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you swallow on the average day, standing around with your mouth hanging open?" asked the killer. "Is your mouth ever not hanging open?"
        He appeared to be amused by me, to have already forgotten Lionel, as if killing the librarian had been an act of no more consequence than stepping on an ant.
        I heard my voice turn hollow with stunned incomprehension, brittle with anger: "What did he ever do to you?"
        "Who?"
        Though you will think his perplexity must have been an act, tough-guy bravura meant to impress me with his cruelty, I assure you that it was not. I knew at once that he didn't relate my question to the man whom he had just murdered.
        The word insane did not entirely describe him, but it was a good adjective with which to begin.
        Surprised that fear remained absent from my voice even as more anger crowded into it, I said, "Lionel. He was a good man, gentle."
        "Oh, him."
        "Lionel Davis. He had a name, you know. He had a life, friends, he was somebody."
        Genuinely puzzled, his smile turning uneasy, he said, "Wasn't he just a librarian?"
        "You sick son of a bitch."
        As the smile stiffened, his features grew pale, grew hard, as though flesh might transform into a plaster death mask. He raised the pistol, pointed it at my chest, and said with utmost seriousness, "Don't you dare insult my mother."
        The offense he took at my language, so out of proportion to the indifference with which he committed murder, struck me as darkly funny.
        If a laugh, even one of shocked disbelief, had escaped me then, I'm sure he would have killed me.
        Confronted by the muzzle of the handgun, I felt fear enter the halls of my mind, but I didn't give it the keys to every room.
        Earlier in the street, the prospect of a sniper had paralyzed me with dread. I realized now that I'd not been afraid of a rifleman in some high concealment but that I'd been petrified because I did not know if the sniper was real or if instead the mortal threat might be any of a thousand other things. When danger can be sensed but not identified, then everyone and everything becomes a source of concern; the world from horizon to horizon seems hostile.
        Fear of the unknown is the most purely distilled and potent terror.
        Now I had identified my enemy. Although he might be a sociopath capable of any atrocity, I felt some relief because I knew his face.
        The uncountable threats in my imagination had evaporated, replaced by this one real danger.
        His hard expression softened. He lowered the pistol.
        With perhaps fifteen feet between us, I didn't dare rush him. I could only repeat, "What did he ever do to you?"
        He smiled and shrugged. "I wouldn't have shot him if you hadn't come in."
        Like a slowly turning auger, the pain of Lionel's death drilled deeper into me. The tremor in my voice was grief, not fear. "What're you talking about?"
        "By myself, I can't manage two hostages. He was here alone. The assistant librarian is out sick. There were no patrons at the moment.
        He was going to lock the doors-then you came in."
        "Don't tell me I'm responsible."
        "Oh, no, not at all," he assured me with what sounded like genuine concern for my feelings. "Not your fault. It was just one of those things."
        "Just one of those things," I repeated with some astonishment, unable to comprehend a mind that could be so casual about murder.
        "I might have shot you instead," he said, "but having met you earlier in the street, I figured you'd be more interesting company than a boring old librarian."
        "What do you need a hostage for?"
        "In case things go wrong."
        "What things?"
        "You'll see."
        His sport coat was cut stylishly full. From one of the roomy interior pockets he withdrew a pair of handcuffs. "I'm going to throw these to