The doll was shriveled, melted.  It slept in the coals of the small fire with only the bubbling head intact.  Bill Taylor poked it with a stick. 
     "Now look at that honey.  That's what I'm talking about!"
     "I don't know why she did it Bill," Gretchen Taylor said, defensively.
     "Just like the old man.  The old man went nuts and now she's--"
     "Don't you talk about my dad like that!"
     "But, look what she did to the kid's doll," he said.
      Marian Kirk came from behind them.  "There was something wrong with it," she said.
     "What?"  Bill pleaded.
     "I can't explain.  At least not to your satisfaction."
     "What are you going to burn next?"  Bill asked, his head cocked to one side.
     "Nothing, I hope," Marian answered.
     "Nothing is right.  You're giving me the creeps.  You know that don't you?"
     "This has to do with a case your father was working on, Gretchen, and you know that he was quite lucid...when he died."
     "I do Mom, but you can understand what Bill is saying."
     He turned and walked toward the house, his voice trailing off.  "Let's just forget it.  But I want you to think about moving back to your own house." 
     Gretchen Taylor began to cry.  She hugged her mother, and struggled with her own doubts.
 

    Marian packed for most of the afternoon.  At five, she called a cab and went home.  It was understandable that her son-in-law should want her out of the house.  They usually either loved you or hated you, though she didn't think it was hate.  Bill was a fine man and had treated her kindly.  He was a strong personality and so was she.  The problem, as she began to see it, was that he had no idea of the danger they were in.  It would never have occurred to her that this thing would begin to taunt her.  It had changed everything with that tiny red dot. 
     As she rode in the taxi, she thought of the $100,000 in mutual funds.  She intended to withdraw the money. 
     Dating came to mind.  She had never been overweight and her blue eyes still looked young and though her hair was nearly white, it framed her face well.  She thought of herself as attractive and Norman had said he would understand.  There wasn't much he could do to protest, she thought facetiously.  But she wouldn't date, and the fact was, she couldn't be interested in anyone else.  Norman Kirk had been her first lover and he would always be her man.  She considered herself sentimental but firm. 
      She paid the driver and insisted on carrying her own bags.  As she unlocked the door, she thought about that family in Portugal.  How could they live like that, year after year?  She hoped any interest the thing had in Kathy would be diverted now that she was going home. 
 

     It was getting colder.  Winter seemed close and school had started.  The air had the fresh smell that only comes with frigid temperatures.  Both the locksmith and the alarm installer were scheduled before 2 o'clock. 
     The blinds were closed.  It had become a habit so quickly.  How much would change now?  She didn't go out at night and wouldn't look out the window. 
     No matter what.
     She asked for motion sensors both inside and outside the house.  The man from the Alarm Company thought it was an odd request.  Even a bird would set it off.  But it could be regulated to cover the area just in front of the doors and windows.  Better to have cameras sweeping the property.  He thought she was a soft touch.  She nixed the idea of the cameras, though she wouldn't say why.  The motion devices would be set for a short distance; just a few feet, so as not to pick up anything unwanted.
     Unwanted.
     The locksmith was to fit a peephole into both doors.  He had the same look on his face when she described it.  He tried to show her one-way high tech devices from his catalog.  There were two doors, front and back.  On the floor, next to each one was an antique umbrella holder.  She had found them at a yard sale.  Along with umbrellas, the holders contained long sharpened sticks.  They seemed to be ordinary decorative accessories like flower arrangements. 
     In the center of the doors, just below the high tech fish-eye of the peephole lens, was another less sophisticated device.  Covered with an ornate, locking brass hatch, was a one-half-inch hole.
 
 

Charlie Bombar was a shooter.  He was well known in Special Forces as a sniper and weapons expert.  As one of the Marines that had to be debriefed by a shrink, it wasn't easy to become part of society.  He had served his country as a killer, but Bombar was determined to be a family man. 
 At six-foot-four, two hundred twenty pounds, there were few neighbors that would insult him. With clear brown eyes and thinning blonde hair, he looked like a really nice guy.  He was a man with great humor, but the reputation was hard to hide.  Demands of the SWAT program were perfect for a man of his talents. 
      Today was his birthday.  There would be 40 candles.  He was in his den, waiting for a surprise party.  He didn't like surprises, but this one had been telegraphed for weeks.  The whispering, the giggling, the poorly hidden packages; the grocery store had even called about a cake.  He was in his den, oblivious to the celebration that his wife and two young daughters had prepared.   She had suggested a big party with friends and family, but he had nixed it.  Years of working along the black edge of government's dirty underside made him a bit antisocial.  Civilians had no idea. 
     French doors looked out into a small but well kept garden.  The afternoon light gave the room a buttery glow.  Shelves covering the walls were filled with trophies.  The rest were filled with framed photographs.  Charlie in various uniforms: jungle fatigues, desert gear, and black pajamas, parachute.  They showed him walking along a string of prone marines drilling for marksmanship.  There were several magazine clippings, full pages showing Charles Bombar demonstrating innovative martial arts techniques.  He was most proud of his group shots with the Pennsylvania State Police.  Off to one side, almost as an afterthought, was a small frame of Charlie shaking hands with Gerald Ford.
     Anita and the girls burst in with the cake.  She put it on his desk and they shouted in unison, "Happy birthday, Daddy!"  They stood eagerly watching their father.  "Happy thirty something sweetheart," Anita said, planting a kiss on his forehead.  The twins turned away saying, "OOOOOO, Gross!" 
     "Kissing is very nice," Charlie said.
     "Go bring in the presents," Anita said, pointing to the door. 
     "You know hon," he said, "the only thing I miss about my lost youth is my hair."
     "You're the sexiest thing on two legs," she said, stooping to stroke his receding hairline, "especially this."
     "Oops," he said, as the twins came back into the room with a stack of crudely wrapped packages.  He laughed and began to shake one.  "Hmmmm," sounds like a motorcycle.
     "Wrong!" The twins shouted.
     "Want coffee, babe?"  Anita asked.
     "I love new ideas," he said.
     His private phone rang.  They knew the drill.  "Yes, I will," he said to the operator.  Straightening, he put his hand over the receiver.  "Anita, I have to be alone for about ten minutes.  Sorry."
     "Okay, everybody shoo!" Anita said, clapping her hands.
 He watched as the identical blonde heads floated down the hallway.  "Hi, I'm here.  Yeah, of course I know you didn't do it.  You didn't, did you?  Take it easy, just a joke."
     Frank Holtz was speaking on the other end, calmly but rapidly.  He told Charlie everything.  Bombar had seen things that even the President couldn't know.  He was used to the unbelievable, sometimes absurd twist that covert operations could take.  He listened to the story without commenting.  When it was over he looked to the door of his den.  Making sure that his wife couldn't hear, he said, "Listen Frankie, I hope to God you're making this up.  No, of course you wouldn't.  But I have to see.  Man Frank, you're hot.  Everybody's' looking for you.  They 're trying to tie you to the whole thing.  That stuff in the barn, Kirk's niece, that thing on the cliff."
     Five generations of Bombars had been policemen.  He listened to his friend.  The more he heard, the more he believed.  It was just too weird to be a lie. 
 

    Through his eyes, they were like the immaculate cells coursing through his veins.  As much a part of him as teeth to tear and the spreading claws.  When they grew in number, he brought them down.  When the time was right, ecstasy took him and he allowed his own death.  He would come to the one he chose and like a dog, wait by the door.  The sharp wooden tongue would dart in and out, searching for him, wanting to release him from the agony. 
     He knew what he was doing.  Like the oversoul of all the animals, his reach was almost total.  He knew their thoughts and their movements.  They vanished.  He would leave the full-grown because they were too dangerous, though he was tempted.  The young were perfect.  They vanished of their own accord and were thought to be missing. They were easy, so easy. 
     His lower self came now and then and he would be crushed by the knowledge.  He went in and out like a dream.  During the height of the media's campaign to find the lost children, he took the most.  All that publicity made it easy.  They looked each morning at the grainy photos on the side of milk cartons and thought of the little smiling faces as "too bads".  "Too bads" were missing everywhere.  But not in Mercer, because that's where he lived.  Kids in Mercer were safe.  Some were taken in the beginning, but even the lower self--Rearson he called himself--would avoid that.  Rearson the man.  Rearson would drive the car.  He wept as he drove.  The change was so subtle now that he hardly noticed.  But at first it had been terrible, the skin breaking, muscle bleeding, the bone jagged and growing like thorns into his flesh. 
      When it was upon him totally, the stunning consciousness was overwhelming, weaving him with the microscopic and multiple bands of light.  He knew the wave of thoughts and impressions, knew the world as a tiny sphere of information.  The oversoul of all animals and lower forms of life were his.  He had gleaned the best and most powerful aspects and talents from every predator. 
     This night desire drove him.  The rich scent that flowed from beneath him brought him down and Rearson came up like a minnow for food.  He knew that he had been gone because he was wet.  Rearson trembled at what was hidden below.  He dragged a small female.  It had been rendered unconscious by a single flick of the claw (claw?) and he had pulled it into the car.  Onlookers thought that another runaway was on her way home.  He found it in the street.  What had it been doing there? 

    The beard itched and needed trimming.  Holtz scratched absently.  He walked in heavy boots through fresh mud.  The facial hair was good cover.  Looking over his shoulder, he scanned the dirt road and the woods. 
     "Shit," he said.  A car was coming.  He scrambled over a loose, rusty cable and bolted into the trees.   He slipped and thudded face down in the rotten leaves.  He swore again and crawled behind an oak tree. 
     The car rolled by.
     Holtz sat with his back to the rough bark.  His pants were soaked.  For a long time he just sat and didn't care.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the folded newspaper.  It was over a week old.  He would find them stuffed in a trash can, but sometimes there wasn't one.  He smiled, feeling like a mountain man.  Lighting up a Marlboro, which was the last of a carton, he browsed the front page of the Easton Express.  White smoke dribbled from his nose and was taken by the wind.  On the second page, the insignificant headline stung him.

     Norm was dead. 
     Had been dead.  Charlie hadn't said a word about it.  Frank was running.  He fell again, cracking his knee.  Limping, he hurried to the cabin, the newspaper left behind.  It was getting dark. 
     Norm was dead. 
     What could have happened?  God, he thought, this called for a change in tactics.  So far, it had been like a game.  It was a police game, but still, he wasn't actually involved.  Norman was going to take care of everything and soon he could go home.  He wanted to help the old man and had trusted him.  Now Holtz could see the truth.  Norman had held out on the department.  Most of the facts about this thing had been withheld.  Norman pretended to be a nutcase.  He knew exactly how to do it.  Holtz was sure that Kirk could get him off once the true story came out.  But the report had to be convincing.  It would take time.  It would take two statements. 
     Now there was only one.
     Only one crazy man.
     For the first time, Frank felt truly afraid.  Inside the door, he stumbled over the table, then onto the couch.  Making his way to the box, he tore it open.  Inside were stored the rubber suit, the head cover, boots and spear guns.  He fingered the deadly wooden shafts.  He stretched the rubber, testing it.  He was careful not to touch the spear tips.  The twelve-inch darts could kill him from so much as a nick.  The oak shafts would bring back the man from the beast.  Then the nerve poison would turn his system to Jell.
     He pulled out the glasses.  A strong adjustable head strap would keep them in place, no matter what happened.    There was no reason to wait.  He would kill Rearson tonight.  But it was hopeless.  Without a witness, without help, he would be just another cop killer.  He threw the gear on the table. 
     It took forty-five minutes to get back to the phone booth.  The drizzle had become a nagging, cold rain.  He went through his pockets for a quarter, couldn't fine one.  He called collect again. 
     "Charlie," Frank said.
     "Hold on," Bombar said.
     "Charlie, Frank."
     "Yo."
     "Kirk is dead?"
     "Heart attack," Bombar answered.
     "Look, I got trouble, Charlie.  I have to do this guy.  This thing."
     "I see what you mean.  I don't know what you want me to do, but I'm ready."
     "You don't know what that means to me.  I'm going to show you something," Frank said.
     "Where do you want to meet?"

    He had found it in the street.  He thought about that.  What had it been doing there?  The animal began bleating as it came to.  It scraped split hoofs on the polished wood floor.  He dragged it by the hair--(hair?)--down into the basement.  The house was secluded and no one heard.  He reached out and Rearson saw his own hand.  He was shocked by the appearance and attempted to disown it.  It grasped the back of the ewe's head.  Gently, he tore it open at the shoulder.  Bone and muscle contracted beneath the gaping wound.  Blood was sticky on the gleaming thick claws. 
     The red flow stank, rich and savory.  He was empowered, throbbing beneath his moving flesh.  His mouth, a huge, obscene thing, like an inverted black cauliflower filled with yellow curved needles, bit deeply into the neck and collarbone.  The mouth reformed, transshapping, lips like slippery eels, moving, feeling their way across the white skin, adapting to the job at hand, large jaws breaking, snapping, the sound like music, small incisors taking fluids, penetrating.  He lifted it by the leg and began to tie the foot to a beam. 
     She was dead now and now he would truly feed.  First on the kill and the wonder of death, then on the flesh itself.  The bites and mouthfuls would be savored almost endlessly.  The unwanted skin would be flayed with the most delicate care and then discarded. 
     Queer disjointed thoughts ran through his now completely altered brain.  His skin was running, matted hair thick with the animals's blood, melting, an army of crawling, modifying cells, each voraciously pursuing the job of serving its host, of being fed.  Humanity, Rearson, the lower, surfaced dimly, and he saw himself for a few seconds.  He heard the screaming, part of him.  The last thing he heard was a delusion that the sheep had spoken to him before it died.
 

     They sat in Bombar's Thunderbird.  It was the first civilized thing Holtz had done for two months.  The field to the left of the car was covered with a thin powder of hardened snow.  In a dark patch across the field, at the edge of the trees, the snow was melted.  Scott Allen, Bill Calaway, and Larry Stern were buried there.  Mercer sat below under a dense fog. 
     "You look like shit," Bombar said.
     "Thanks very much," Frank said, and smiled.
     "Don't mention it cousin."
     "So," Frank said, "gonna turn me in?"
     "You have the right to remain silent.  Maybe later we'll do that.  For now, tell me about the flack suit."
     "We need to be covered.  I mean totally.  Everything sealed with duct tape, and you shoot it with the little crossbow.  Other than that, it should be easy."
     "This is nuts," Bombar said.  He couldn't believe and yet he did.  In the jungles and deserts of war a man becomes finely tuned to expect anything.  He remembered in Cambodia a flying insect that rammed him in the back.  It had felt like a punch.  He remembered a spider that had lived through an attack with a two by four, then had cried like a child when he shot it with a .45.   There was a little gook that had taken over 65 mortal wounds as he crossed a field and died right in front of the squad.  The guy had so much heroine in his blood that his heart had a life of its own.   Most experience fit into a worldly mold, but sometimes he had to let go of that completely.  In the age of sex and horror, this thing came almost easily, almost as a relief. 
     Something as bad as I am. 

     "The blades have to be dipped in this stuff," Holtz said, producing the bottle. 
     "Well," Charlie said, "I wish we had more help."
     "Can't risk it," Frank said.  "That's seems to be how it works."
     "Nah, nah, I can get ten guys here in half an hour who would love to rip this bitch's ass off."
     "And what would you tell them?"
     "I would tell them a large fur bearing creature that hurts little children is in there and we have to kill it."
     "That'll do it."
     "You're right.  Hey, you're right.  I guess it's just us then," Charlie said.  "By the way...have you seen the papers?"
     "Not today's."
     "The Mercer Elementary School is having career day and Rearson is gonna be there."
     "Jesus," said Holtz. 
     "He's giving a talk on safety in the home."
     "When?"
     "Tomorrow."
     "We have to get him before that."
     But they didn't.

Everything that the human race has done and thought is concerned with the satisfaction of deeply felt needs and the assuagement of pain.  One has to keep this constantly in mind if one wishes to understand spiritual movements and their development.  Feeling and longing are the motive force behind all-human endeavor and human creation.  .  . With primitive man it is above all fear that evokes religious notions--fear of hunger, wild beasts, sickness, death.  .  .In this sense I am speaking of a religion of fear.  This, though not created, is to an important degree stabilized by the portion of a special priestly cast which sets itself up as a mediator between the people and the beings they fear, and erects a hegemony on this basis.

--Albert Einstein

Fear was the first thing on earth to make gods.

--Lucretius

God created the heaven and the earth, but the Devil was an independent contractor.

--Sherid Adams
Lobesomen

The X-men collection would be worth something in a few years.  Every comic book and poster that had ever been published was assembled in one place.  The girls in their sexy colorful costumes looked like cats, he thought.  A complete set of monsters was on a card table in the corner.  Plastic, glue-together models of Frankenstein, the Wolfman, the Mummy, Batman, and Superman, did battle along with hundreds of small injection molded army men, cave men and farm animals.  They covered the floor and hung from the ceiling, strung with nearly invisible catgut. 
     Kathy's room faced his, across the road.  He could see her window.  She was asleep.  But he could stay up late, because he was big.  There was always some doubt about Almo around children.  He was enormous, even for an adult.  The doctors who looked at him every once in a while said that he was impotent.  He was the equivalent of a eunuch.  He couldn't get an erection and he didn't think about sex.  He saw little girls and big girls the same.  When kissing came on TV, he buried his head.  If the people on the screen did more than that, he just stared.  His mom asked him if he knew what they were doing.  He said yes, they were doing sex.  His reactions to sex were that of a child of seven or eight.  He had none.  Almo knew enough about his situation not to be curious about anyone's body.  He was very happy in the grip of eternal childhood. 
     He could hear his mom in the living room beneath him.  She was watching the Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson.  Dah, dah, da da, daaaaah, Doc Severnson and the band played Johnny's intro.  "Heeeeerrrrr's Johnny!" Ed McMayon shouted.  Grown-up shows, Almo thought, not interested. 
     He looked again at Kathy's window.  She was his little sister.  They had both agreed that even though they didn't have the same mom, they were "related".  There was something going on over at Kathy's house.  Something was bad.  Almo knew this the moment Grampa Kirk had "pass-da-way". 
     On his table, all the good monsters were at play.  Godzillas and Gorgos, toothy giants that crushed buildings and terrorized Japanese scientists, surrounded him.  Almo knew when he was just five that monsters couldn't come out of the television.  If he got scared just the same, like when he was little, like when that bad dog came, he thought about Grampa Kirk.  Grampa Kirk was in the State Police and he would kill the monsters.  And that was that.
     But who would kill the monsters now?

     He stooped going through his bedroom door.  It must have been made for a much smaller person.  Going down the curling staircase, he went into the kitchen.  The refrigerator door swung open wide, throwing a balloon of light into the room.  Almo removed a gallon of milk.  He got his Big Gulp cup from the cabinet and filled it.  The kitchen table was filled with jars, packages, and containers.  Spices, jellies, peanut butter, Tang, and instant coffee covered the red Formica top.  He carried his cup into the living room and sat down next to his mom. 
     "You're up late," she said, scratching his head.
     "I don't feel good," he said.
     "Why, big boy, whatsa' matter?"
     "Monsters," Almo answered, tucking his head beneath his mother's back.  He looked into the dark space between her dress and the pillows of the couch.  Somewhere in there rows of fine white teeth began to appear.  They waved in slow motion like the Northern Lights.   He yanked his head back up.
     "What's got into you tonight?"  His mom squeezed his cheeks between her thumbs and fingers.
     "Teeth," he replied, dreamily.
     "Your teeth hurt?"
     "They want to hurt me."
     "What kind of teeth?"
     "Doggie teeth," Almo said, whimpering.
 She took his head to her breast, trying to comfort him.  "That damn ol' pitbull got you scared," she said.  "Well he dead.  You put that bad dog in the ground, cause' you're one strong little boy!"
     "Show-an-tell," he said.
     "That's right, Kathy's gonna show you off to the other kids."
      "You are correct monster breath," Almo said, mimicking Ed McMayon.

    Principal of the Mercer Elementary School, Beverly Kalb was an early riser. 
    "We were in bed," she said, slightly annoyed.
     "Yes Bev, I know it’s late."
     "11 o'clock."
     "Just listen to me for a few minutes," Marian Kirk said, stress making her voice shake.
     "Go ahead," Beverly replied.
     "I just found out that you're having Bob Rearson for career day."
     "And we're lucky to get him.  He's been very busy lately."
     "I don't think it's a good idea."
     "You don't what?"
     Marian took her time, weighed her words.  "He's not appropriate.  The man's a drunk.  He's a child abuser and a totally corrupt individual.  Do you ever wonder why he never remarried?"
     "This couldn't have anything to do with the fact that Bob and your late husband had a disagreement?"
     "No, it couldn't," Marian said.
     "Well, Robert was responsible for Norman's suspension.  He was the primary witness at the hearing."
     "None of the other eight men who were present could remember anything.  Doesn't that tell you anything."
     "Like what," Beverly Kalb asked.  "What does it tell me, Mare?"
     "I don't know.  Look, Bev, I think he's dangerous.  Somehow, I think he's involved with all those missing children--"
     "That's ridiculous!  How dare you slander the good name of a man who has served his community..."
     Marian listened to the motion sensor squeal briefly.  She looked up at the little white box and saw the light flick from green to red and back, in the blink of an eye. 
     Beverly Kalb had hung up. 
     In Ferndale, eight miles south, the Kalbs were asleep.  Beverly Kalb had been in bed since 9 o'clock.  The phone had rung at 11, but there had been no one there.  She turned off the ringer.  She had a big day ahead. 

     Marian stood at the door.  A dog perhaps.  The salesman had said that even a bird could set it off, that it was foolish to even put a sensor outside.  Something as large as a man would set off a continuous beep.  She went to the window, reach for the blind.  The urge to life it passed quickly.  I might just live through this, she thought. 
      With her right middle finger, she pushed the brass cover aside.  In the lens of the peephole, she could see movement.  She flipped on the porch light.  Through the hole, she could see it.  A few feet from the door, something looked like dripping molasses.  Kathy and Almo spoke to her, "C'mon out side Grammy."  Marian selected a stick from the umbrella stand.  She held the point just below the tiny brass port. 
     It moved closer.
     She struck.  The stick whistled through the door.
     She struck again, and Kathy grunted outside.  God, it was hard. 
     And again and again. 
 

    The house, just as Frank said, sat on the edge of a cornfield.  From the street, the rows stretched across to a large stand of trees then gave way to another pasture, higher up.  That was where Frank had begun his stakeout months before.  They pulled up to the front of the house.  It was a white frame ranch house with a floor above ground and a basement, which was commonly used as a recreation room. 
     Wind howled off the new drifted snow.  It reduced the chill factor to about twenty degrees.  Holtz rolled down his window and sniffed. 
     "Oh man," he said.  It took a moment to enter the car.
     "Good God, what is that?" Bombar said, but he already knew.  Many times in a hut where the VC had been, the same smell came up from under the floor.
     "That," Frank Holtz went on, "is what he's about."
     "The car's here.  Think he's in there?"
      "Well, if this act dies, at least we're dressed for it."
     "What the hell does that mean?"
     "It's a showbiz thing," Holtz answered with a grin.  "And it means, I don't know."
     Bombar fingered a plastic folder filled with lock picks.  "I brought my Bethlehem master key," he said.  They reached into the back seat and pulled their weapons, crossbow and speargun. 
     "Wow, what's that," Frank said.
      "Boken," Bombar answered.  "Made of bamboo, razor sharp, for training in knife fighting.  'Course we never have one this sharp.  I figured it might come in handy.  Cut that fucker to pieces.  Think so?"
      "I knew there was a reason I brought you along.  Cut him to pieces...here's to that," Frank said.  He began to feel that this might be the last time he said or did anything.  He might die or Rearson might die.  Bombar's optimism was contagious.  He had spent his military career training Marines to do the impossible.  Together, they might put an end to this nightmare. 
     They looked in the big picture window.  There were no lights on.  The interior of the top floor seemed to crawl with horrors within. 
     "I hear something," Bombar whispered.
     "What?"
     "TV."
     "No lights."
     "Downstairs," Bombar said, pointing.  He inserted the putter shaped metal tool into the lock.  The other was a spring that put pressure on the barrel as the key would.  When the pins were depressed the lock turned and--
     "Were in."
     Both had their weapons cocked, bolts loaded.  Bombar took a strong penlight from his coat pocket, sealed the tape back up.  They were covered in plastic, which hampered their movements.  Holtz had on an old wetsuit.  The flashlight panned its glow over the walls, kitchen, hallway.  Nothing was out of place. 
      "That door--basement," Charlie said through his teeth.
     "It smells like the basement of a Chinese restaurant."
     "That's death.  A lot of death." 
     The door swung open revealing steps that led down to the rec room.
 

    The phone rang.
     She turned, cursing.  There was a subtle tug on the end of the stick.  She ran to the adjacent wall, checked the stick, and picked up the phone.   The wood was dark, walnut, as Norman had instructed.  If any liquid came back, it would turn dark.
     "Hello," she said, winded.
     "Marian, this is Louise."
     "Louise?"
     "Louise, honey, your neighbor.  Who's that man doing a dance on your front porch?  Is he a pizza guy?"
     "It's--it's--a Jehovah's witness.'
     "At midnight?"
    "You know how they can be," Marian said.
     "Want me to call the police?"
     "That won't do much good, Louise.  They're persistent."
     "Okay honey, but if he doesn't leave, I'll send Herb over with the baseball bat."
     "Don't do that Louise." 
 
 

     Almo lay awake in his underwear.  The bedspread had a montage of super heroes printed in the middle.  Silver Surfer rode a wave of justice, which rumpled a little as Almo kicked off the covers.  He was hot.  The register in his room was wide open.  He reached out a size 14 foot and closed it.  Sitting on the side of his bed, he looked out his window through the frost.  Excitement ran through him.  A little face was peering from Kathy's window.  He got close to the glass and raised his hand.  After a moment, she waved back.
      Then he thought about tomorrow.  She was going to take him to school.  He hadn't been to school in 20 years.  It had never been much fun to begin with.  Still, she was his best friend, and he would go. 
     The light came on and Kathy's dad came into the room.  Almo saw them talk for a while, and then the light went out. 
     "Nite Kathy," Almo said.
      Nite Almo.

     As they descended the staircase, Holtz and Bombar felt as though they were entering the rings of Hell.  The stench was abominable.  Charlie bit down on the flashlight in his mouth and the 11 o'clock news came up from below.  Suddenly, the beam played across the hanging and heaped remnants of dozens of tiny bodies.  Arms, legs, bones.  In the corner, a pile of little heads.  The floor was sticky, slippery.  It was a dark skin covered with layers of old and new blood.  The TV threw its blue and white strobe across unmoving figures on the couch.  A fresh victim hung from a crudely erected crossbeam.  Just like the first one, thought Frank.
     "Just like the first one," Charlie said.
     The girl's right leg was fastened with the rope.  The other was broken, the upper femur separated completely from the hip.  Bombar noted this, thinking back to his training as a paramedic.  The neck was broken from a massive bite that removed parts of the shoulder and the back of the head.  Both men were hardened veterans of war, but had never seen mutilation like this inflicted on another human being. 
     "This is not a man," Charlie Bombar stated.
     "Not any more," Holtz agreed.
     "We should burn this fucking place down!"
     "Not good," Frank said.  "He has a place to go.  He shows up here.  Obviously, and we know where to find him."
     "You're right, there's nothing we can do for these..."
     "Too bads," said Frank.
     "Yeah, too bads."

     In the car, they were silent for a long time.  Looking at the ghastly work in the basement wasn't hard.  It was more of the same for both of them.  They had been soldiers.  But in that basement there was a sickness, a malevolence that went beyond anything they had ever seen or heard of.  Back in the car, in the fresh air--air that was still reeking of the obscenity, even in the road, they began to pull back from it.  They began to view it in the light of cold reason. 
     "We have to get this thing.  Man, animal, whatever it is," Bombar said.
     "We won't find him until tomorrow.  And he'll be at the school."
     "How do you know?"
     "Because it calls," Frank said, trying to keep the mystery out of his voice.
     "Calls?"
     "Yeah, that's the pattern.  He's always reeling me in.  He baits the trap with something you can't ignore and he keeps coming.  He calls, I come."
     "I got two kid, man--girls.  You've met them?  We go to the school in the morning and we off that motherfucker.  He's not gonna get by me."
     "Listen Charles, don't get heroic,” Frank told him.
     "You don't need to lecture me.  We went to the same school.  Nothing fancy.  All knees and elbows; just whatever works."
     "Yeah, I'm sorry.  Just whatever works.   After it's over we go to the commissioner.  We go all the way.  They'll believe us then, won't they?"
     "Sure...sure they well," Bombar said, craning his neck.  He looked back at the house.  "Let's get out of here.  It stinks." 
 

    Almo plodded heavily up the endless wooden steps.  Kathy had him by the hand, pulling him along.  Though he was incapable of embarrassment, he did feel reluctant.  He didn't really want to be shown and told.  The hulking black man still wasn't sure what that was.  He let his arm droop with his enthusiasm for a moment and Kathy stopped, sighed, and began tapping her foot.  They went on. 
     Several pre-schoolers were entering the building with their mothers.  The teachers had suggested that the children be left alone.  Almo attracted a lot of attention. His little escort assured him that they would see a movie and have Kool Aid and cookies. 
     The police car was parked in front of the building.  Everyone assumed that Chief Rearson was inside, but he in fact was not in any of the rooms.  None of the teachers had seen him.  Beverly Kalb mingled with parents and teachers, speaking in glowing terms about the wonderful talk that Bob would give.  Secretly, she wondered what he was doing.
     On the second floor, fifth and sixth-graders were entertaining the kindergarten visitors.  The group of five-year-olds was in front of the door to the fire escape.  One of the safety patrols explained that it was unique which meant "one of a kind".  The steel tube hung along the side of the pink building and was the fascination of all the neighborhood youngsters.  They had been promised a fire drill at the end of the day. 
     Afternoon sun shown through the antique, rippled glass windows.  It threw phantasmagoric shapes on the floor and walls.  A thousand tiny rainbows danced across the oiled wooden floors.  In an old school house, the wooden floor kicked up a lot of dust and regular oiling helped to keep it down.  Almo stood against the blackboard.  He was too big to sit at one of the desks and Kathy insisted that he be in front of the class.  She was sure that her show and tell was the best of all.  As he blended with the world of children and adults, fitting in with neither very well, he looked at his shirt and watched the rainbows crawl across his belly. 
     When the children were seated and everyone was introduced, career day began.  Beverly Kalb explained the safety patrol and recess.  She announced that they had a very special guest coming.  One little girl in the front row said that she didn't feel well.  A slender woman in her mid-twenties, knelt beside the child.  Then the other children began to complain.  Beverly Kalb thought she felt a twinge of dizziness. 
     Almo reached under his rib cage and pushed upward.  He felt gas and had a  moment of apprehension.  It wasn't right to fart in front of people.  His mom told him that.  So, he hoped he wouldn't.  They heard footsteps coming up the stairs. 

    The car wouldn't start.  They ran the two miles to the pink schoolhouse.  Panic began to set in as they tried to cover ground in the awkward wet weather gear.  People who saw them thought they were dressed for a very bad job.  Mercer Elementary loomed over the hill like a big pink marshmallow and Frank was thankful that his own son wasn't there.  As they passed the graveyard, parents were still milling about in the parking lot.  The weapons caused a stir.  Several people shouted questions as they entered the school grounds.  Considering Frank's recent flight as a fugitive, which was well known in the Delaware Valley, and Charlie Bombar's reputation as a police force mercenary, an instant climate of alarm went up amongst the group when the two men ran past.  They answered no questions and ignored the parents.  One aggressive dad grabbed Charlie's arm as he went past, but Bombar stopped and simply looked him in the eye.  There was no further discussion. 
     Frank said calmly, "Go around back Charlie, and come in from the other side.  Come up the tube.  It'll be open at the top."   They had seen Bob Rearson go in the door and he was climbing the stairs.  Frank cautiously entered the schoolhouse.  The wide doors were standing open.  He began to climb the steps to the gloomy second floor when the children began screaming.  Holtz showed his teeth and pulled an arrow.  He notched it securely and sprinted to the doorway above.  A teacher from one of the first floor classrooms appeared behind him. 
     "What's going on up there," she shouted.  Her reaction at seeing Frank's costume wasn't affecting her at all. 
     "Get the kid's outside.  Police emergency." 
     She vanished into the first grade classroom and four grades began an orderly exit.  Holtz admired the woman for that.  He heard glass breaking somewhere in the rear of the building and thought of Bombar. 
     Where is he?
     He began to feel it.  The nausea took him quickly and he wanted to slide the goggles over his hood.  But he resisted.  Even the air was ugly and hard to breathe.  He would be happy when this was over.  He would be happy just to live through it.  Then the dogs began to howl.  Cats screaming, children, dogs, tortured, horrible voices rushed from the open door just a few steps away.  A shrill, blood-chilling scream came from the playground, but he couldn't think about that. 
     Holtz cleared the stairwell.  He swung around, unsure of anything, overwhelmed with confusion.  A large dog panted near the back of his neck, the breath hot and wet.  He knew it wasn't real, but electricity rippled up his spine.  He turned.  He saw a huge, fat, black man cowering in the corner.  A little girl with curly brown hair was crying, clinging to the man's leg.  An instant urge to sink the arrow into the man passed as Frank recognized him.  The kid was Norman Kirk's granddaughter.  Frank knew without thinking that she was what this was all about.  His finger still wanted to fire the bolt. 
      "Get out, everybody get out!"  He waved his arm at the door and spun around, making eye contact at the women standing against the wall.  Time began to become distorted and he wondered how long he had been standing in that spot.  What he saw in that instant fixed itself in his mind forever. 
    The children's faces were held in rapt attention.  They wore expressions like kids on Christmas morning and at the same moment, seeing a dead animal just outside the back door covered with ants.  Their minds were incapable of adjusting to what they saw.  Frank caught this as a terrible insult.  He saw their innocence being attacked.  They would never be able to erase this horror from the clean memory of childhood. 
      In that moment, the beast stood with arms raised, head leaning to one side.  From the hands, dripped white talons and black fur fell to the floor.  It appeared like a bat or a hideous flying squirrel.  The claws that sprung from its feet gripped the wooden floor and pulled splinters and boards toward itself.  While the head leaned back, the throat opened.  A curtain covered in hair and muscle, it stood revealing itself, the flesh falling away, hunks of raw, red meat falling from the chest like open windows.  It rose up to its full height.  It roared, the challenge of a male lion, the trumpet of a charging bull elephant, the vibration of wasps ready to attack.  The effect was paralyzing.  Children were on the floor, crawling away.  The stench of vomit wafted past at they began to throw up.  It raked the ceiling, tearing a gaping hole, spraying plaster and lath. 
     Frank reached up and carefully pulled the goggles over his eyes.  "Get out!" he yelled.  "Get out!"  It was happening too fast and yet it seemed to stretch out for hours.  He hated the feeling and glanced at his wrist where his useless watch was covered in rubber. 
     Bombar emerged from the opening of the fire escape.  It had been freshly waxed and it was an effort to climb the slippery tube.  He was moving slowly, on point. His goggles were on and he was leading with one eye.  A floor-length plastic curtain separated the two classes.  It was accordioned against the back wall.  Most of the kids were bunched toward the door.  They were in a wailing knot on the floor, some on the stairwell.  Frank could hear someone outside calling them to come down. 
     "Grab the curtain," Frank yelled to Bombar.  They would cut the room in half, isolate the thing.  When the blood flew, it wouldn't go far.  But the children still on that side of the room were in danger. 
     "Go!" Frank yelled, waving toward the doorway.  They began to move slowly that way. 
     With a supernal howl, the creature bounded across the room, crisscrossed teeth flashing and clacking.  It lunged at Kathy, perhaps as a desperate attempt to retrieve its purpose.  Almo jumped up and threw his giant arms around the hairy monster.  The two of them danced obscenely across the room, knocking aside desks and breaking windows on the far wall.  They crashed with the force of a truck and glass flew. 
     Almo, with the mind of an eight-year-old boy, knew none of the terrible fear that should have stopped him.  Resolution gripped him and all the bad dogs and bad monsters in the world went flying through the air with him.  Die monster die, he thought.  He was Spider man and Thor and Superman and mostly, he was the Thing and it was clobberin' time.   He would protect his little friend no matter what.  It wanted to hurt Kathy. 
     The huge talons dug in again and again, destroying muscle and ligament.  Almo was shouting, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” but he couldn't hear himself.  Blood flew against the wallpaper, but he didn't let go. 
     Holtz and Bombar yanked the white plastic curtain from its track.  They moved toward the whirling terror.  Almo had it now under the front legs.  Its mouth, with a bite radius like a five-gallon bucket, was gnashing in all directions.  Every few seconds it would fall on Almo's shoulder.  He released his powerful grip and the two fell to the floor.  Bombar sprang on Kathy and propelled her toward the door. "Go sweetheart," he said, giving her another push.  She turned, resisting, to see her friend die. 
     They were up again.  Almo's arms were windmilling at the razor sharp sickles swirling toward him.  With a roundhouse motion, the creature's huge arms stretched, making a sound like fat being pulled apart.  The extended claws raked at Almo's neck and his head  wrenched back and came free.  It hung by a few threads of muscle, flopping and rolling around his right shoulder.  His mouth was open in a silent scream.  He fell again and lay still.  Then he slowly got back to his feet leaving the head on the floor.  He began walking unsteadily, reaching for his horrible enemy.  He continued staggering across the room, stepping on children, smashing into desks, until he got hold of the thing again.  He was thrown aside like a doll; blood gushing into the air, a hideous fountain from severed arteries, drenching the oiled floor. 
     They still couldn't risk an arrow.  The poison tips would kill a youngster instantly.  Holtz moved in closer.  He knew that Almo was dead, but saw only fragments.  Inside the limiting circle of the goggles, panning back and forth, he searched frantically. 
     Bombar was crouched into a fighting stance.  His knife, eighteen inches of keen bamboo blade, was pointed down, with the blade outward, tightly tucked into his forearm.  He backed up to the wall.  He looked like a bizarre ninja, dressed in rubber and plastic, nearly blind.  Years of training with the Japanese sword gave him a second sight.  There were one hundred fifty primary ways to kill a man, but this; this would require un-heard of combinations. 
     Holtz saw it first.  Another man in plastic and rubber was standing across the room, thirty yards away.  He swung his gaze and saw Charlie moving sideways toward something.  This other man was an identical replica.  No, it was like a hybrid version of the two of them.  Holtz was duped for a moment. 
     "It's him!" Holtz was screaming.  The hybrid man raised a speargun directly at him.  Can't be.  Sweat was pouring inside the wetsuit and he itched.  He wanted to run, hide behind something. 
     Can't be real.
     Charlie made a choice.  He raised the speargun with his left hand and fired.  The spear went wide.  It missed the hybrid by a foot.  "I'm me! I'm me!" The hybrid yelled.  It began a visible metamorphosis.  Millions of flickering points of color wavered and rippled.  It vanished and reappeared in the doorway. This time it was shorter and fatter, a mock-up. 
     Then the creature flowered opposite Bombar, but the hybrid in the doorway remained.  Bombar charged at the fully formed Lobesomen, his Boken spinning in a deadly figure eight.  He went for the eyes, missed, and slammed into the blackboard, throwing up a cloud of white chalk dust.  Rolling away expertly, he was back on his feet in an instant and lunged again.  The creature spread its claws and sliced the air.      Bombar ducked, leaving an empty pocket where he had been.  The thing was slightly off balance and he threw a punch into its giant rib cage.  It howled in pain. 
     It can be hurt.
     The mouth opened like a fluttering pink kite, filled with white hooks.  The thrust the knife directly into its throat, but the back of its neck expanded to make room.  The jaws snapped shut.  Bombar pulled back just in time to save his hand.  He spun in mid air throwing a deadly kick to its left eye.  The foot connected with tremendous force, breaking bone.  An eye, the size of an eight ball fell onto the glistening black cheek.  Again it wailed in agony.  It wasn't hurt at all, but Bombar was distracted by the illusion.  And he paid for it.
     Two arrows flew at once, one piercing the abdomen and the other tearing through the neck.  Suddenly, a watermelon sized bubble protruded from its neck, like a great plum.  Holtz and the hybrid moved in.  Both of their shots had been driven home. 
     Bombar was again in the air aiming a blow to the creature's head.  It roared and clawed at him.  He was caught in the groin on his way up and the leg snapped.  It was torn loose and Bombar lay quivering on the floor.  He watched his separated leg continue to kick. 
      The other man began to wrap the Lobesomen with the curtain.  It was hunched into a ball, beginning to expel blood under tremendous pressure.  Holtz shot another bolt through the white plastic.  It ripped into the thrashing hunch below the hip.  Dark, thick, crimson gore began gushing through the folds in the cover.  The shape within shook and squealed.  All through the building, cries were heard as though it were a slaughterhouse.  Cats, dogs and humans screamed and groaned as life was crushed from them.  The lowing, snorting of cattle and a multitude of unnamable creatures died down to a whisper. 
      Holtz began to gather the few children still in the room.  He turned to look at the unidentified man. The last thing they heard was a single voice weeping, sobbing.  It faded gradually and then the room was quiet.  The thing beneath the plastic was still. 
     "Dead," Holtz uttered.  He staggered over the Charlie.  Dropping to his knees, he carefully tore at the wetsuit.  Removing his belt, he tied it around Bombar's bleeding leg.  The man's eyes were glazed, his breathing shallow. 
     "Easy Charlie," Holtz said in a low voice.  "You did it man.  You did a good job."
      The plastic still bulged in places, pulsating with vile poison.  The pool of dark liquid began to leak out, covering more of the floor.  Holtz and the hybrid man gazed at each other.  Frank's jaws were slack, his mouth dry, spittle collecting in gobs at the corners of his mouth. 
     "Who the fuck are you?"
     The shape under the plastic visibly shrank. 
     The stranger spoke.  "Get on the phone.  Call it in.  Get this whole area cordoned off."
     "What?  What did you say?"
     "The kids are starting to come around.  We want to get them out of here before they see what they won't ever forget."
     "How...how?"
     "Don't lose it now...ace."  Hybrid flipped back his goggles.  "Son," he said, "this is no time for a reunion, but it sure is good to see you."
     "Norm, you're not dead."
     "No I'm not.  Now, get on the Goddamned phone.  Get some people here.  We need those guys in Doylestown to clean this place.  Toxic waste, young man.  It's all toxic waste.  Bad stuff."
     "Okay."
     Norman P. Kirk threw his poncho over Almo, mindful not to disturb anything.  He went to look for his granddaughter.  His gratitude to the retarded black man would be life long.  The other children had to walk out on their own.  Even under the plastic, the thick, crimson liquid continued to spread.  It was now covering more than a hundred square feet.  Each of the policemen had been splashed with the creature's blood.  They would undress with great care.
     "Tell me something," Frank said.  "I didn't know who to shoot.  I couldn't tell who was who.  But you did.  How did you figure what to do?" 
     "Good question," Kirk said.  "I brought my little girlfriend along."  He pulled Henrietta out of his pocket.  "She doesn't like our friend over there."  Kirk moved with the mouse toward the body.  He held it by the tail and it began to quiver.  As he got closer, the tiny white body throbbed.  "Just like a little barometer."
     "I'll remember that," Frank said. 
 

    It was done. 
    Holtz grabbed the phone from the teacher's desk and began giving directions to the dispatcher.  The woman informed him that there was a warrant for his arrest. 
     "I'll be here," he said, holding the receiver away from his face, the rubber glove as dangerous as a snake.  They moved Bombar and his leg to a safer spot.  He was still conscious, shaking, waiting for the medic.  Kirk turned to the door.  Then his heart sank.  Tightly pressed into a corner, behind a world globe, Kathy stood stiff, unmoving.  The child looked at though she was at attention in a make-believe army game. 
     He couldn't touch her.  Moving slowly toward her, the rush of emotion flooded between them.  She began to cry.  "It's all over sweetheart.  Grampa's here.  It's over now."
     "Almo," she said in an empty, hollow voice.  She moved, arms out, toward him.
     "No!" he shouted.  "You can't touch Grampa, honey."
     "Almo," she whimpered, "got hurt."
     "Yes, Almo got hurt.  C'mon now and let's go outside."
     "The monster...got Almo and--"
     "The monster's dead.  We killed 'im."
     She cried.
 

    The photographer watched in red light as the prints came up.  They had ordered eight-by-tens of everything.  The old guy with the white hair was like some general, shouting this and that.  Top detective; top prick.
     Kids and parents outside the big pink building.  Round the back, the tube-thing, fire escape.  Inside...
     Swat guy lost a leg.  Lost a leg for God's sake. 
     Big black guy with no head.
     Black and white glossies of something heaped under a plastic sheet.  Blood; black in the photos, glistening.  Too much to ever have come from the guy under the sheet.  Roped off.  Everything roped off, Blood on the walls, the glass, and the cops who were there.  Everything covered.
     The last picture was of a cop.  A townie.  Eyes open, mouth open, fingers curled. 
     Arrows in the neck, the chest.
     One in the leg.  Big holes. Like anti-tank rounds had hit him. 
     "Weirdest thing I ever saw," he said.
 

    The boards were torn up.  Floors, walls, windows; everything was scoured with muriatic acid.  Everything was contained in steel drums.  Men with white rubber suits, white hats, green boots and black gloves assured the man with the white hair that everything was being treated as a dangerous spill. 
     The body was another problem.  Any remaining blood might still be active.  Kirk insisted that it be handled with the utmost care and stored in a refrigerated room--no autopsy.  They took it away.  Nobody saw it again after that. 
     Activity around the pink schoolhouse was already looked upon with ridicule.  No one could understand what had happened.  There was a lot of grumbling among the men from the waste disposal crew.  They had never been called to clean up blood.  Bio-hazardous material was just done in a very different way.  This old man with the big mouth was asking to have the whole floor torn up and hauled away.  Not burned like so much junk, but hauled away.
 

    "Where are the bodies?"  Police Commissioner Le Montour asked.  It was the third time.  Each question was phrased a different way, politely, and with tact, the way questions are asked in high-level government meetings. 
      Norman Kirk sat slumped in the plush chair.  The conference room at State Police headquarters was full of curious onlookers.  There were detectives, high-ranking officers, politicians, lawyers.  Everybody wanted to see the monster killers.  The title had circulated through the department like Son of Sam, and Zodiac.  The evidence was that something had happened.  Most of the investigators, who now numbered in the hundreds, agreed that everybody had been drinking or something.  But none could deny that a terrible battle had been fought in that antiquated schoolhouse. 
     A man had been killed.  They very badly wanted what was left of him.

     "Norman, you have hedged and evaded this committee for the last four hours."  The commissioner was sweating and red faced.  "I won't have it!"  He began to feel out of control.  The reporters standing around the room had him nervous. 
     Kirk spoke quietly.  "What makes you think I know?"
     "You know.   You're behind this Goddamn circus every step of the way," Le Montour answered.
     "What you refer to as a circus, Jerry, is one of the most dangerous situations the state of Pennsylvania has ever been faced with.  At the risk of being disrespectful, I must say that you don't know what you're dealing with here."
     "And you do?"
     "Yes, I do.  It's been my misfortune to have to," Kirk said.
 A mutter went through the room.  Kirk's confidence had always been enough to shake the disbeliever.  They heard the conviction in his voice and in view of implications, it was enough have them cocking their heads like dogs. 
     "Norman, please.  We have two deaths; two men murdered--"
     "That is a most inappropriate term," Kirk interrupted.
     "Well," Le Montour shouted, "they're dead, and you shot them with a crossbow!"
     "You have my report."
     "Between the time of that mess above the power plant and this media frenzy, two very important pieces of evidence--"
     "I have them," Kirk said.
     "You have them where?"  Pete Karlson shouted, more in surprise to himself than anyone else.  Karlson was the public relations man in the department. Police Department spokesman.  His job would be to speak into the microphones. 
     "Illano Iranio and the remains of Robert Rearson are in my custody in a refrigerated warehouse.  The location of that warehouse I would prefer to keep the deepest, darkest, secret."
     "If you think this is a joke, Detective Kirk, you're gonna find out otherwise."  Elliot Barns, the only black member of the panel was the legal council for the department. 
     "No joke Elliot.  No joke by any means.  I have no intention of letting you idiots anywhere near those remains.  I and I alone am the leading authority in this case and it shall remain so until you either kill me or I die naturally."  Kirk sat with hands folded under his chin, making eye contact with every person in the room.
     "Wouldn't be the first time," someone shouted from the back.  The group erupted in laughter.  After it died down there was an uncomfortable vacuum.
 "Please understand me," Norman said.  "This is the tip of an epidemic or something very much like it.   I can't stress forcefully enough how much this could effect the human race.  If I were to allow a routine autopsy, the chances are that everyone involved would be infected.  I'm not convinced that you gentlemen are taking the statements of Holtz, Bombar and myself in absolute seriousness."  He was standing, hands planted on the table, flanked by Frank Holtz and the sixth grade teacher who had been there.  She had watched through a crack in the door and had escaped the disabling effects of the Lobesomen. 
     "I will not relinquish the bodies, nor will I rescind my position in this matter.  Now, if there is nothing further, I would like to go home and be with my wife who I haven't seen for several months."
     Jerald Le Montour reacted in what Norman thought to be strange manner.  He would not, after that, meet his eyes again.  "Of course," Le Montour said.  "We don't want to hold you any longer.  We look forward to seeing your report and we'll review your recommendations.  I'll see to it that they're treated with the serious they deserve as you put it."
     The old man and his entourage left the room.  After he was gone, the real discussion began. Barry Bing, the department psychologist had never liked Norman Kirk.  He didn't like cops in general; especially the old ones who hadn't been brought up under the new guide lines.  He considered anyone over thirty to be a loose cannon. 
     Bing said, "He's still very disturbed.  The man should never have been released from Huntington.  He obviously has a fascination with pain, exhibiting sadistic tendencies.  He's sociopathic, psychopathic, and I would bet he's unkind to small animals and beats his wife.  Totally fits the profile of an--"
     "Shut up Barry."  Jerald Le Montour spoke softly.  He seemed distracted, still staring at the door that Kirk had just gone through.  Now he looked directly at Dr. Bing.  "We've been hearing that crap for the last five years.  The fact is Detective Kirk is the most effective man we've ever had.  If his report is in any way accurate, we have a situation of national proportions--"
     "Are you kidding me?  In any way accurate!  The guy's nutso.  Totally whacked out and dangerous," Bing shouted.   "...and he's the only Goddamned sociopath who knows what to do about it.  You've been allowed your particular latitude and you've been responsible for the suspension of some good men.  Men who didn't possibly deserve what they got.  Besides that, and I'm going to say this once to every man here--he's my friend.  So shut the hell up, Barry."
 

     Kathy sat with her legs curled under her dress.  The big chair was comfortable and she sank into its cushions.  She held the little bear tightly.   The nice lady wanted to know about Almo and the--
     The nice lady kept saying silly things.
     "...that there is a bridge, but you can't walk over it.  You just have to drift..."
     Kathy was getting tired of all the silly talk about Almo and the--
     "...is what happened back then and only what you think might happen tomorrow, which is yesterday if--"
     Her eyes began to close and her arms were very heavy, just like Ellen, the nice lady said.  Grammy and Mommy wanted her to meet the nice lady.  Now Kathy's legs were just like the trunk of a tree and she was just like a heavy stone, just like the lady said.  Everything was grey, like a bunch of bugs, like little flies.  She felt good, really good.  She didn't feel good too much anymore because...
     She didn't feel good ever since...ever since--
      The nice lady, Ellen, was talking again.
     "...getting up for school.  Going for the first time.  Mommy is coming into the room and..."
     Walking with her mom, holding hands, going to school for the first time.  Up the stone steps where the big kids always went, with hands on the painted black railing--(BLACK!)--Saying hello to all the other kids and my name is Kathy, K-A-T-H-Y, and this is Almo--
     "...my show and tell..."
      "...the policeman will be--(BLACK!)..."
     She could hear Ellen again, that nice clear voice, the only voice in the world.
     "--about that.  No one will hurt you--"
     He's in front of the class, doing funny things.  He came and hurt dolly that day, but dolly didn't care much.  He's making faces.  He's making bad faces.  His hands look like--(RED!)--his face looks like--"
     "...can't do anything to you.  I won't let him..."
     --like when the doggie got ran over by the big truck, all pulled-ed apart.  All bleeding, pink and white--
     "...when I clap my hands..."
     Clap!