Siggy finally had everything he needed. He took his final trip to Charlotte to pick up the remaining piece to his puzzle. He smiled as he exited the mailbox store, bidding a fond farewell to his useful alter ego, Thomas Benton.

Upon his return to Siler City, he brought the package into the workshop and opened it. It was exactly what he needed and he placed it on the tabletop with the ever growing conglomeration of items for his project.

Reaching under the larger surgical table he pulled out an oversized 19th century carpet bag and opened it. He carefully placed all his items from the surface of the table with the exception of the powdered chemical into it.

Siggy retrieved several large ziplock bags, some rubber bands, and a roll of thick cheesecloth from his workbench. He cut three square sections of the cheese cloth, taking care to fold them several times to make the cloth less porous.

He donned a pair of rubber gloves and carefully divided the crystalline powder between the three sections of folded cheese cloth, tightly securing them with rubber bands. He chuckled, they looked like pregnant shuttlecocks. Siggy put the three filled cloth balls into the ziplocks and then into the bag.

He was about to close it when he remembered some final items he had left in the house. Siggy ran out of the studio and, five minutes later, returned carrying a pair of bell- bottom pants, a tie-dyed long sleeved embroidered shirt, sandals, and a broad headband with a peace symbol emblazoned upon it. He put the clothing into the carpet bag. Reaching into his pants pocket, he retrieved a silver chain with an ankh suspended from it and placed it in the bag. Satisfied with his progress, he closed it, patted it in a gratified manner, and put it back under the surgical table.

He was ready.

George couldn't sleep. He silently cursed his own paranoia, but couldn't deny that something didn't seem right. His career in law enforcement highlighted the fact that sometimes you had to go with your gut and his gut was knotted. Jager didn't seem deceptive, he knew liars, he could recognize them, but George was certain that he was hiding something.

Fisk was spending the night in the Hamptons. He would be back on Friday, preparing for a party he would be hosting. George didn't ask about the parties, those nights when all the help were sent home. He wasn't stupid, he knew that those affairs were almost certainly immoral, if not downright illegal, but George wasn't a cop anymore, so he looked the other way.

This was different, though. It wasn't sex or drugs, it was an uncompleted piece of his former life. It was his last case, a thorn in his side.

He got up from bed and dressed. No one would ask his motivation for entering the apartment. As head of the security detail, he was free to enter the Fisk residence when they were out of town. It was his job.

He turned the lights on and approached The Evolution of the Devil. He stared at it and stepped to within a few inches of the piece. George ran his fingers over the portrait. The soft leather was unlike any he had ever seen, but the pore structure was disturbingly similar to bodies he had viewed in the coroner's lab. He shook his head in disbelief. It can't be, he thought.

He stepped back. Could it be possible? It was an insane thought. How could a random artist outsmart and overpower a seasoned serial killer? Was that what happened or was this all nonsense? George needed to know. He needed to confront Jager, to find out one way or another.

George walked to Fisk's bar and poured himself a drink. He knew Jager would be coming to the party on the weekend, but that was off limits to the staff. He had also overheard Fisk mentioning that Jager was staying with his agent, Wilson Briggs. It would be easy enough to find out the address.

Once he resolved to find out the truth, the knot in his stomach dissipated. He would put this behind him at last. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his paranoia seemed. Living in New York was messing with his mind. He finished his drink and went back to bed. He'd visit Brigg's place later in the week and talk to Jager himself and settle this once and for all.

"No hard feelings, Charlie," Fisk said while swirling his cognac in a large snifter.

"Of course not, Bart. It was all just a misunderstanding. No harm, no foul," Howe said nervously.

"Right. Of course, I must admit my feelings were hurt. You know what was worse than you trying to make me look bad?" Fisk summoned the waiter and ordered another glass of the cognac.

Howe waited for the waiter to leave before protesting, "I wasn't trying to make you..."

"What was worse," Fisk interrupted, "was that Charity, Fred, Hawthorn, Mellisa, and lord knows who else, knew all about it and didn't say a word. If it weren't for Parish's lack of spine, you would have gotten away with it and made me look foolish," he redirected his gaze directly at Howe's eyes, "I will not be made a fool, Charlie, I will not be made a fool."

Howe raised his hand in defense, "I don't know what I was thinking... I just thought it would be nice to fund the commission. There was no thought of stepping on your toes... you must believe me, no ill will was intended."

Fisk stared grimly at Howe before suddenly breaking into a grin, "I'm sorry, Charlie. I get overly sensitive at times... personality flaw. I apologize for accusing you. Let's change the subject. The party on Saturday. Have you selected a costume?"

Howe felt relieved and smiled brightly, "I watched Easy Rider last week for inspiration. I think I have a good idea."

"Great, just try remember to think happy hippie, not grubby hippie, we want a Grateful Dead feel, not a Charlie Manson feel."

Howe laughed, "Got it, Grateful Dead... speaking of which," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "will there be good... stuff available?"

"The best, as usual. It was delivered earlier this week, quite a wide array of top notch... shall we say... mood enhancers."

"Great, Charity will be thrilled," Howe said enthusiastically, "everyone I've spoken to is incredibly thrilled."

Fisk smiled. Not half as much as I am, you asshole, he thought happily.

Siggy was sitting on his porch enjoying the sunset when his phone rang. It was Wilson.

"Hey Siggy, are you still coming up tomorrow?"

"I am."

"Would you like me to pick you up?"

"No thanks, Willy, I'm going to be driving up this time."

"That's an awful long drive, you're gonna be worn out by the time you get here. The good news though is my loft comes with a parking spot in the basement by the elevator. I don't have a car, so it's yours while you're here."

"That's great," Siggy said honestly, "I was a bit concerned about parking, I've heard horror stories."

"All true," Wilson laughed, "could I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

"Could you bring up another batch of your drawings, they're selling like hot cakes and galleries have been reaching out to me?"

"No problem, I've got tons. I need to get off the phone now and load up the truck. I'll make sure to get those sketches to you."

"Great. Have a safe trip Siggy ." Wilson hung up and Siggy returned his attention to the setting sun. He would go to bed early. It was going to be a busy few days.