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If it is LeRoi, the kid’ll soon have one fewer stick figure to draw.

And maybe the other large stick figure can go collect a ten-grand reward.

Curtis remembered that Cheatham, a big eighteen-year-old with droopy eyes and a goatee, hadn’t even completed middle school. The Wanted sheet inside the envelope stated that he was a fugitive from Megan’s Law, having failed four months earlier to register as a convicted sex offender after enjoying an early release courtesy of the prison parole board. Unsurprisingly, it also stated that Cheatham had failed to maintain contact with his Pennsylvania State Parole Agent, an offense for which there was an additional warrant.

LeRoi had the habit of snorting bumps of crystal meth, then entertaining himself during the adrenaline rush that followed by raping the first female he could snatch off the street and drag into an alley or park.

He’d stupidly dragged his last known victim, the one who’d helped finally put him behind bars, back to his bedroom in the stand-alone row house on Mutter Street. The police found him there hours later, passed out and naked on the floor, after the fifteen-year-old victim had escaped and led them back to the address that was impossible to miss.

Curtis thought he detected movement in the house. He looked back, first to the artwork on the steps, then to the doors. The rusty white front door was swinging inward.

A very skinny black boy about five feet tall stepped into the opening. He looked to be ten, maybe twelve, and was drinking from a yellow plastic cup that covered most of his narrow face. He wore oversize khaki pants with the cuffs rolled up, a faded and stained navy sweatshirt, and dirty white sneakers.

His dark almond eyes darted in the direction of the white FedEx minivan parked across the street, but he didn’t seem concerned about it. He then pushed on the storm door and stepped outside.

Could he be the medium-size stick person?

Which would mean there’s maybe an adult and an infant inside?

The cup still to his face, the young boy pushed the storm door shut, then sat down on the top step. Curtis saw that he’d situated himself so that his back was mostly to the FedEx minivan but he could still see it out of the corner of his eye. Then he put down the cup, picked up a piece of the broken chalk, and went back to working on his art project.

Curtis slipped the Glock .45-caliber pistol under his waistband behind his belt buckle, then stepped out of the minivan, carrying the envelope addressed to LeRoi Cheatham.

When he was halfway across the street, Curtis called out, “This is the Cheatham home, right, young man?”

The kid did not look up, but just shook his head. He kept drawing, his eye darting a couple times to follow the approaching deliveryman.

“That’s nice art,” Curtis said as he stopped at the steps. “Who are the people?”

The kid didn’t reply.

Curtis pointed to the smallest figure. “Is the little one your baby brother?”

The kid shook his head as he scratched out another cloud.

“Your sister?” Curtis pursued.

He shook his head again. He tapped the stick figure with the chalk, then proudly declared, “It be me, muthafucka!”

What? Curtis thought.

He found himself somewhat shocked, first by the out-of-the-blue expletive from the young boy’s mouth, and then by the disconnect between what he saw in the drawing and what the boy said it was supposed to be.

Weird. The kid has no sense of scale.

But wait . . . a twelve-year-old drawing stick figures?

He must really be backward.

Maybe some mental defect from his mother smoking crack when she was pregnant. Or from bad diet. Or just being dropped when he was a baby.

Maybe he’s got that—what’s it called?—Tourette’s syndrome.

Then again, he probably hears people swearing all the time, and no one tells him not to do it himself.

The kid went back to drawing clouds.

“Nice clouds,” Curtis said. “What’s your name?”