Matthew Timms hadn't seen a ghost in two days, and the anticipation was killing him. If the ghosts didn't do him in, his own heart would. He'd checked the diner out carefully before coming in, but what did that matter? He still couldn't enjoy his breakfast.

        He wasn't the man he used to be, who could kill a man right after lunch and not have it spoil his dinner.

        That was before the people he'd killed started appearing. They showed up in odd places, at unexpected times. Some were sad, some angry. Others smiled as at some hidden joke. These bothered Matt the most. It was as if they knew something.

        Suddenly not hungry, Matt threw a napkin over the remains of his breakfast. He finished his lukewarm coffee with a gulp and pushed the cup across the counter for a refill. In doing so he slightly jostled the elbow of the man sitting to his right.

        "Excuse me," Matt started to say, but when he turned to face his fellow diner, his mouth froze in position, half open.

        "No problem," the man said, but Matt wasn't listening. His eyes were locked on the wickedly evil grin he saw on the man's face. Quickly, Matt threw a five on the counter and hurried out of the diner.

        Kevin Hobart, Matt thought. I killed him in '97.

        This was very bad. Hobart was out of sequence.

        When the ghosts started appearing three months ago, the first ghost Matt had seen was that of the first man he'd killed, way back in '93. Ghost followed on ghost, the results of his deadly work parading through his life. Ghosts popped up in the most unexpected places–like the counter of a greasy-spoon diner.

        The heat outside was almost unbearable after the air conditioning of the diner, but Matt hardly noticed. He had gone north after the ghosts started appearing, but they found him no matter where he went and hot as it might be, central Texas was home. He came back, buying a last-minute plane ticket when he saw Willie McConklin leering at him in the Chicago bus station. Willie was killed on April 1, Matt's April Fools' job of 1994.

        There was no place that Matt could go now, no where he could hide. But he couldn't stay near the diner. Hobart might come out at any moment.

        Matt walked along on the blisteringly hot sidewalk, trying to piece together the riddle of Kevin Hobart. Not why he appeared; Hobart and the others had an obvious bone to pick with the man who had been hired to kill them. The key question was--why did Hobart jump ahead in line? It wasn't his turn. Each of the men he'd killed in '93 and early '94 had put in an appearance, in the order in which Matt had killed them. Only male ghosts so far, thank goodness. Matt hadn't killed his first woman--Roberta Hanks--until February '95, and he'd been dreading her especially. At the time he killed her, he hadn't wanted to do it. That was the only time he ever killed anyone that he didn't believe deserved it.

        But Hobart! Hobart was 1997. Why did the ghosts change their pattern? Or had the others shown up, unnoticed by Matt?

        Yes, that must be it. They came back to haunt him, but he never noticed. So then, who was next? Who followed Hobart? God, had he killed so many that he couldn't remember them all? Anderson, he remembered. Bill Anderson was the same month as Hobart.

        It was too hot to be outside. The air-conditioned library was just around the corner. Matt turned down the side street, but as he started to climb the library steps, he saw Bill Anderson walking down toward him.

        And Anderson was talking to Roberta. No way! She was one of the last persons he'd killed. Nowhere near Anderson--not even the same year. And now that he thought about it, Anderson didn't follow Hobart. Henderson did.

        What were they doing to him?

        Revenge. They must be appearing to revenge themselves on him. You killed us; now it's our turn. Turnabout is fair play, Matthew Timms.

        Ignoring the heat, Matt ran away from the library, back to the Avenue, and lost himself in the crowd. He followed the surge of people crossing the street, keeping his eyes down. He could do it. As long as he never looked at anyone's face again, he'd be fine.

        He walked three blocks in that manner before he forgot and looked up. His breath caught in his chest, but in a second he let it out gratefully. He saw no one he used to know, no one that he'd killed for pay.

        It wasn't fair. Why were they haunting him? It wasn't a personal thing with him. It was his job. And he wasn't the only one who made a living killing people. No one else he knew saw the people they'd killed. He'd asked two others of his close-knit profession, but had garnered only odd looks from them.

        The ghosts haunted only him.

        It was unfair. Really. Especially when he knew for a fact that, unlike some others who killed whomever they were told to kill and didn't care why they were being killed or even who they were, Matt didn't work that way. Not him. Except for Roberta Hanks, whose death Matt sincerely regretted, if he didn't personally think a person deserved killing, he wouldn't do the job. There were others who were happy to do the job for him and collect his pay.

        Matt chanced a glance up. He was passing the Police Station. Coming out the front door was...whew. It wasn't someone else he'd killed. It was a detective he knew slightly. Fulvi, his name was. Jim Fulvi.

        "Jim! Over here." The time had come.

        Fulvi turned and frowned in Matt's direction. Matt hurried over and grabbed Fulvi's arm. "I need to confess," Matt said. "I've killed almost a hundred people."

        Fulvi shook him off. "What is this, some kind of joke?"

        "No, it's true, I swear. I've killed eighty-seven people. I'm Matt Timms and--"

        "I know who you are. What do you think you're doing?"

        "Confessing. I'm guilty and I admit it." Matt grabbed Fulvi's arm again as he realized the one sure way to get rid of the ghosts. He had to die himself. Then he'd be free. Poetic justice if he were executed for killing them. "Bring me inside. I'll sign a confession right now."

        Fulvi stared at him for a long minute. "All right," he said. "Come on inside."

        Gratefully, Matt followed Fulvi into the Police Station. Fulvi led him to a small room, empty except for a table and four chairs. "Wait here," Fulvi said.

        Matt sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, at peace for the first time in months. This shouldn't take long--a confession, a short trial and then the blissful release of death. Maybe the ghosts will leave him alone now that they know his intentions. It would be nice to finish out his life without seeing anyone else he'd killed.

        After fifteen minutes, Fulvi came back into the room with another man, older and somehow too diffident and gentle to be a cop, a pleasant-looking man that reminded Matt of one of his grade school teachers. They sat at the table, Fulvi opposite Matt and the other man to Matt's left.

        Fulvi waved a hand in Matt's general direction. "This is the man, Doctor. Matthew Timms. Timms, this is Doctor Vanderstone."

        Matt nodded without understanding. What was going on?

        Vanderstone spoke to Fulvi. "And Timms has confessed to killing a number of people?"

        "Eighty-seven," said Fulvi.

        Matt chewed on his lower lip, but said nothing. Vanderstone stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Fulvi. "And Timms didn't do it?" he asked.

        "Oh, no," said Fulvi. "He killed them. Killed them all. Twenty in one year alone, right, Timms?"

        "Twenty-five in 1996," Matt said, "But--"

        Vanderstone stood. "What is this? Why did you bring me here, Fulvi? This man doesn't need a psychiatrist. He needs a lawyer."

        Fulvi jumped up. "No, wait, Doctor. You don't understand. He killed all those people, like he said, but it's all right. Matthew Timms was an executioner at one of the State Penitentiaries."

        Matt didn't hear a word Fulvi said. He'd just realized why Vanderstone looked familiar. He'd killed Vanderstone three years ago this fall. Matt bolted for the door and ran into Fulvi. The two of them thrashed on the floor and Matt came up with Fulvi's gun in his hand.

        Holding the gun, he ran from the interrogation room into the squad room. There was a brief moment of silence, then several cries of "Gun!"

        Matt looked around, realized they meant him. "No," he said lifting the gun. Uniformed cops scattered before his raised weapon, but one female officer stood firm, her own weapon drawn and aimed at him. It was Roberta Hanks.

        Finally. An end to the haunting. Matt pointed the gun at her and waited. It didn't take long. He saw the flash as Roberta's gun fired, and knew he'd finally found his peace.