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　his　family　in　New　Jersey；　and　given　a　decent　Christian　burial？　Or　would　his　carcass　have　been　thrown　into　the　dark；　for　their　own　use？
　　The　headline　of　the　New　York　Post；　discarded　on　the　seat　across　from　him　caught　Mahogany's　eye：　〃Police　All…Out　to　Catch　Killer〃。　He　couldn't　resist　a　smile。　Thoughts　of　failure；　weakness　and　death　evaporated。　After　all；　he　was　that　man；　that　killer；　and　tonight　the　thought　of　capture　was　laughable。　After　all；　wasn't　his　career　sanctioned　by　the　highest　possible　authorities？　No　policeman　could　hold　him；　no　court　pass　judgement　on　him。　The　very　forces　of　law　and　order　that　made　such　a　show　of　his　pursuit　served　his　masters　no　less　than　he；　he　almost　wished　some　two…bit　cop　would　catch　him；　take　him　in　triumph　before　the　judge；　just　to　see　the　looks　on　their　faces　when　the　word　came　up　from　the　dark　that　Mahogany　was　a　protected　man；　above　every　law　on　the　statute　books。
　　It　was　now　well　after　ten…thirty。　The　trickle　of　theatregoers　had　begun；　but　there　was　nothing　likely　so　far。　He'd　want　to　let　the　rush　pass　anyway：　just　follow　one　or　two　choice　pieces　to　the　end　of　the　line。　He　bided　his　time；　like　any　wise　hunter。
　　
　　Kaufman　was　not　finished　by　eleven；　an　hour　after　he'd　promised　himself　release。　But　exasperation　and　ennui　were　making　the　job　more　difficult；　and　the　sheets　of　figures　were　beginning　to　blur　in　front　of　him。　At　ten　past　eleven　he　threw　down　his　pen　and　admitted　defeat。　He　rubbed　his　hot　eyes　with　the　cushions　of　his　palms　till　his　head　filled　with　colours。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said。
　　He　never　swore　in　pany。　But　once　in　a　while　to　say　fuck　it　to　himself　was　a　great　consolation。　He　made　his　way　out　of　the　office；　damp　coat　over　his　arm；　and　headed　for　the　elevator。　His　limbs　felt　drugged　and　his　eyes　would　scarcely　stay　open。
　　It　was　colder　outside　than　he　had　anticipated；　and　the　air　brought　him　out　of　his　lethargy　a　little。　He　walked　towards　the　Subway　at　34th　Street。　Catch　an　Express　to　Far　Rockaway。　Home　in　an　hour。
　　
　　Neither　Kaufman　nor　Mahogany　knew　it；　but　at　96th　and　Broadway　the　Police　had　arrested　what　they　took　to　be　the　Subway　Killer；　having　trapped　him　in　one　of　the　up…town　trains。　A　small　man　of　European　extraction；　wielding　a　hammer　and　a　saw；　had　cornered　a　young　woman　in　the　second　car　and　threatened　to　cut　her　in　half　in　the　name　of　Jehovah。
　　Whether　he　was　capable　of　fulfilling　his　threat　was　doubtful。　As　it　was；　he　didn't　get　the　chance。　While　the　rest　of　the　passengers　（including　two　Marines）　looked　on；　the　intended　victim　landed　a　kick　to　the　man's　testicles。　He　dropped　the　hammer。　She　picked　it　up　and　broke　his　lower　jaw　and　right　cheek…bone　with　it　before　the　Marines　stepped　in。
　　When　the　train　halted　at　96th　the　Police　were　waiting　to　arrest　the　Subway　Butcher。　They　rushed　the　car　in　a　horde；　yelling　like　banshees　and　scared　as　shit。　The　Butcher　was　lying　in　one　corner　of　the　car　with　his　face　in　pieces。　They　carted　him　away；　triumphant。　The　woman；　after　questioning；　went　home　with　the　Marines。
　　It　was　to　be　a　useful　diversion；　though　Mahogany　couldn't　know　it　at　the　time。　It　took　the　Police　the　best　part　of　the　night　to　determine　the　identity　of　their　prisoner；　chiefly　because　he　couldn't　do　more　than　drool　through　his　shattered　jaw。　It　wasn't　until　three…thirty　in　the　morning　that　one　Captain　Davis；　ing　on　duty；　recognized　the　man　as　a　retired　flower　salesman　from　the　Bronx　called　Hank　Vasarely。　Hank；　it　seemed；　was　regularly　arrested　for　threatening　behaviour　and　indecent　exposure；　all　in　the　name　of　Jehovah。　Appearances　deceived：　he　was　about　as　dangerous　as　the　Easter　Bunny。　This　was　not　the　Subway　Slaughterer。　But　by　the　time　the　cops　had　worked　that　out；　Mahogany　had　been　about　his　business　a　long　while。
　　
　　It　was　eleven…fifteen　when　Kaufman　got　on　the　Express　through　to　Mott　Avenue。　He　shared　the　car　with　two　other　travellers。　One　was　a　middle…aged　black　woman　in　a　purple　coat；　the　other　a　pale；　acne…ridden　adolescent　who　was　staring　at　the　〃Kiss　My　White　Ass〃　graffiti　on　the　ceiling　with　spaced…out　eyes。
　　Kaufman　was　in　the　first　car。　He　had　a　journey　of　thirty…five　minutes〃　duration　ahead　of　him。　He　let　his　eyes　slide　closed；　reassured　by　the　rhythmical　rocking　of　the　train。　It　was　a　tedious　journey　and　he　was　tired。　He　didn't　see　Mahogany's　face；　either；　staring　through　the　door　between　the　cars；　looking　through　for　some　more　meat。
　　At　14th　Street　the　black　woman　got　out。　Nobody　got　in。　Kaufman　opened　his　eyes　briefly；　taking　in　the　empty　platform　at　14th；　then　shut　them　again。　The　doors　hissed　closed。　He　was　drifting　in　that　warm　somewhere　between　awareness　and　sleep　and　there　was　a　fluttering　of　nascent　dreams　in　his　head。　It　was　a　good　feeling。　The　train　was　off　again；　rattling　down　into　the　tunnels。
　　Maybe；　at　the　back　of　his　dozing　mind；　Kaufman　half…registered　that　the　doors　between　the　second　and　first　cars　had　been　slid　open。　Maybe　he　smelt　the　sudden　gush　of　tunnel…air；　and　registered　that　the　noise　of　wheels　was　momentarily　louder。　But　he　chose　to　ignore　it。
　　Maybe　he　even　heard　the　scuffle　as　Mahogany　subdued　the　youth　with　the　spaced…out　stare。　But　the　sound　was　too　distant　and　the　promise　of　sleep　was　too　tempting。　He　drowsed　on。
　　For　some　reason　his　dreams　were　of　his　mother's　kitchen。　She　was　chopping　turnips　and　smiling　sweetly　as　she　chopped。　He　was　only　small　in　his　dream　and　was　looking　up　at　her　radiant　face　while　she　worked。　Chop。　Chop。　Chop。
　　His　eyes　jerked　open。　His　mother　vanished。　The　car　was　empty　and　the　youth　was　gone。
　　How　long　had　he　been　dozing？　He　hadn't　remembered　the　train　stopping　at　West　4th　Street。　He　got　up；　his　head　full　of　slumber；　and　almost　fell　over　as　the　train　rocked　violently。　It　seemed　to　have　gathered　quite　a　substantial　head　of　speed。　Maybe　the　driver　was　keen　to　be　home；　wrapped　up　in　bed　with　his　wife。　They　were　going　at　a　fair　lick；　in　fact　it　was　bloody　terrifying。
　　There　was　a　blind　drawn　down　over　the　window　between　the　cars　which　hadn't　been　down　before　as　he　remembered。　A　little　concern　crept　into　Kaufman's　sober　head。　Suppose　he'd　been　sleeping　a　long　while；　and　the　guard　had　overlooked　him　in　the　car。　Perhaps　they'd　passed　Far　Rockaway　and　the　train　was　now　speeding　on　its　way　to　wherever　they　took　the　trains　for　the　night。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said　aloud。
　　Should　he　go　forward　and　ask　the　driver？　It　was　such　a　bloody　idiot　question　to　ask：　where　am　I？　At　this　time　of　night　was　he　likely　to　get　more　than　a　stream　of　abuse　by　way　of　reply？
　　Then　the　train　began　to　slow。
　　A　station。　Yes；　a　station。　The　train　emerged　from　the　tunnel　and　into　the　dirty　light　of　the　station　at　West　4th　Street。　He'd　missed　no　stops。。。　So　where　had　the　boy　gone？
　　He'd　either　ignored　the　warning　on　the　car　wall　forbidding　transfer　between　the　cars　while　in　transit；　or　else　he'd　gone　into　the　driver's　cabin　up　front。　Probably　between　the　driver's　legs　even　now；　Kaufman　thought；　his　lip　curling。　It　wasn't　unheard　of。　This　was　the　Palace　of　Delights；　after　all；　and　everyone　had　their　right　to　a　little　love　in　the　dark。
　　Kaufman　shrugged　to　himself。　What　did　he　care　where　the　boy　had　gone？
　　The　doors　closed。　Nobody　had　boarded　the　train。　It　shunted　off　from　the　station；　the　lights　flickering　as　it　used　a　surge　of　power　to　pick　up　some　speed　again。
　　Kaufman　felt　the　desire　for　sleep　e　over　him　afresh；　but　the　sudden　fear　of　being　lost　had　pumped　adrenalin　into　his　system；　and　his　limbs　were　tingling　with　nervous　energy。
　　His　senses　were　sharpened　too。
　　Even　over　the　clatter　and　the　rumble　of　the　wheels　on　the　tracks；　he　heard　the　sound　of　tearing　cloth　ing　from　the　next　car。　Was　someone　tearing　their　shirt　off？
　　He　stood　up；　grasping　one　of　the　straps　for　balance。
　　The　window　between　the　cars　was　pletely　curtained　off；　but　he　stared　at　it；　frowning；　as　though　he　might　suddenly　discover　X…ray　vision。　The　car　rocked　and　rolled。　It　was　really　travelling　again。
　　Another　ripping　sound。
　　Was　it　rape？
　　With　no　more　than　a　mild　voyeuristic　urge　he　moved　down　the　see…sawing　car　towards　the　intersecting　door；　hoping　there　might　be　a　chink　in　the　curtain。　His　eyes　were　still　fixed　on　the　window；　and　he　failed　to　notice　the　splatters　of　blood　he　was　treading　in。　Until…　…his　heel　slipped。　He　looked　down。　His　stomach　almost　saw　the　blood　before　his　brain　and　the　ham　on　whole…wheat　was　half…way　up　his　gullet　catching　in　the　back　of　his　throat。　Blood。　He　took　several　large　gulps　of　stale　air　and　looked　away…back　at　the　window。
　　His　head　was　saying：　blood。　Nothing　would　make　the　word　go　away。
　　There　was　no　more　than　a　yard　or　two　between　him　and　the　door　now。　He　had　to　look。　There　was　blood　on　his　shoe；　and　a　thin　trail　to　the　next　car；　but　he　still　had　to　look。
　　He　had　to。
　　He　took　two　more　steps　to　the　door　and　scanned　the　curtain　looking　for　a　flaw　in　the　blind：　a　pulled　thread　in　the　weave　would　be　sufficient。　There　was　a　tiny　hole。　He　glued　his　eye　to　it。
　　His　mind　refused　to　accept　what　his　eyes　were　seeing　beyond　the　door。　It　rejected　the　spectacle　as　preposterous；　as　a　dreamed　sight。　His　reason　said　it　couldn't　be　real；　but　his　flesh　knew　it　was。　His　body　became　rigid　with　terror