Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. You’d make a good Devil. ” His walk became a jovial saunter. "Mr.
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