The Cold Moon

clock tower. Like Big Ben.”
    “That’s the name of the bell, not the clock.”
    “On the Tower of London?”
    “In the clock tower,” the older man had corrected again. “At the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament sits. Named after Sir Benjamin Hall. In the late eighteen fifties it was England’s largest bell. In early clocks, the bells were the only thing that told you the time. There were no faces or hands.”
    “Oh.”
    “The word ‘clock’ comes from the Latin clocca, which means bell.”
    This man knew everything.
    Vincent liked that. He liked a lot of things about Gerald Duncan. He’d been wondering if these two misfits could become real friends. Vincent didn’t have many. He’d sometimes go out for drinks with the paralegals and other word-processing operators. But even Clever Vincent tended not to say too much because he was afraid he’d let slip the wrong thing about a waitress or the woman sitting at a table nearby. Hunger made you careless (just look at what had happened with Sally Anne).
    Vincent and Duncan were opposites in many ways but they had one thing in common: dark secrets in their hearts. And anyone who’s ever shared that knows it makes up for vast differences in lifestyle and politics.
    Oh, yes, Vincent was definitely going to give their friendship a shot.
    He now washed up, again thinking of Joanne, the brunette they’d be visiting today: the flower girl, their next victim.
    Vincent opened the small refrigerator. He took out a bagel and cut it in half with his hunting knife. It had an eight-inch blade and was very sharp. He smeared cream cheese on the bagel and ate it while he drank two Cokes. His nose stung from the chill. Meticulous Gerald Duncan insisted that they wear gloves here too, which was kind of a pain, but today, because it was so cold, Vincent didn’t mind.
    He lay back on the bed, imagining what Joanne’s body looked like.
    Later today . . .
    Feeling hungry, starving to death. His gut was drying up from the craving. If he didn’t have his little heart-to-heart with Joanne pretty soon he’d waste away to steam.
    Now he drank a can of Dr Pepper, ate a bag of potato chips. Then some pretzels.
    Starving . . .
    Hungry . . .
    Vincent Reynolds would not on his own have come up with the idea that the urge to sexually assault women was a hunger. That idea was courtesy of his therapist, Dr. Jenkins.
    When he was in detention because of Sally Anne—the only time he’d been arrested—the doctor had explained that he had to accept that the urges he felt would never go away. “You can’t get rid of them. They’re a hunger in a way. . . . Now, what do we know about hunger? It’s natural. We can’t help feeling hungry. Don’t you agree?”
    “Yessir.”
    The therapist had added that even though you couldn’t stop hunger completely you could “satisfy it appropriately. You understand what I mean? With food, you’d have a healthy meal when it’s the appropriate time, you don’t just snack. With people, you have a healthy, committed relationship, leading up to marriage and a family.”
    “I get it.”
    “Good. I think we’re making progress. Don’t you agree?”
    And the boy had taken great heart in the man’s message, though it translated into something a little different from what the good doctor intended. Vincent reasoned that he’d use the hunger analogy as a helpful guide. He’d only eat, that is, have a little heart-to-heart with a girl, when he really needed to. That way he wouldn’t become desperate—and careless, the way he had with Sally Anne.
    Brilliant.
    Don’t you agree, Dr. Jenkins?
    Vincent finished the pretzels and soda and wrote another letter to his sister. Clever Vincent drew a few cartoons in the margins. Pictures he thought she might like. Vincent wasn’t a terrible artist.
    There was a knock on his door.
    “Come in.”
    Gerald Duncan pushed the door open. The men said good morning to each other. Vincent glanced into Duncan’s room, which was perfectly ordered. Everything on the desk was arranged in a symmetrical pattern. The clothes were pressed and hanging in the closet exactly two inches apart. This could be one hurdle to their friendship. Vincent was a slob.
    “You want something to eat?” Vincent asked.
    “No, thanks.”
    That’s why the Watchmaker was so skinny. He rarely ate, he was never hungry. That could be another hurdle. But Vincent decided he’d ignore that fault. After all, Vincent’s sister