I guess his face, in the sink. The light came on, the toilet flushed, and he ran himself a hot shower that steamed the outer window. By seven, he was dressed and in the kitchen.
His breakfast I determined primarily by smell—he had a small ventilator in the hood above the stove, and whenever he turned it on the scents poured out in a cloud. It began with the bland heat of boiling water, then the faint tang of instant coffee, and at last the rich aroma of cracked wheat and maple sugar, which made me hungry every time. From my spot by the kitchen window, I could climb onto the narrow ledge of the house's foundation, invisible from the street, and look through a gap in the curtains to watch his arm as he ate. It moved up and down slowly and rhythmically, bringing the spoon to his mouth and then dropping back to wait while he chewed. I could move farther if I wanted, to see more of him as he ate, but only at the risk of being discovered. I was content to stay out of sight and fill in the gaps with my mind. After he finished eating he scraped his chair across the floor, took six steps to the sink, and rinsed out his bowl with a burst of water that sounded like popping static on a radio. That's usually when Kay woke up and wandered in, and he kissed her good morning.
I spied on him like that for a week, once even skipping school to find out what he did during the day. What I was looking for, and couldn't find, was fear—if I could find out what, if anything, he was afraid of, I'd be able to use it to stop him. I knew I wasn't heading for a straight fight; the only way I could beat this demon was to outthink it, get it into a position of weakness, and crush it like a bug. That was easy for most serial killers, because they attacked people weaker than themselves. I was attacking something far stronger, so I knew there was no chance he'd be afraid of me—I had to find something else he was afraid of. Once I'd found it, I could poke him with it and see how he reacted. If he reacted strongly enough, I might even be able to trick him into a stupid mistake, and give myself an opening.
I couldn't find any indications of fear in his behavior, so I decided to go back to basics—to the psychological profile I'd started building back when I first suspected it was a serial killer. I dug out my notebook late one night and read through my list: "He approaches his victims in person and attacks them up close." I used to think that said something important about his psychology and why he did what he did, but now I knew better—he did what he did because he needed new organs, and he attacked them in person because his demon claws were simply the best weapon he had.
The next item on the list was exactly what I was looking for: "He doesn't want anyone to know who he is." Max had made me write that down, but I had thought it was too obvious—the trouble was, it was so obvious I hadn't really considered it. It was the perfect fear: he didn't want anyone to know what he really was. I smiled to myself.
"Not a werewolf, Max, but pretty close."
Mr. Crowley was a demon, and he didn't want anyone to know it. Even a normal killer wouldn't want anyone to know his secrets. What Mr. Crowley feared—the first bit of pressure I could start exerting on him—was discovery. It was time to send him a note.
Writing the note was more complicated than I'd expected, Just like with the 911 call, I didn't want anyone to be able to trace it back to me. I couldn't use my own handwriting, obviously, so I needed a computer to print it out on. Even that had a hitch—I'd read about a murder case once where they called in an expert to prove which typewriter the fake suicide letter was written on, and for all I knew you could do the same with printers. I was better safe than sorry, which meant I couldn't use our printer at home. The printer at school was a possibility, but we had to log in to use those, which would leave a clear electronic record of exactly who had written the note. I decided to use. the printer at the library, during the busiest time of day there, when no one had the time to pay attention to a fifteenyear-old kid. I could slip in, write it up, print it out, and be gone without a trace. Since the weather was still ice cold, I could even wear gloves without making anyone suspicious, and thus avoid any fingerprints. I buried the note in the middle of lines of meaningless text, just in case someone got to the printer first and read what I was writing. When I got it home,
I cut out the phrase I wanted and pasted it to a clean sheet.
My first note was simple:
I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE