was completely unblemished, like smooth milk 
chocolate, and if he shaved at all it didn't show.
   'We want to tell you how sorry we are,' said Sergeant Clay finally. 'We feel like we 
failed you.'
   John turned his face away. 'You couldn't have known that he was going to follow us all 
the way to Chestnut Hill.'
   'Well, no, we couldn't, not for sure. But my brother had a suspicion, you see, and the 
fact is that we didn't take it any further. We talked about it, but we decided it would 
be better if we took no immediate action.' Sergeant Clay paused, and then he said, much 
more softly, 'As it turned out, we made the wrong decision.'
   John turned back and frowned at him. 'You had a suspicion? What suspicion?'
   Sergeant Clay glanced at his twin as if he were seeking approval for what he was going 
to say next. His twin, impassive, nodded his assent.
   'We're going to have to ask you to believe some things that may be difficult to 
believe,' said Sergeant Clay. 'But if you'll hear us out, you can make up your own mind, 
and then maybe you can help us to prevent this happening again.'
   John said, 'Go ahead. I've got all the time in the world.'
   'You may have noticed that my brother has some unusual senses. He was born that way, 
with a highly developed sense of hearing, a highly developed sense of smell, and a highly 
developed sense of touch. He can hear dog-whistles; he can smell the difference between 
one brand of cigarette and another from twenty feet away. He can run his hand across a 
rug and tell you how many people walked across it recently, and what they weighed, and 
what kind of shoes they were wearing.'
   'Can he tell me who killed my wife?' asked John bluntly.
   'He can tell you who didn't kill your wife.'
   'And what's that supposed to mean?'
   Sergeant Clay inclined his head to one side. 'It means that he not only senses things 
in the physical world - smells, noises, that kind of thing - but he has a sixth sense, 
too. A feeling for the paranormal.'