Caliban:  I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself thy subject.
      Stephano:  Come on then; down, and swear.
      Trinculo:  I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster.  A most scurvy monster!  I could find it in my heart to beat him--
      Stephano:  Come, kiss.

--William Shakespeare
    The Tempest

     Every day for a month, dump trucks were unloading their cargo of shredded plastic and refined garbage.  The berms, once covered with topsoil and lush green sod would surround the most beautiful religious facility on the East Coast.  A thick layer of plastic and crushed stone would protect the water of the pond from any impurities found in its banks.  No effort would be spared to provide pure water. 
     Miss Edith, the benefactor who had funded the temple through the years was dead.  She had suffered a stroke.  As a young woman, she had traveled widely throughout Asia.  In Tibet, she had risen to the status of Lama and was an ardent supporter of Buddhism.  She had set aside ten million dollars in a trust to be left in the care of Reverend Tan Lee.
     It was his.
     And with all his heart he vowed that not a penny would be spent on himself.

     Kenny Wright was a graduate student from Yale.  He was six-foot-four, with thin balding hair, and slender as a branch.  He had a degree in business administration and an MBA in accounting.  He was Lee's right hand.  An athletic man, Ken was a fourth degree black belt in the form of Goju Ryu and had held a world title in Muay Tie, a particularly lethal type of kickboxing.  No one who knew him would suspect that he could even defend himself.  His manner was exceptionally gentle and passive.  If called upon to do so, he could smash a cinder block with the back of his hand. 
     Reverend Lee would leave for China and Ken would oversee the construction while he was gone.  The running of the new temple would be left to him.  Every ten years the council of masters met in the city of Peking.  It was a home coming for Lee.  The little man felt the love of many fathers.  He would be gone for two years, leaving his beloved temple to others. 
     Serve God, he thought.
 

    She walked slowly to the food cup.  There had been thirteen trips to the little plastic tube.  Her feet hurt and she took each step cautiously.  Sniffing the rim, she felt a wave of regret.  It was as much regret as a laboratory mouse can feel.  Her white fur seemed to be alive, a thing independent from her muscle and blood.  The regret she felt was for going back to the food.  Every cell in her body told her there was something wrong with it. 

    The phone rang.  Frank Holtz sat up, listening.  Sometimes, if he waited, it stopped.  Sometimes, it was just a dream and he wouldn't have to leave his warm bed. 
     It wasn't. 
     He wouldn't have a phone in his bedroom since his suspension.  Gail hadn't slept well in months and screw them, he thought.  He would be back to work soon enough anyway. 
     On the seventh ring, he picked it up. 
     "It's two o'clock in the morning.  Who the hell it this?"
     "Frank, this is Norman.  We have to get together."
     "Yeah?"
     "Yeah."
     "Sorry Norm.  It's late and you know how it's been."
     "I know."
     "So, when?"
     "Soon.  Tonight would be...very good."
     "What's going on Norman?"
     "I've been doing some experiments that I'd like you to see.  They don't die, Frank."
     Holtz looked in the bedroom door.  He thought of the life he once knew.  A life of quiet police work, of simple arrest procedures, bad guys who just wanted to kill you.  He thought of the little boy sleeping in the next room, who didn't know what to think about what the other kids said.  He thought with longing back to the days when the job was predictable.
     "Where?"
     "It's really important that you keep this quiet," Norman said.
     "I will Norm.  Where?"
     "Just the other side of Plumsteadville.  Long brick building, with a small white sign on the left."
     "Why now," Frank asked.
     "Because the world is asleep." 
 

    It was a private laboratory.  Funded by Temple University, the researchers had to keep a running report and if they did, they got whatever they wanted.  Progress on genetic agricultural mutations kept the money coming. 
    Inside, one wall held hundreds of cages.  Each contained a white mouse.  The mice were in the process of getting sick.  Eighty-five of the over six hundred rodents were being fed poisons, contaminants, carcinogens, suspected toxins, and genetically mutated grains.  The ones that were healthy were just waiting in line. 
     Norman Kirk had contacted the lab concerned about a toxin he had discovered during a case.  His nephew, Martin Downing, had been more than happy to help his favorite uncle. 
     The tests were underway.

     Arnie Cohn smeared some of the tissue onto the glass slide.  Behind him, the door to the freezer was open, a cloud of vapor issuing from its dark interior.  The bare, grey feet of a cadaver could be seen inside.  Two bodies lay on tables.  They were nude, but for the tag on each right toe.  The plastic cover had been removed from one, leaving marks where the sheet had stuck to the skin.  Both were white males, one in his late twenties, the other in the early thirties.  The small one was darker skinned, about five foot three, possibly Latin, possibly South American.  The other was five-nine, blonde, blue eyed.  Each had sustained multiple wounds.  Not gunshots, but shafts, like arrows, which in fact, Norman had said was what happened.
     Arnie had never seen wounds like this.  There were long ragged ruptures where the shafts had entered, one large hole and then small ones.  Like a grenade had gone off under the skin, under the rib cage.  Martie had told him this was "fencepost".  Like they were radioactive, Martie had said, strictly gloves and face shields, rubber suits, the whole bit. 
     The old man had pull, at least with Martie.

     "We can see the gravidity period is about ninety-six to a hundred hours," Norman Kirk said.  "The symptoms don't mature for quite a few days after that."
     "Martie says there might be some variation due to quantity,” Arnie Cohn replied.
     "That's what we want to do next, Uncle Norman."
     "Is that specimen ready?"  Kirk asked.
     "She's black and beautiful," Martie replied.
     "I don't see the humor," Kirk said.
     Inside one of the cubic foot glass cages, a tiny animal was shaking.  Its fur was black and glossy.  The hair was thick, giving the impression that a sea anemone with black, sharp spines was stuck to the glass.  It was a porcupine the size of a golf ball and its mouth seemed to spill across its body, turning over, inside out.  Covered with needle sharp teeth, it screeched.  Crickets chirped snakes hissed and a siren-like squeal came from the terrible little creature.  Kirk realized the last sound was that of a male bullfrog under attack.  It was something that had frightened him as a boy. 
     In the left upper corner of the cage, a circular portal was covered with a clear plastic disc.  Kirk carefully removed the disk and fitted the glove.  He slid his hand into its thick rubber fingers.  The mouse retreated into a corner.  Its black fur flickered for a moment.  Two black fingers danced in the corner where the mouse had been, perfect replicas of Kirk's own fingers.  They changed into vipers, jaws open, dripping venom.  Another bullfrog scream and the mouth again appeared.  The mouse shot across the cage in a blur and bit into the rubber glove.  Its thickness and tough surface warded off a puncture.  The black creature was a whirl of vicious claws and teeth. 
      "Careful," Kirk said under his breath.  Martie opened the upper cage door and placed a toothpick into the cage.  The gloved hand picked up the sliver of wood between forefinger and thumb.  It stabbed at the tiny demon.  Once, twice, then on the third try, the point went through the fur into the skin.  The mouse lay on the cage floor quivering.
     Then they stepped back.
     The cage turned red.

     Arnie Cohn prepared another slide.  The brown viscous pool covered the bottom of the Petri dish.  As he worked, he wore rubber surgical gloves; three pair.  It was evident that they were dealing with something quite virulent.  The pathology section of the lab was large enough to support several tables and the large freezer. 
     At midnight, Arnie was fading.  "What's so damned earth shaking that we have to do this now.  We have exploding mice.  So what?"
     "Come on man," Marie said.  "Over there on the table we have an exploding policeman.  According to Norman."
     "Yeah right, Norman," Arnie said facetiously.
     "Hey really, he's a fucking genius, he's my uncle.  Don't give me attitude or we'll have a big problem."
     "I'm sorry, Martin," Arnie said, abjectly.
     Martie squinted into the tandem microscope.  "I don't know what's important and what isn't.  You are a bro' for helping me and I know you'll keep it between you, me, and--"
     "I said I would," Arnie agreed, placing the slide under the clips.  He peered into the lens.  "Look's normal enough."  He adjusted the light, raised the magnification.  "Blood--epidermal stuff--nasty looking tissue," he muttered to himself.
     "Holy shit!"
     "Did you see that?"
     "What happened?"
     Arnie threw up his hands.  "Whoa," he said, "the stuff just...the stuff just--"
 "That's not human tissue--not human blood.  Those things on the table ain't humans," Martie said.
     "Let's not lose our cool," Arnie Cohn said, hands outstretched.
     "It reminds me of something, but I can't remember what," Arnie said, rubbing his eyes. 
     "What's Norm doing?"
     "Said he's making a call."
     "This is something that we've seen before,” Martin said.
     "Yes," Arnie said, covering his mouth with his hand.  "Jacobson's class!" He shouted.  "The marine biological cellular study."
     "Right!  Hundreds of species that can change shape and color.  Arron Jacobson did his whole life in that field."
     "This tissue," Cohn said, "does both." 
     "Chromatophores," Martie answered.  "What we're seeing are an extremely aggressive form of chromatophores.  Remember the film of the cuttlefish.  They turn every color in the rainbow.  Like a little Las Vegas casino.  A dermal light show.  The cuttlefish fish does this to hypnotize prey or to scare off an attacker.  The cloud patterns across the skin can change in a split second.  A chromatophore cell is connected directly to the brain by nerves.  Colored liquid in the outer membrane can expand instantly to create the pattern."
     "I skipped that class."
     "Bullshit."
     "Like I said, this ain't human," Arnie repeated.
     "We've got a problem Arnold."  Martie gazed into the lens and lifted his head to peer into the freezer.  "I want them back in there pronto.  And I don't want anybody to know about this.  Those guys--if Norman is correct--have killed at least eighty people."
     "This is big," Arnie said.
 

    Holtz had seen the brick building a hundred times.  It had never caught his attention.  The sign read:

    Small and hand painted, the black lettering was now grey and flaking from the weather.  A figure in a leather jacket jumped in front of the car.  Frank stepped on the break.  The man ran to the driver side window, rapping with his knuckles.
     "Hi, I'm Arnie.  You Frank?"
     "Hi, I'm Frank."
     "Pull around in back.  Nobody's supposed to be here at night."

     They walked into the rear entrance, a grey steel door that led to a tunnel.  A small sign with a black logo said BIOHAZARD.  Arnie Cohn removed his leather flight jacket.  He was wearing a shiny white jump suit. Frank noticed the heavy green boots. 
     "Here's yours," Arnie said cheerfully, opening a locker.  "Just pull it over your head and I'll zip you in from behind." 
     It smelled strongly of vinyl and some chemical that Holtz couldn't identify.  It was immediately warm and humid inside the plastic coverall. 
     "Here's the gloves and hood," Arnie told him.  "Boots are over in the corner.  Didn't know your size."  He was smiling as Holtz shuffled to the corner in the oversized outfit.  "Don't put the hood on yet.  I have to brief you a little bit first because one of the little bastards got away."
     "Little bastards?'
     "One of the mice,” Arnie continued, "tried to jump ship, but the building is sealed 'case of contaminating the whole East Coast.  We'd lose our grant."
     "Oh God," said Frank.
     "God's got nothing to do with what's running around in there.  Of course I'm Jewish and maybe I just don't get the God thing.  But don't worry, we'll find it.  Glad your here, Frank."  Arnie pressed a black button next to the door.  A hiss of compressed air came from a heavy rubber gasket.  "Watch it!  They're smart as hell and he might be right on the other side." 
     "What should I do?"  Frank was alert for something unseen and alarming.
     "Look for a little black ball full of teeth.  Step on that son of a bitch.  But don't lift your foot.  We'll take it from there."
     "This is crazy," Frank said.
     "And you've seen the big ones.  You ready?"
     The door swung open slowly.  Brilliant light radiated from the opening, along with a wave of strange odors.  The lab smelled like a child's chemical set and a barnyard.  Holtz grimaced, wrinkling his nose.
     "Okay, go on through," Arnie said.  "It's not gonna happen."
     Two men stood at the other end of the building.  Holtz could see the wall of glass cages against the far side.
     "Listen," Arnie said, his head leaning toward the far wall.  As they moved closer, a whooping cry went up, hundreds of tiny voices in concert.
     "What is that," Frank said.
     "The little bastards know you.  They're calling."

     It seemed that hundreds of tiny voices were coming from the glass wall.  Screeching, howling, moaning, chirping, floating across the expanse of tiled floor.  Some of the sounds were clearly articulate, almost human.  Norman came toward them, smiling.  There was something sad and tragic about the way he had aged since the thing started. 
     "Thanks for coming, Frank," Norman said as he took Frank's huge glove in his own.
     "Haven't seen you for weeks, Norm," Frank replied.
     "Thought you could escape, eh," Norman laughed.
     "I'm Martie," the other man said, extending a gloved hand. 
     "This is my nephew, Martin Downing.  And you've met Arnie."
     "Glad to know you guys,” Holtz said.  The smell was overpowering, a stench like rot, decay, death, hovered over them.  "That smell--that's them isn't it."
     Kirk didn't answer.  "Get me the clip board," he said.  He began to check off lines on a computer sheet.  He pointed to a table full of sealed jars.  Each was labeled with skull and cross bones along with a numbered percentage.  "We've extracted blood and tissue from the fellas in the freezer.  There are twenty samples in a solution of water."
     "We tried plasma and whole blood," said Martie, "but the invading cells quickly overtook the healthy ones.  It's awesome."
     Kirk continued.  As Frank listened he could see the change in the man.  His face had put on ten years since they last met.  He was hunched over as though a stomach ailment had him and his lower lip sagged almost imperceptibly.
     Shit, Holtz thought, he's had a dammed stroke.
     "What we've found is that by diluting the stuff, the maturation period is slowed proportionately," Norman said and now Frank could hear just the hint of a slur.
     "We tried over a hundred separated viricides and nothing makes a dent,” Arnie Cohn said.
     "But stick'em with a fucking tooth pick,” Martie said, "and they go off like a cherry bomb."
     "No kidding," Frank said.
     "Yup," Martie continued, "any type of wood or wood extract."
 

    The four of them gazed at the wall of cages.  There were forty mice separated from the others.  Many of the cages of the six hundred were of wire mesh.  But fifty of them were faced with glass.  These were to prevent the spread of disease to the others.  In the glass cages, little horrors raged against their confinement.  White laboratory mice were in various stages of transformation.  Some were mottled brown, some completely black.  Here and there, a cage was empty, the creature inside imitating its environment.  In ten of the compartments, mice were lined up neatly along one wall; sawdust built into a sort of nest.  These mice were dead, their killers having stripped them of fur and skin, allowing them to decompose.  Only the head and feet had fur remaining.   A small pile of bones, carefully cleaned of meat was piled in the opposite corner.
     "That looks familiar," said Frank.
     "Rearson's cellar," Norman Kirk said wistfully.
     "What's that," Arnie asked.
     "That," Holtz said, hooking his thumb at the form under the sheet in the freezer, "is what we found in officer Rearson's basement."
     "So here's the point," Norman said.  "We have done some extensive tests and there are a few facts outstanding.  We've isolated a few single cells."  He pointed an open hand toward Arnie and Martin.  "You young fellas stop me any time I go off track."  They nodded. Arnie brought the microscope into focus, its image coming up on the video monitor.  "This group contains the equivalent of red blood cells.  You don't even want to know what the white cells do.  Each of those clusters is a cell.  Here's a photo of a normal human red cell.  You've seen that before, so I needn't go into it.  See the difference?"
     Frank nodded. Difference was hardly the word.
     "Notice the little sacks.  There are nine around every nuclei, filled with color.  Inside the nucleus itself, we've found an unbelievable compound, which reacts, to the electrical field that surrounds a human being.  Keep an eye on the screen."
     Arnie moved his hand close to the glass dish slide on which the cells floated.  A startling explosion overcame the group of cells.  The bags of color expanded in a rhythmic motion and seemed to mix like a crystal creating a rainbow. 
     "Now watch this," Arnie said.  "This is where we call up Rod Serling.  I'm going merely think about washing the cells down the drain."  He stood a few feet away and closed his eyes.  On the screen, the cells turned a dark, crimson red and expanded to twice their normal size.  Three of them clearly melted together and began to swallow the others.  There was an unnerving violence in the way this occurred.
     "There!" Martie shouted.  He ran along the north wall and stomped his foot several times. "Got it!  Somebody help me here."  Beneath his green boot a black shape covered in spines tired to escape.  Arnie took a stick from its hook on the wall.  The end of the stick had a round plug fitted with sharp thorn-like spikes, a pincushion of wooden needles. They would make no effort to save the creature. 
     "On three," Martie said.
     "On three," Arnie echoed, poised, ready to strike.  Martie raised his foot a millimeter.  The furious mouse began to squirm loose, displaying tremendous strength. 
     "Feels like a dog under my boot.  So goddamned strong," said Martie, fists clenched, bearing down.
     Arnie jabbed at the mouse, puncturing it several times at once.  He and Martie jumped back.  It darted like black lightening for about a yard and stopped.  Kirk rushed forward with a plastic sheet.  He covered the mouse as it popped.
     "Acid does the trick," Kirk said, looking at Frank.  "Muriatic is mild enough not to break it down completely.'
    "Let's show'im," Arnie said.
     Martie pulled a pair of large tanks over to the bank of cages.  "Log this in as being witnessed by Detective Holtz."  He lifted the brass nozzle connecting the torch to the acetylene and oxygen.  Using the spark tool he cracked a flame and adjusted it to a yellow dart about seven inches long.  He opened the plastic portal and snaked the nozzle into the cage.  At first he simply grazed the mouse with the flame.  Then, as it retreated into the corner, he held the blue part, the hottest, directly on it.  A little steam rose and Arnie avoided it as it escaped.
     "Eliminates flame throwers and napalm," Norman said, looking Frank directly in the eye.  He pulled a revolver from a nearby desk drawer.  Arnie withdrew the torch.  Martie took a pair of metal tongs and removed the squirming creature from the safety of its cage.  He placed it into a steel box with thick plastic sides.  Kirk fired a shot into the box.  Again the mouse retreated, seemingly melting away from the blast.  The bullet made a deep gouge in the side of the box.  Kirk fired again, this time hitting the mouse directly.  There could be no doubt.  It rolled back, growling.  It lay unmoving for a few seconds, then jumped up and screamed like a woman, a high soprano.
     "Incredible," Holtz said and sighed.
 

    They sat at a table, drinking coffee.  Most of the lab lights were turned off, creating an eerie haze like a gloomy tiled graveyard.  A single bulb glowed overhead, shielded by a green metal shade.  The permeating odor had subsided and was almost breathable in the cloying room. 
     Norman Kirk spoke.  "We've fed them poison and injected them with other viruses.  Of course it has to go into the mouth, but they're impervious.  Just trying to get a needle through the skin is like vaccinating cowhide.   Nothing hurts them but a sharp stick.  Goes in like butter."  He was leafing through the logbook.  The cover was transparent, showing a number of titles, some handwritten.  The cover read:

      Arnie had a look of sadness that reminded Frank of what he had seen earlier.  The three men with whom he shared this adventure seemed to be preoccupied with something else, if that were possible. 
     "My wife has a copy of the report and she receives all updates as they occur," Norman said.
     Arnie took over.  "The department of immunology and communicable diseases gets a copy in the event of a breakout," he said, a look of resignation again coming over his face.  He raised his open hand and he and Arnie slapped palms, the high five. 
     "So," Holtz said, scanning the three men, "somebody has to watch for it.  With the three of us and Le Montour--once he's brought up to speed--we have a committee."
     "No," Norman said, "it has to be you."
     Holtz looked at the old man who was aging as he spoke, his friend, the holy terror, the rookie's nightmare.  And he saw something.  They were staring at him intently.
     "What are you talking about?"
      Kirk took the lead.  "We--you and I and Bombar--who is a hero--have done the job.  So far as we know, we cut it off at the knees.  But what if it starts up again?  What if another one of those pricks comes from Brazil or Portugal or some shit hole?"  He was still turning pages.  "It's all in here.  Very thorough, including a strategy for state and nationwide procedures, deployment of forces, evacuation."
     "Well, nobody knows more about this than you do, but do you really think--"
     "I really do," Norman said.  "Le Montour gets a copy this morning,"
     "I'm missing something here," Frank said.
     "Of course you are," said Norman.  "Follow us."  They moved down the wall of cages to the end.  Here the mice were white and healthy.  Each cage had a small fluorescent light. 
     "Stand fast, Frank," Norman commanded.
     Arnie, Martie and Norman Kirk approached the healthy mice.  As they got closer, the rodents began to quiver and then an entire block of them began to convulse, writhing.  Martie Downing reached into a cage and removed one of the little furry specimens.  He placed it into Frank's hand and stepped back several feet with the others.  The mouse slowed its seizure and lay quietly, asleep.
     "That's why," Norman said.
     "We're infected," Arnie said.  "We saved the world from the strange invaders, but we've become what we fear."
     "I don't get it," Holtz shrugged.  "No teeth, no hair, no wild noises."
     "That's what we found," Martie said.  "The dosage is less effective when diluted.  Takes more time."
     "But we're sick," Norman said.
      "We're no harm to anyone," said Arnie, "but...it's only a matter of time."
     "Shit," Frank said.
     "Shit," Arnie echoed.
     "Out at the loading dock there's a truck," said Norman.  "There are instructions on the dash for you.  The two bodies in the freezer, such as they are, are now confined inside stainless steel, self-sealing drums.  Ecologically safe, impossible to open.  Martie will kill off the sick mice..."
     Kirk pushed a cardboard box across the floor with his toe.  Inside were twenty-five copies of his report.  They watched as the cages splashed blossomed red, one by one.  Arnie followed, spraying the glass liberally with the green acid. 
     "Get the place really clean boys," Norman said.
     "What about you," Frank asked, looking through the report.
     "They fill that can with mice, jars, samples, and seal them up.  Everything goes.  Temple will send people eventually; find out what's going one here.  We need to have this area totally spotless when they come.  A lot will happen then.  Question will be asked."
     "You didn't answer me," said Holtz.
     "There are five barrels, Frank."
     "What do you mean?"
     "We'll be dead in about two hours.  A little something Arnie threw together..."
     "Dead!" Holtz barked.
     "Nice and comfortable.  Comes on slow.  Hard to get the needle in even now though."
     "Norm, you could have asked me about this before--"
     "I have never needed a friend more than I do now, son," said Norman. 
     "Well, what...what happens then?  Are you just gonna fall over?"
     "Yes."
     "Then what?"
     "We've placed a little table out by the truck.  A little red wine, a little cheese and crackers.  Arnold says we'll have an appetite.  I've always considered myself to be on duty.  Twenty-four hours a day, so I've never had a drink.  I'm looking forward to it.   And there is a winch on the back of the truck."
     "Oh Christ," Holtz moaned.
     "There is no other way," Norman said.  He looked down at his left hand.  The fingers seemed to be stuck together as if by some strong glue.  "Can't get them apart.  It's strange." 

     Frank followed the map, driving until noon.  The canisters were strapped against the steel plate at the back of the cab.  He kept glancing through the small window at the cans.  His friends were doubled over, slumped like hams inside those stainless drums.  Every detail had been thought of.  His friends were scientific thinkers, right down to how to dispose of themselves.  Frank couldn't help feeling bitter.
     A rented backhoe was parked where they said it would be.  The area was secluded enough to insure privacy.  It was near the Delaware Water Gap in the middle of a State park.  The park was closed, but when it reopened there would be no digging anywhere.  So, there was little danger that the drums would be discovered.  Frank knew how to operate the backhoe.  He had operated heavy equipment in the service.  There was a bucket on the back and a large plow with steel teeth in the front.  The hole was deep, already having been dug, and lined with black plastic.  Every detail.  He backed the truck to the edge and untied the barrels.  Tipping one to the side, he rolled it forward. 
     He stopped.
     He had used a felt marker to write the names.  Just so that he would know.  He was pushing Arnie.  They were friends.  He couldn't just push them in. He felt foolish and very alone.  But he began anyway, a eulogy from the back of a $29.00 a day flatbed truck. 
     "These guys had balls," he said, his hand resting on the top of the drum.   They were some of the bravest I've ever known.  I've been to war and seen men die for each other.  Heros look just like anybody else, and these men were heroes.  May they rest...May they rest in..."
     He couldn't go on.
     He kicked Arnold Cohn into his ecologically stable, place of eternal rest.
 
 

It was night.  The plane touched down on one wheel and bumped its way to a stop.  He had told no one that he was coming back.  The idea of a surprise return didn't occur to him.  He just hated to inconvenience anyone.  A light snow was falling.  Tiny specks of ice mixed in with the snow, pitt-pitting against the windshield.   He was certainly not sentimental or religious in any way.  He saw the colored lights on all the houses for what they were; the glittering tree of life.  Interesting how in the west they use a tree for the symbol of this holiday.  The spirit of the holiday was with him every day; each moment was a holiday. 
     The day before Christmas the cab was bringing him from Allentown.  It would be good to see the beautiful temple finally. 
     Two years.

     He watched the Gatherers Temple of the Light come into view.  The change was clear.  Ken had done well.  Across the pond, stretched over the new buildings were the colored lights.  They were a concession to the community.  He understood that it was good for his American students who could not but be attached to their customs.  This would be a happy homecoming.  The new temple was as American as apple pie.  There it was again, the tree.  He was preoccupied with the idea of a tree.  Since he was born, the fortunetellers had prophesied that he was connected to the tree.  That when the time came, he would die with or on a tree.  The future was such an enigmatic sea of layer after layer.  It became cloudy in such a short time.  But through the mist of time, the tree shown with great clarity.   There were in history several images of Saint Sabastian.  Many had him tied to a pillar, a column, a stone, but the one that most charmed Lee was the image where the Saint was tied to a tree. 
     For most of his life, Tan Lee had been bald.  Shaving the head was a ritual that had spanned 5000 years.  But now it was felt to create a feeling of alienation and separatism.  As he stepped from the cab, he tipped the driver ten dollars.  An aphorism or a bit of wisdom would better serve the man, Lee thought, but custom was custom.  He said a warm good-by to the driver and enjoyed the warmth of a full head of hair.
     Serve God, he thought.
     China had been a spiritual well spring.  He had communed with his old teachers--those that were still alive--and had gone back to the temple where he had taken his vows.  Every ten years he made the pilgrimage. 
     Now he was back.

     No one was out.  As he walked slowly with his bags, he took in the beauty, though a bit ostentatious, of the work that had been done.  It was exactly as he had wished.  The temperature was around thirty degrees and the wind was blowing from the north.  But someone was always out.  The flagstone path led to the foot of the bank.  A wooden staircase took him to the top.  It was spectacular.  The water was frozen a thin layer of transparent ice covering the entire pond.  The buildings were reflected like a space station in the ice.  Light glowed in the air like an inner vision, suspended in the blackness. 
     He put down his luggage and walked closer to the edge.  The bank sloped down gently to the water.  Something came up to the surface like a lazy bubble.
     "Fish," Reverend Lee said softly, with satisfaction.  He smiled.  Instructions had been left to stock trout, bass, and bluegill.  The pumps were off.  Three waterspouts would be rising high into the air in the summer to oxygenate the fish.  A hearty breed of carp was also included to keep the bottom clean.
     But this wasn't a carp.
     It was black as ebony with bulbous white eyes.  Large, disproportionate fins sprouted from its sides.  Lee thought for a moment that a bat had somehow gotten under the ice.  The fish began to tap at the inch-thick ice.  It broke through.  A hard, sharp, spike picked its way to the air.   Throwing triangular pieces with a clatter, it rose above the thick surface.  It spread black spiny wings out over the hard edge of the hole and opened its mouth, mewling.
     Then Lee could see what it really was.  A kitten had fallen into the water.  Miraculously, the poor creature had not died.  It had been a trick of the mind.  How odd.  He had been trained since childhood to see life as it was, to be above such things as this and he had been fooled.   It was delightful.
     He went to look for a stick.  There was a ten-foot-long branch just down the bank.  This was also strange because the grounds were always to be kept clean.  He pulled the branch over to the edge and inched it out toward the kitten.  Closer, he was sure to get a wet foot.
     A voice whispered behind him.  "No."
     Lee turned.  It was his old friend.  It was Kenny. 
    "Kenneth, most unusual. A little kitten has fallen in--"
 "No, Master Tan," the tall man said.  "Please do not attempt to save it."  There was a flat yet urgent edge to his voice. 
     "I don't understand," Lee said, bewildered.  There was no inner communication, no subtle telepathy, no aura surrounding this man.  The effect was overwhelming.
     "It's cold, and you've come far.  Let's go inside."
     "It will die."
     "Perhaps," the priest said.  "Perhaps not." 
 Then as he watched the little creature on the ice try to move toward him, he heard more tapping.  Several of the things had risen to the ice and were breaking through.  They began a litany of feline noises, like animals doing Morse code. 
     "What is that," Lee asked.
     "It is a fish in the pond,” Kenny replied.
     So strange, Lee thought.
     They walked side by side along the top of the bank.  Kenny had taken the bags.  No more was said.  Many more of the fish had broken through the ice.  A concert of echoes, like a group of bizarre frogs sitting on the surface of the ice, welled up into the night of Christmas Eve.
 

    Reverend Lee saw that things had changed.  In his room, he took off his clothes and put on a robe.  He knelt in front of the north wall, built of stone.  The circle of light between his eyes swelled in a welcoming manner.  He knew that what he saw as an absence of aura around Kenny and the others was misleading.  There was a gap between the outer form and the radiance.  A dark space.  The aural display was actually so intensely purified that even he had missed it.  Normal human beings glowed about two feet beyond their skin.  Now, he could see that his students and priests wore auras that reached out in globes of brilliant color, thirty feet or more.   In the natural development of a student, it could take fifty years to achieve even a subtle difference.  This change would not happen in a hundred.
     Slowly, he became rigid, reaching into the high mental plane.  He was aware of a consciousness, a presence that was at once the most insidious and evil focus he had ever dreamed possible.  It was graceful and indomitable, without inhibition, without any shred of human emotion.  Its force was warlike and malevolent.  Unformed and still evolving, it was in virtual infancy and yet it was beyond anything he knew. 
     Reverend Lee began to lose his perfect concentration.  The room was dark, the candle having gone out.  He opened his eyes and his breath hitched involuntarily.  The thing that he felt was in the room with him.

"I cannot remain in control much longer."
                                                   --Zodiac
 

"I am back with you."
                   --Zodiac

The 25th Street Shopping Center was an old mall.  In the long line of strip malls arriving on the American scene back during the sixties, it was one of the first.  These complexes were the death of the mom and pop business across the face of the city. 
     Easton, Pennsylvania welcomed the coming of this new concept and the city council supported it in every way.  That was in 1965.  That was then. 
     25th Street had been redone and redecorated five times since its first grand opening.  Like most old structures, the owners sought to update the interior with food courts, hanging sculptures, bronzes, wall graphics, more glass, and hot new stores with proven track records.  They wanted to attract people.   Anything that brought out the folks was more than acceptable.  Cartoon characters and action heroes appeared "in the round" every Saturday morning.  This strategy showed a marked increase in sales from its inception.  It was seen, however, that children under ten didn't pay off at the cash register.  Even the mommies kept their purses tight, buying only ice cream and chewing gum while enjoying the free entertainment.
     There was a major change when one of the board members suggested that they target a market more likely to part with hard cash.  He had been to Philadelphia recently and had seen a disturbing, but profitable trend.  It was decided to cut back on purple dinosaurs and military turtles.  The mall would begin to feature teen idols and rock stars.  Rap cults and raunch metal armies descended upon the hitherto family oriented shopping center.  The two markets clashed at first as mothers still walked their kids, but word got out quickly; it was no longer a place to bring the family.
     Predictably, this created a number of new security problems.  At first, arrests and removals were prevalent, but the patrons resented the intrusion.  Sales were going through the roof and security became secondary.  The guards with grey uniforms and guns went underground like the big theme parks, coming up only in cases of dire emergency.  Then, gradually, they weren't seen at all.  The board members decided that the security staff needed a new face if they were to be effective.  The new uniforms were simple grey trousers, with white shirts and thin black ties.  The only hint at the former blatant appearance were orthopedic combat boots with sponge rubber soles.  The boots were a combination of Kung Fu sneakers and Desert Storm combat boots.  Guards, while unassuming, were visible.  They were all under thirty and were required to spend their off time training in martial arts.  They were nicknamed the Hit Squad.
 

    Neon signs glowed in a hundred colors in the reflective chrome and glass surfaces of the mall interior.  Light rock music was piped in from over a thousand speakers.  The base notes were felt through the air, vibration through space.  Shoe stores, clothing stores, electronics, CD's, sports memorabilia and X-rated video establishments lined the main corridor.  In the center was a hub that directed all shoppers to the central entertainment facility, which was called the arena.  This was an open area that was roughly half the size of a football field.  Skirted with a profusion of elegant benches, tables, and bleachers.  It had become a gathering place for the homeless, reckless, and lost teens of the Easton, Allentown, Bethlehem area.

    She entered the giant glass doors like a ragged queen.  Fourteen years old, she wore hot pants with carefully cut holes, showing skin.  Her knee-high black leather boots had been passed down from several former queens and showed fashionable wear.  Beneath the white leather halter-top, a push-up bra highlighted her three-year-old breasts.  Rod Stewart hair, white-blonde, and moussed into severe spikes, fell down her back thick as a horse's tail.  Her name was Foxy Roxie.  She was a total party girl and she was a runaway.
     All heads turned as Roxie marched and strutted her formidable act toward the arena.  Old men stared openly.  Married men glanced discreetly several times, and the warriors of her own tribe howled like a pack of hyenas. 
     Throwing her head from side to side, her white tail flipped a mating pattern across the room.  Where foxy Roxie went, good times followed.

     A white van was waiting.  Stripped down and soundproofed, it was an effective paddy wagon, with large ringbolts welded to the floor.  The motor was running and the back doors were open.  No shoppers saw this vehicle at the underground security dock.

     Roxie gave her main man, Tarhead, a squeeze.  His matching haircut merged with hers appearing like a tropical bird.  Tarhead stroked her buttocks and pulled up the thin fabric.  More of her cleavage was revealed.  She laughed, rubbing against him.  Tarhead had been moving too heavily on Roxie and the other males were getting angry.  A bald giant named Buffalo stepped in and took the girl by the arm.
     "Time to share," Buff shouted.  He pulled Roxie away and gave her to the waiting audience.  Tarhead flicked a butterfly knife and scraped Buffalo's cheek, then went for the eye.
     A platoon of white shirts materialized in a closing circle.  Tarhead felt tremendous pain in his wrist.  The grip was like steel.  He was bending toward the floor.  The face looking into his own was some plain dweeb with a crew cut.  The kid took the knife with just two fingers and tossed it to another security person who pocketed the blade.  One of the white shirts moved in with his hands at shoulder height, palms outward.  It was a disarming gesture.  Tarhead came up with spiked steel knuckles and threw a straight punch.  The white shirt was small and obviously no match.  He stepped back, rotating his body like a door, with his left hand pushing the weapon away, trapping the wrist.  His right hand shot passed Tarhead's face and ended in an elbow to the nose.  The nose exploded, throwing the offender, earrings, leather jacket, and engineer boots, to the tiled floor.  The other security staff adopted the same posture.  Almost timid, cowering, they were deceptively dangerous. 
     The crowd parted.
     The bleeding Tarhead and Foxy Roxie the party girl were gently escorted from the arena.  A stream of profanity and threats were heard from the struggling couple for several minutes.  Then the crowd went back to its activities, the incident forgotten.  They didn't really know where Tarhead and Roxie came from and they didn't know where they went. 
     The white van left the 25th Street Mall that evening with two passengers. Cruising at the speed limit, the driver headed south to a destination somewhere in Wilson Township. 
     Every now and then, people at the mall wondered why Tarhead and Rox didn't come around anymore. 

August 3, 1996
TINICUM PARK, PA.

    Kathy walked carefully to her car.  The Honda Civic had been a birthday present.  Sometimes she just liked to open the door and sniff the interior.  Kevin's class ring and tassel hung from the mirror, a symbol of their love.  Kathy wasn't sure about the  "love" part, but Kevin was hot and she wasn't about to let him go.  The other kids made fun of her for hanging the ring like that, but she liked the old fashioned ideas of dating.  She was still a virge, but if Kev had his way, tonight would be the night.  She didn't know if that was good or not.    Probably not. 
     Out in the dark of the campsite, the fire popped.  A fountain of gold and crimson sparks floated in slow motion through the black sky.  She could see the group like ghosts with orange faces.  An aroma of burned marshmallows and spilled beer wafted past.  The grass was wet, soaking her running shoes.  She wondered why the little red lights didn't short out.  They didn't even need batteries. 
     Out over the canal, frogs sang a continuous trill from the banks, hiding among the water plants.  Somebody told a joke and they all laughed.  Kathy found Kevin seated cross-legged on a picnic table. 
     "Hey little girl.  Where ya been?"
     "I just missed my car," she said.  The firelight made her look like a goddess.  She was wearing a sweatshirt, cut off at the bottom and jeans.  Feeling very comfortable, she had taken off her bra.  Kevin noticed immediately.  Her midriff glowed beneath the thick grey fabric. 
     "And I missed you," he replied, placing a clumsy kiss on her mouth.  She had grown to be a vivacious tomboy.  Full hips and a generous chest, she was a teenage dream.  Kevin was the envy of the entire class of '96. 
     He was a varsity football player and planned to major in music after high school.  It he had a flaw, it was that he was naive about the wolves that surrounded him.  His beautiful girlfriend was just something that came with good fortune and being popular.  He thought he deserved her and the good life.  The thought that she would leave him never came to his mind. 
     Jim Muller was one of the wolves.  He had watched Kathy grow from a gawky child into a hometown cover girl.  Or a centerfold.  His date was Janet Carver.  They held court on a log.  Janet's ash blonde hair had a static problem.  It hung shoulder length, forming a halo around her head. 
     Joice Patterson was overweight and dateless.  She was intelligent and very humanitarian, but hungry.  Joice had a reputation for being a one-day wonder.  She never kept a rebound for more than one day.  She wore cutoff jeans and a white blouse, unbuttoned three down, showing way too much cleavage.  It was 11 o'clock and the topic had taken the usual turn.  Bill Ellington, who was captain of the chess team, started to talk about the Stewartsville cemetery.  His date, a vo-tec from Jersey named Carol, threatened to leave. 
     "Yeah," Bill began, "we drove over on a Sunday night.  That's when they say stuff happens.  They found an old woman dead over there.  She was huddled in front of her husband's tombstone when a guy saw her.  She was stuck to the stone.  Like she just grew there.  When they tried to pull the old babe away, she just fell apart."
     The girls screamed.  Some of the guys moaned more to encourage the storyteller. 
     "And how about the guy and girl," Tracy Kay interrupted, "who got into a fight and he got out of the car.  He told her to stay in the car, no matter what."  He paused for effect and got it.  "The guy was gone for a long time and then she heard a bump on the roof of the car.  Then she heard a strange scraping noise.  It went on and on.  But she just sat there terrified.  She saw a light coming at her from the woods and suddenly there was a man at the window.  He told her to get out and not look back.  Whatever she did, she should walk straight ahead and not look back.
     "But she did," Track Kay said, "and what she saw turned her hair snow white."  Again a long pause.  "There...over the roof, of the car was her boyfriend.  He had hung himself and his feet were scrape, scrape, scraping on the roof of the car."
     Terry Weaver jumped in.  "Remember the guy with the hook who used to beg for money when the kids were making out?  One night some guy said no to him and he ran up and put the hook over the car window.  They burned rubber out of there.  But next day, the guy found the bloody hook still hanging from the window."
     More screaming.  It was building to a climax, which was a tradition. 
     "Some guy told me about this one," Weaver went on.  "This is true, swear to God, strike my whole family dead.  They called him the shithouse creeper.  He'd crawl through the hole in an outhouse and hide in the shit below.  He'd sit there with a sharp stick until somebody would get on the throne.  Then...he'd ram the stick right up their ass.  He did thirty people before they got him."
     "You are so full of shit," Jimmy Muller shouted.
     "No, it's true," Kevin jumped in.  "Him and the Jersey Devil opened up a McDonalds over in Stewartsville."
     Joice Patterson frowned.  She knew they called her "one day".  It didn't matter, as long as they called.  Joice didn't like Kathy Taylor.  Nobody that good freaking looking deserved to live. 
     Fuck it.
     "Hey, remember back when old Captain Kirk went nuts and shot the dead guy," she said, too loud.
     "Stop it Joice," whispered one of the girls. 
     "And," she went on, "then they had to close the old school because he shot one of his own men."
     "Joice, knock it off," Muller said.
     "He shows up in a Halloween costume and shoots the town cop with an arrow.  How about it Kath?  Hope it doesn't run in the family!"
     Nobody laughed.  They could see old "one day" was just warming up.  Kathy ignored her and pressed against Kevin.
     "C'mon Taylor, you know that old man was certifiable."  I heard they gave him a lobotomy.  Where is he now?  Nobody knows.  Maybe he's still tucked away in the nut house."
     Shut up Joice, or I'll slam ya," Kevin said, looking directly at her. 
     "Hit a woman," she said.  "I don't think so.  No, no," she continued anyway, "my mom covered the story.  She said the old man was loony toons.  Cost the town thirty thousand dollars and nobody knows why."
     "Who gives a shit," Kathy said, her head tilted back, staring at the treetops.
     "Well, somebody did, they--"
     "Joice, shut the hell up," Kevin snapped.
     "Sure," she said, "no problem."

     They left the group.  As they walked along the canal, the frogs and katydids were deafening.  Trees, thick as sponges, ran straight along the towpath to their left.  They stayed close to the bank.  The water was black and high because of the day's rain.  Damp air carried the herbal fragrance from the woods out over the surface.  Kevin had his hand in her back pocket.  He felt the heat of her slender back. 
     "I can't stand her," she said.  "Never could."
     "Nobody likes Joice," Kevin said.
     "Her mother writes for the Intelligencier for God's sake.  It's a six page yellow tabloid."
     "Hey, hold on now.  The Inteligencier is a serious yellow tabloid."
     'Well, we went from the shit house creeper to my grandfather in one jump.  He didn't deserve that rep Kevin."
     "Look, my dad really liked old Norm and even he says there was a lot of unexplained stuff."
     She sighed, stopped short, and pulled his hand from her pocket.  "There is no way to explain.  If you knew what happened, you would be laughed at--just like him."
     "Well, how about that thing at the school.  Two people dead, one guy lost a leg, and nobody can figure it out."
     "I can."
     "How Kath?  How can you figure it out?"
     "I was there."
     "You were?"
     "I was five."
     "How could you be in school?"
     "I was five and they had a get acquainted day.  Bob Rearson came in.  I didn't know him but he had been to my house.  He--he tried to abduct me.  He did something to my doll and my grandmother had to burn it."
     "See, that's what I mean, babe.  That's crazy.  Why would she burn a doll?"
     "All I know is what she told me.  It was much later.  She waited until I was twelve.  I was full of questions and I had the nightmares..."
     "Nightmares..."
     "Like about what I saw that day.  She took me to a shrink and she hypnotized me.  She says I have post stress syndrome of something."
     Kevin gently squeezed her neck. "You can level with me," he said.  "I want to know all about it."
     "I don't think you do," she said.
     "I do babe.  What can there possibly be--"
     "Your dad was there."
     "Get out."
     "He was there that day, Kevin."
     "Bullshit," he said, turning away.
     "Frank Holtz was there and he knows what happened."
     "You're lying," he said.  "Just because Joice got on you, you're trying to get at me.  I don't want to see you any more."  He left her standing alone in the dark.

    Kathy sat for half an hour on the bank of the canal.  She felt empty.  Not yet on the verge of tears, she got up and went back to the park.  The other couples were gone.  Her car was alone in the parking lot.  There was a small feeling of kinship that came from the little Honda.  As she got in the dome light came on.  Kevin's tassel and class ring were gone.