Black lacy treetops etched across the sunset.  A dome of deep lavender covered the fiery ball of orange as the sky settled in for its last attempt at daylight.  The lake rippled underneath, an oilcolor blend of peach and brilliant gold.  Two figures sat at the end of the dock.  They faced the open water, going through the occasional motions of a spin cast.  Behind them, beyond the twenty yards of the dock and up the beach to the patio, they heard the violin.  Gail was playing The Swan by Camille Saing-Saens.  The sad notes echoed subtly, as the horizon grew darker. 
      It was the Le Montours' favorite piece of music.  Gail was standing, like a soloist, playing flawlessly from memory.  As she finished, faint applause could be heard on dark porch decks all around the lake. 
      Frank shifted his weight, dipping his bare feet deeper into the water. 
      "I'm really glad you and Gail could join us," Jerald Le Montour said. 
     "Yeah, me too.  Kevin is sick and we almost missed it,” said Frank.  "But it has been a terrific day."
     "Well, we've sort of avoided the subject all day, so let's get to it," Jerald suggested. 
     Le Montour had been Commissioner for fifteen years.  It was an unheard of term of office.  He was well liked and got things done.  No one else wanted the job and it was his.  He wanted to run for State Representative in a few years, and the prospect of what Frank Holtz might say had him spooked.  He didn't need some unexpected, unpredictable nutcase out there ruining his future campaign.
     Frank began.  "I'll lay it out for you briefly, give you the high points and you can decide."
     "So, what do you have."
     "In among the conjecture and theory, we have a marked, steady increase in missing persons.  Those figures have crossed your desk."
     "Yup."
     "Since the offices were moved, a few things have gone under the rug.  You and I have become signed memos.  I think a lot of things will go unnoticed until we adjust to the move.  In the Delaware Valley, reports are in of kids who never come home.  Nothing unusual about that.  It they're not from here then they came from here and vanished.  I ran the numbers through a special program and the last five years are outstanding.  It's not just kids..."
     "Okay, you've got the numbers.  Could be the almighty "increase in crime".  Le Montour plucked a silver spoon lure from his tackle box.  It had lightening bolts across its spine and the triple hook was file sharpened. 
     "Could be," said Frank, "but I don't like the pattern.  It's over eighty percent of the homeless/drifter profile.  There seems to be the usual amount of wives running off to lovers, kids turning up in San Francisco, gay and can't stand the straight life.  But most of the eighty percent are hard-core.  People with street names.  People that nobody would miss.  This is a whole other world that we can only see through the eyes of informants, mostly from interrogation.  Things we trade for."
     "So, where you going with this?"
     "The old man--"
     "Kirk?"
     "Norman Kirk was the first on the scene that day.  He said that another officer got there first.  But I've always thought he got there first and seeing what he had, covered up.  Right from the start.  I've checked it out."
     "Why would he do that," Jerald asked.
     "Maybe he saw it.  Whatever the hell it really is.  Maybe he contracted something on the spot.  But not much.  Just a little dose and it reacted slowly.  At least the report says it can act slowly.  Reduced exposure, they called it."
     "So he led us up the path about the whole thing," Le Montour said.
 "He had no idea what was happening or what he had.  In a certain way, he enjoyed it.  He was gettin bored; ready to retire and he caught the big one, the record breaker.  Everyone, including you and me, thought we had a serial killer."
     "And we don't?"
     "We have a man eater," Frank said as a brisk Irish jig began to unwind on the patio.  Hellen Le Montour was clapping her hands lightly, keeping time.  Darkness had overcome Mountain Lake and the big hunters began to break the surface. 
     "He had no choice, Jerry, and neither do we.  There is only one way to handle this thing.  The innocent public, if there is such a thing, have to be kept at arm's length."
     "You know what you're saying, don't you?"
     "You read the report.  Everything's in there."
     "I reread that report, every damned word, and I have a couple of questions.  That doctor--the first one--why would he give information.  Why would he lead Kirk to his own apprehension, his death?"
     "I figure the human part can't handle it and the other knows that it will go on.  It protects the food source, like male cats.  They'll--"
     "Eat their young," Jerald said, completing the thought. 
     "Given the nature of the thing, it knew that the chances of survival, even in death, were good.  Hell, better than good.   In the dark ages, until they figured out that fleas caused Tularemia, they tried everything to stop it, including burning virgins now and then.  Meanwhile plague wiped out every living creature.  Over 340 mammals are susceptible to plague and most of them died first.  People thought it was demons getting to the smaller creatures before moving into town.
     "We were afraid that the mice weren't accurate test specimens," Frank said.
     "We?"
     "Yes sir.  I was at the lab, with them.  I can verify everything."
     "Okay Frank, do you know where they are?"
     "Yes sir."
     "How do you know?"
     "Because I buried them."
 Le Montour paused and stared out over the water.  He wasn't ready for that.  "Did you kill them?"
      "No," Frank said.
     "Well, thank God for that.  Let's go back inside, have a beer, maybe a scotch."

     The wives went to bed around 11 o'clock.  Frank and the Commissioner sat out on the screened-in porch, lit with a kerosene lantern.  A billion white lights bounced over the endless universe that had been Mountain Lake.  Frank twirled his tumbler of whiskey.  "I hate this shit," he said, "but it feels good."
     "It's the good stuff.  Smells like new mown hay and goes down like horseradish.  I only get it out for my friends," Jerry said, giving Frank a light punch on the shoulder.  Frank found the gesture slightly awkward. 
     "Why did Norman run off and fake his funeral?  He did a good job.  We...we all...well everybody thought he was really dead."
     "That's hard to answer," Frank went on.  "I had to run myself.  The danger was aimed at him and then his family.  You can imagine what it was like that day at his own house.  He couldn't kill it.  Even though the bullets were filled with wood powder, they just bounced off.  He found them later, scattered around the house.  He realized that he was a target and--here's where it gets complex--this thing; this man, knows everything, up to a point.  Norman faked his death in order to confuse it.  It had no clear target then and was left with the thought patterns of hundreds of people who believed he was dead.  It bought him time."
     "Sounds like a bunch of shit, Frank."
     "So, what are we gonna do, Jerry," he found himself saying.
     "I...can't help you Frank."
     "Can't..."
     "You know my plans to run for State Representative next year."
     "I heard something about it."
     "If I get involved in this thing and it goes sour, where will I be?"
     "You'll be running interference.  I've got the equipment and the man power," Holtz said.  "All volunteer.  We do everything from behind the barn.  Non departmental, just like you said.  You stay out of it and just clear the way.  I want you to push once in a while.  Nobody has to know.  And if anything happens and it's hero time, I'll say you did it all.  You can't loose."
     "That's all?"
     "That's all."
     "It's so very very strange.  I believe every word, God help me.  I knew Norman as well as anybody.  I was his C.O. and he never lied.  Never!  He never bent the rules.  A damn good man."
     "So you'll do it?"
     "Where do you start?  There haven't been any bodies hanging around.  All you have are numbers and hearsay.  From questionable sources, I might add."
     "I might start here,” Frank said.
     He played the tape. 
 
 

Bob's Too was one of the original mini-markets.  What used to be called the general store during the century’s awakening, now is called the convenience store.  It was named Bob's Too because Bob owned so much Mercer property that the store and everything else was his too. 
     The checkout counter was just inside the door as it usually is, to keep an eye on things going out.  Produce was along the right wall, going back, and the meat case was in the rear.  It was a nice place to shop for groceries.  Bob ground the sausage himself and it was the best around.  People liked to stand and talk, which is the way things are in small towns, but old Bob discouraged that.  He was a mean guy. 
      It was Saturday and most of the rural artists and authors that abound in Bucks County; rich people who bought land to get away from the city, were coming in.  There were, on this day, a few members of the Gatherers Temple milling around.  They did much of their shopping in Mercer and bought enough each week for a family of eight.  The Gatherers, as they called themselves, were all young men and women of about twenty to twenty-eight who bore a resemblance to Disneyland staff.  Clean cut, well built, always smiling, and always polite.  Many of the local parents began to wish their kids would turn out like Gatherers.  One outstanding thing about them was that they always smelled like flowers.  Every one of them, with short hair and slim waists, crisp white shirts, smelled the same.  Bob could always tell when they were in the store. 
      They always paid in cash.  On this Saturday, one of them asked if he could put up a poster.  It was an 18''x24", full color, very glossy print of a little Chinese man standing on a dais.  He was dressed much the same as the others of his group.  The look on his face was unmistakably angelic.  Below the main photo was an inset of several more people sitting in the church.  Also angelic, big smiles. 
      Mrs. Bob was running the cash register that day.  She wasn't very happy with Bob at the moment.  There was a slight discoloration beneath her right eye.  They had had an argument and she had lost.  She found these Gatherers to be very appealing.  She found herself thinking that she would like to be like them. 
      "You can hang it right by the door," Mrs. Bob said, handing over a roll of scotch tape.  The young man had the body of a gymnast.  He seemed to be almost like a big, sensuous cat. 
     "We'd like to invite you to attend a service," he said.
     "Well," said Mrs. Bob, "my husband and I are not very religious."
     "Neither are we," a tiny Debbie Renolds piped in.
     "We have something for everyone and it's sometimes better than a movie.  The Reverend is very funny."  This was a little jockey type who walked a bit bow legged. 
     "We'll see," said Mrs. Bob.  She was conscious of her age and her weight, confronted by these beautiful people.  But they apparently accepted her and were being very nice.  She would never ask Bob to go to a service, but Sally back in meats had a wild side. 
     Times and dates were listed.
     At the bottom, underneath the photos, it said:

    Pete Venero stared out the window of the limo.  He winked at the driver in the rear view mirror.  The man next to him adjusted the cannon under his arm.  They were bodyguards selected from a pool of twenty-five highly trained individuals.  Venero insisted that his men enroll in schools around the country. 
     "How did you get this number?"  His voice was like the incarnation of a hundred old gangsters. 
     "I just need to ask you a few questions."
     "You didn't answer my question."
     "I have access to DOT files and police records, fingerprints, DNA.  There is a rather extensive file on you and your family."
     "You a cop?"
     "Yes sir."
     "Where from?"
     "Pennsylvania State Police Captain, Frank Holtz."
     There was a lead car in front with four guards and one just like it following.  The cars were totally secure.  Bullet proof, airtight and unregistered, they had cost him over a million dollars each. 
     "I'm not calling you about police business, Mr. Venero," Holtz said, expecting to be cut off at any time.
     "Well then Captain Holtz, what the fuck do you want from me?"  Venero held the phone directly in front of his face like a bad kitten.  The guards laughed.
     "You been having some problems.  It's all over the papers.  With all respect, I'm sorry about your brother."
     "Don't bore me.  Don't give me that respect shit.  What!," Venero yelled into the phone. 
     Frank wasn't swayed.  "I need to know about a company named Toxicom.  It's in Warrington."
     "Yeah, I own Toxicom," Venero said.  They were in New York, passing the theater district.  He looked up and watched the black facade of Cats go slowly by.  It began to rain, the first few drops sparkled on the windshield. 
     "All I want is information.  I checked into the company and there is strong evidence that it's involved in illegal dumping all over the state."  Holtz paused, letting his words register.
     "This a shakedown?"
     "No, it's not.  I believe I said that."
     "Who gives a fuck what you said.  You want some money.  Name it.  My old man probably bought your old man!"  Again, laughter in the background.
     Frank said, "Toxicom did a cleanup in the town of Mercer on September 19, in '85, and possibly other dates in the same area back around '85.  I just want to know the disposal site."
     "Who doesn't?  Why should I tell you anything?"
     "Look, maybe this is a bad time," Frank said.  "I've got over thirty locations that your company has purchased.  Nice farms that look like hell rolled over them.  I visited one yesterday.  Two inches of white slimy muck covering an acre and a half, running into a stream.  Dead animals all over the place.  Sound familiar?"
     "So what's the deal?"
     "The deal is this," Frank said.  "I want the dump site of 9/22 or I throw everything I have to the Easton Express, The Intelligencier, and The New York, fucking Times.  This conversation is being taped and by the time you see daylight again, you wish you joined your--"
     "Okay, okay.  I'll see what I can do.  What guarantee--"
     "I'm calling you from my home.  You're looking at my number on the little tracer next to your wetbar.   That should be enough.  Why would I want Peter   "The Barrel" to pay me and my wife a visit?"  Frank then gave his FAX number.
 

    The dojang was closed.  Inside were the flags, artifacts, and photographs from various styles of martial arts.  Heavy punching bags hung in a row along one mirrored wall.  The boxing ring sat in the middle of the floor, a dome light hung overhead, now dark.  There were no trophies, no record of tournaments.  Bombar's people didn't compete.  The students were all trained against realistic attack.  Panic Attack was the new style.  In sanctioned competition, fighters would only go so far with contact.  Then, when a street thug started a fight, they had to assume an odd stance, stick out the knee, pull back one fist and hold out the other.  Too much time lost.  Bombar taught only techniques that worked.  Nobody wanted his students at the local contests, unless an ambulance was standing by. 
     The front doors were locked.  In the back of the building a door was open, throwing pale yellow light across the floor.  Down the stairs, a single naked bulb hung from a beam.  Charlie Bombar sat at a wooden workbench, shavings piled at his feet.  The cellar was a room as long and wide as the upper floor.  But for an oil furnace and supporting columns, it was open space.  It still smelled subterranean from a time when coal was stored in one corner. 
     An eerie figure loomed over the bench, hanging from the wall.  It looked down with a single forbidding eye.  It was a rubber suit with reinforced lining.  The fabric couldn't be cut or torn.  The hood had a built in helmet, which hung down and became steel shoulder pads that bulged out like a line backer at the SuperBowl.  Its faceplate was curved, made of unbreakable, double walled plastic, including a black shield, with hole, that could be lowered at a touch.   There was a stainless steel screen to protect the face when the shield was up. 
     The quilted cloth could stave off a baseball bat or a 45. Caliber bullet.  Boots, gloves, and helmet were sealed with Teflon gaskets, clamped in place.  A small backpack supplied oxygen and provided a vent for moisture. 
     It was a suit of armor as effective as anything ever made. 
     It was impervious to any kind of attack, including acid and fire.  On a long rack stretching the length of one wall, there were thirty more just like it.  They were custom made to Bombar's specifications.  Because of his connections with the police department, they were cheap. 
     The opposite wall had a collection of weapon.  Oak swords, spear guns, cross bows, long bows, and staffs with sharp wooden spikes.  Arrows were stuffed into several large quivers.  All the shafts were of raw wood, tipped with razor points, barbed to hold fast.   Only the wood could penetrate, but once inside, the steel would stay.
     Charlie was working on a sword. 
    As they came from the manufacturer in Japan, the Boken were made for practice.  The edge and point were blunt and rounded to prevent injury.  Charlie carefully used a wood rasp to sharpen the edge to a keen, thin line. 
     Frank had picked up the tab.  All the students had been training in the "new" style.  They pulled the blinds after hours and worked with the equipment on.  Charlie had fought one battle and it had changed his approach.  Battle always did. 
     The team was hungry.
 

    "Must be ducks," Bob of Bob's Too said.  He and Mrs. Bob got out of the green Buick.  He had on a grey suit and she was wearing a pink flower print dress.  The parking lot was paved with black asphalt, marked off in white lines.  Heat radiated up as Bob opened the door.  He didn't wait for his wife, never did, and began walking toward the temple.  Then curiosity got him and he headed for the wall surrounding the lake.  Placing his hand against the stone work, he said, "Damn stupid place to put a wall.  It ruins the view.  Architect must have been having a bad day.  Guess they don't want any fishing."
     They could hear flapping on the other side.  Though it sounded like ducks, they weren't quacking.  There were about forty cars in the lot.  A few people were just arriving, but most were already inside.  Bob and Mrs. Bob rounded the corner of the wall and began to cross the driveway.  The glass front of the church reflected the great doors that led to the lake. 
     The wall was just high enough to obscure a view of it.  There was no vantagepoint from which it could be seen in the surrounding farmlands.
      Inside the church, the peaked ceiling was an inviting, open space that appeared to be well lit.  Several of the Gatherers were greeting people as they went inside.  They passed out pamphlets. 
     "It's so nice of you to come," a tall man with a Van Dyke beard said.  "Please take a seat anywhere."
     "Thank you," said Bob.  Then, under his breath, "Don't know why I let you talk me into this.  Damn boring."
      Mrs. Bob pretended not to hear.  They walked down the aisle, noticing people they knew, people they didn't.  As they took seats, Bob sniffed.  He snorted.  He felt at home here, but didn't know exactly why.  Settling down, he rubbed the seat.  Hmmm, real easy to clean, thought Bob. 
     Two young men dressed in white shirts, black pants, walked between the rows of pews and took places on either side of the dais.  A slim, elaborately carved pulpit sat in the center of the platform.  Behind it a striped grey and white cloth wall rose to the top of the peaked roof.  Two sculptures were recessed into the wall.  They weren't saints or angels.  To Bob of Bob’s Too they were disturbing parodies of human form. 
     The temple was filled with sunlight as a short oriental man came from a door off to the left.  One of the attendants announced, "Thank you all very much for coming this morning, ladies and gentlemen...The Reverend Lee."
     Lee was about five foot four, a diminutive figure with large ears and short black hair.  His chin was pointed and the mouth tiny and nearly colorless.  He was dressed in the same uniform as the others, white shirt and thin black tie.  His steps were agile, like a dancer's.  He bounced slightly as though each movement were thought out.  Placing a hand delicately on the podium, he pointed to a carved dragon in the center. 
     Reverend Lee spoke.  "Beautiful group has assembled in our temple.  We are fortunate that you have come.  Mind is not happy.  Rain and clouds form and fighting begins inside.  Do not worry.  This is okay!"  He spread his small hands and smiled.  The audience began to laugh, a reaction out of all proportion.  "A flower rises through the earth, pushes to the sun, and, transformation.  Mind is still not happy.  Do not bend.  Do not care for the little self, the little life.  Just be.  All is one and one is to change."
      No one actually understood what he was saying, but the words somehow made sense.  They began to feel different.  The room began to tilt slightly, to spin, windows waving like far off trees in a strong wind.   Fragments of pure color floated in the air, subtle pinwheels hummed around the little man on the dais. 
      And he began to change.
      The Reverend's lower jaw began to quiver.  It was exciting at first to those watching.  His lower lip slowly expanded, altering his appearance drastically.  It was like water was being pumped into the flesh.  The jaw began to stretch, dropping, lower and lower, until it rested just above his belt, giving him a grotesque yet humorous appearance.  Teeth began to sprout in all directions, gums and sharp canines reaching like tentacles up over his head.  Two of these heads, three, unfolded with a tearing, wrenching sound.  He tore his scull apart, and held a terrible face in each giant paw, the raw gleaming meat between seeping blood.  Black gleaming hair fell across the floor, meandering, ranging from fine as silk to thick as exploring vines.  It was full of whistling, snapping heads.  Eyes, onyx and fiery brown, glistening orbs, stared out from under locks of fur.  The Reverend had been absorbed in a mountain of whale-sized red open mouths full of uneven white needle teeth.  Along with this wriggling vision, a whirl of soft screams rose from the floor, the walls, shrieks like the beating wings of thrushes rushed to the ears of the audience.  And somehow it all seemed right.Their whoops and cries went out like passengers in a thrill ride. 
      Somewhere, Bob heard his wife.  She sounded like she had won something, very excited.  Everyone around him was squealing, squawking.  He couldn't understand it.  He looked around to find her.  She was right next to him, had been all along.  He wanted to ask but her face was gone.  Her head was thrown back and her face and neck were like chopped red jelly. 
     Bob began to look around.  How had this thing happened?  The entire church was full of bent, twisted, broken, bleeding people.  Bodies were being dragged away.  Some terrible sleek beasts were biting and clawing, slashing at them, taking them away. 
     It was raining.  The congregation was gone.  Bob of Bob's Too was sick but unharmed.  He was covered in a pink slime and men with fire hoses were washing down the seats, the floor.  Pieces of limbs, rosy tissue and whole blood slid past him, down the aisle, a small swift-moving stream flowing in the gully that led sloshing to the curved step of the dais.  Pink water poured into the drains, bubbling, foaming, and the congregation was torn to pieces before the thousand eyes of Revered Lee.

     Bob got up, unsteady, and walked up the slippery aisle.  It was such a nice service, a nice church.  He was wet.  It was raining.  Men with hoses--
     Hoses?
     The sun was streaming in through the front doors.  His car was in the parking lot, just where he left it.  It was the only car in sight.  Bob looked at the poster inside the glass door.  It said:

     He looked at his watch.  It was 12:45 on the dot.
     The next day, Bob drove to the store at 7A.M. as he always did.  Mondays were important because people liked to do their shopping for the week.  The locals on Monday, the out-of-towners on Friday; that's the way it always was. 
     She must be there already.  She will be mopping or sprinkling down the fruit.
 He unlocked the door and took the canvas bag to the register.  He filled the slots with cash and coins.  Hundred, fifties, twenties, tens...
     The flower breaks through the--
     He went to the window and flipped the Newport sign to OPEN.  Three women were heading for the door.  They came in, talking of children in school, college material, cooking. 
     "Where's June this morning," one woman said.
     "Can't believe she's gonna miss a day," the other said.
     "Is she gonna miss a day," said the third, with just the hint of a smile.
     A high-pitched steam whistle started in Bob's throat.  It became a mournful cry as he stood there holding a stack of ones.  "I--don't--knnoooooooooooow," Bob howled, choking then, tears streaming down his face.  "I don't know, I don't know, I don't." 
     The women lusted, filled with glee to see Bob of Bob's Too like that.  They giggled and ran out the door to do their shopping elsewhere.  The emergency squad guys showed up and giggled a little themselves after several people called about Bob.
     June didn't come in because she had left him.   Rumor spread.
     She was having an affair.
     Who could blame her?
     After all the times he fooled around on her with young girls simply needing a place to stay.  Trading sex for rent in those crappy little apartments of his.
     He was scum.
     Everybody knew.

Marian Kirk had stopped grieving.  She knew the day and the moment it had ended.  Fighting the hopelessness and the void left by her husband, she threw herself, as people often do, into keeping up the house.  For months she went on thinking that he would just come back.  That he was faking it again.  He would walk in the door and plop into his chair and ask for his stinky old pipe. 
     But he never did.
     She stayed in.  She had groceries delivered.  Shopping by TV and catalogues, she rarely stepped outside her back yard and never out the front door.  The neighbors had changed over the years and thought her to be eccentric.  She cared most about her granddaughter.  They talked several times a week by phone.  Kathy took care of anything that required travel. 
     People had visited at first.  Then they stopped coming.  She had only one regular visitor, and he came only at night. 
 

    Frank Holtz sat in his Dublin office.  It was a 20' by 20' with a glass wall covered in thin grey blinds.  The other walls were a light grey.  An antique pistol collection was arranged behind the wooden desk.  A display of badges and patches from hundreds of departments around the world hung in glass cases like paintings.  Photos of Gail were grouped on a corner of the desk around the large green blotter.  Kathy and Kevin at the football game somewhere in Easton during the school year.  The IBM computer and laser printer took up the rest of the desktop. 
     He was interviewing two motorcycle officers.  Broad shouldered weight lifters with predatory eyes, in tan and grey.  Their hair was so close to the skin, he could see scars from boyhood fights. 
     The police force had broken into two distinct groups.  There was the very conservative military type who Frank found to be wound just a little too tight and the street fighters with tattoos and long hair that were so necessary in the control of gangs.  The two groups didn't mix well, but they respected each other.
     "Captain," the secretary buzzed, "a Mrs. Kirk."
     He felt a momentary twinge of guilt.  It had been almost a year.  She was doing okay, everybody said.  She simply didn't leave the house. 
     "Can you fellas excuse me for ten?"  He looked at them, not smiling.  His manner with the men was to verge on unfriendly.  It was safe and kept them on edge.
     "Mare?" 
     "Frank," she said, "hate to bother you at work."
     "Any time.  You know that.  If there's ever anything--"
     "There is...” She inhaled, a hesitant, snuffling sound.
     "All right," he said, waiting.
     "Other than the nice report, I don't have much left of my husband," she said, with just a hint of chill.  "I suppose, he didn't have too many options.  I know you didn't either."
     "Listen Marian."
     "No!  Let me finish what I have to say.  I'm so tired of lies.  From him, nothing but sneaking around and covering up...everything.  Nothing's ever been the same.  I'm tired of being alone.  It took a while, but I am.  I don't want to play the good cop's wife anymore. He was a cop.  He loved being a Goddamned cop, but I never loved it.  I never admired it.  I'm sorry."
     "Nothing to be sorry for," Frank said.  "Go on, if you want to?"
     "Yes, I want to.  I just heard that you buried him.  That you know where...  That you know where."
     "How did you...come to hear that?"
     "Jerry Le Montour and I have been seeing each other for three years."  The sentence came to a dead stop. 
     "Jerry," Frank repeated.
     "He started coming around the moment Norman went away the first time.  I had to put him off.  He didn't know what was going on and I just told him to go away.  But after you gave me that stupid report, I just let it happen."
     "Does Hellen know?"
     "Yes, she does.  He's been a friend.  He wants to help me, even if others don't." 
     "So you just thought he was coming back."
     "Yes, why wouldn't I?"
     "I'm so sorry.  I never thought--"
     "I don't care what you thought."
     "They were buried in barrels for God's sake.  No grave site, no stone.  They didn't want anybody to know where.   If the press or you or Arnie's family found out, they might cause trouble.  Big trouble."
     "I have a right to know where his body lies!  I have a right."  She was crying. 
     "Suppose I take you there.  What's to be gained?  There was a hole in the ground when I got there.  There was a backhoe rented for the occasion and I rolled five steel barrels into it and pushed dirt over them.  Do you know how that felt?"
     "I think I do."
     "Yeah, of course you do."
     "His career rolled over me thirty years ago.  None of this is your fault, but I have to see it.  I can't let him go.  I thought he was fooling me again.  I've tried.  I stopped mourning and I don't grieve anymore, but some part of me just won't let him leave.  He's in my dreams."
     "Wednesday," Frank said.  "I'll drive." 
 

     Gail didn't want to go.
     They left at 9:30 on Wednesday morning in the Bronco.  The silver anniversary vehicle had large knobby tires and four wheel drive.  They would need the extra muscle, where they were going.  Kevin and Kathy were invited to ride along.  Marian insisted that her granddaughter should be there for reasons similar to her own. 
     They headed north on Route 611.
     There wasn't much conversation during the ride.  As they neared the site, Kevin again questioned his fathers's actions. 
     "I had my reasons," Frank said.  "In order to protect people--which is my job--they have to remain ignorant.  There has been a cover up.  But the reactions of normal intelligent people make that very necessary."
     Kevin was wearing his red varsity jacket.  The white bulldog on the one side, and an E on the other and several gold pins adorned the front.       "What is the usual reaction," he asked.
     "Same as yours," Frank answered.  "Rejection, ridicule, disbelief, doubting the messenger."
     "It's true," Kathy interrupted.
     "Frank's right," Marian added.  "When Norman told me what was going on, I thought he needed to stay in the hospital.  Even after I saw it for myself; was almost killed, I had doubts about what had happened."
     "So," Frank said, "we have to keep it quiet.  We have the greatest threat to society since the Black Plague, and but for the few people that it has selected, nobody knows."
     "What do you mean--selected," Kevin asked.
 "It seemed to pick certain people and it taunts them, baits them until they fight back."
     "Why would it do that?"
     "This is it," Frank said.
     A large wood sign announced Delaware State Forest.  They headed west along the perimeter of the park.  Frank dropped the Bronco in to four-wheel drive as they entered a dirt road.  It looked as though it hadn't been used for years.  Hopefully, thought Frank, not since he was there last.  The road wound up the side of the mountain through thick pine trees and acres of laurel bushes.  It branched off to an even rougher stretch, which led to a small clearing. 
     "Everybody out," he said.  "This is the place."
     Dense forest surrounded them.  The herbal scented air was pleasant to breathe.  They got out, stretched and looked to Frank. 
     "It's right through there.  Norman wanted it to be hard to find."  They hiked an almost invisible path for two minutes.  Clouds moved over the sun, plunging the forest into an opaque gloom.  Several yards from where they stood, an uneven patch of weeds grew on a circular mound. 
     Marian began to shiver.  The thought of being near her husband's remains, the hidden location, the sudden change in light as they stepped into the clearing, caused her stomach to turn over. Kevin and Kathy stood back with a sense of reverence. 
     "Something's happened here," Frank said, an edge of apprehension in his voice.  He moved closer.  The tracks of the backhoe, though nearly wiped out by rain and wind were still visible. 
     He said, "The back hoe was out by the road.  Norman rented it and after I used it I was to move it up, away from the path.  I don't know who picked it up.  But someone's been here."
     He got closer, until he stood at the edge of the burial mound.  There was clearly a disruption in the even shaping of the raw earth.  The dome of the mound had been cleaved, resulting in a large rut.  Inside the rut, an object protruded through the black soil.  From the erosion and weathering, Frank could see that it had happened years ago. 
     "Get me a big stick," he said to Kevin.
     "Frank, what's wrong?"  Marian inched closer.
     "I don't know yet.  You see that thing?"
     "What is it?"
     "That's good," Frank said to his son.  "Stand back."
     He began to carefully move dirt away from the shiny object.  "A couple of smaller ones," he said, making fists as though he was holding imaginary sticks.  Kevin was back instantly.  Frank reached into the hole with the two branches and fished out what appeared to be a piece of steel.  On the third one, as he laid it out in the grass, a K written in broad, black felt tip pen was clearly visible. 
     "Frank, talk to me,” Marian whispered.
     "What's up dad?"  Kevin asked.
     Kathy began to sob behind them. 
     "Somebody broke out," Frank answered, mumbling almost to himself.  Kevin moved closer, reached out to touch one of the shards.
     "Stay back boy!" Frank was yelling.  "Take your shoes off.  Don't touch the soles, don't untie them.  Just back up, get those sneakers off and get in the car.  Everybody!"
     "Don't get do excited," Kevin snapped.
     "Now!"  Frank screamed.  He took the stick and pushed dirt over the sneakers until they were covered.
     As they drove back, the tension increased.  Kevin felt like a child in front of his girlfriend.  Marian wanted answers.  Frank looked in the mirror and Kevin gave him a sour look.  The four of them were in their stocking feet, footwear having been buried in the hole with the metal fragments. 
     "Kev, let me explain.  There might have been--"
     "Forget it!"  The boy stared out the window, his head tilted toward the road shoulder. 
     "No, I can't forget it.  And you won't forget it.  That stuff is dangerous.  It's contagious as hell."
     "It is," Marian said.  "Your father did the right thing."
     "Those were $125. Air Jordans.  I worked for a year to save up enough bucks."
     Frank said, "The canister appeared to be empty, but somebody could have broken into it.  That would just be impossible with out heavy equipment."
     "So what," Kevin shot back.
     Kathy sighed, "Kevin, you're acting like a baby."
     "Oh man," Kevin said, trying to press himself further against the door. 
     "This has been a terrible day," Marian said, "but at least I know what happened to him."
     Kathy reached forward and placed a reassuring hand on her grandmother's shoulder.

     He had to go back.  Bombar went along to help with the digging.  Two gas lanterns cast a weak glow in the clearing, as the two suited figures began clearing earth.  They worked for hours, removing steel fragments.  Then, after removing two large halves, they found the others, intact. 
     Frank stood looking at his son's expensive sneakers and had a moment of regret.  He would buy a new pair but they would never be the same as what the boy had done for himself. 
     After they reburied the parts and placed the sealed canisters on top of them, they covered the mound with six inches of fresh earth.  It was the best they could do. 
     They used pressure tanks to wash down the suits down.  First with muriatic acid, then fresh water.  Before leaving, they sprayed what was left of the acid over the entire mound and covered their tracks with the green liquid. 
     On the way back.  "It's likely," Bombar said, "that there isn't any contamination there at all."
     "Gotta be sure," Frank said.
     "Gotta be," Bombar agreed.  "What'a ya think happened?"
     "The other two weren't very far gone.  It worked on Norm slowly.  Maybe he just breathed it.  Maybe it got him way back, right there on that first day.  'You were here first.'  That's what he told me. Did you read the thing about the mice?  I hope you did.   Remember, that's the only way they could tell for sure without doing tests.  I thought of buying a couple just to bring along.  So crazy, all this shit.  I still say it was in '83 when he went to the barn.  The drug that Arnie made up killed him and Martie, but Norm was more advanced, I guess."
     "So it completed itself inside the canister."
     "You saw those things.  That was 3/4 inch hardened steel.   They could withstand anything.  Once closed, they couldn't be opened."
     "Did you take a pulse before you sealed them," Bombar said.
     "Sure did.  They were real dead."
     "So," Charlie said, "he woke up in there."
     "Premature Burial," Frank said.
     "What's that?'
     "Story by Edgar Allen Poe," Frank answered."
     "Jesus," said Bombar.
     "Yeah," Frank said, "story by God."