Dr. Fredric Eissler watched the screen for the third time.  He had replayed the tape and stopped it, allowing it to run in slow motion several times.   His large faun eyes blinked with sharp intelligence as the right hand sketched furiously.  The Arabic symbols appeared like sword slashes across the note pad.  He looked briefly at the jade figurines and smiled at the remembered miracle. 
      He stabbed the intercom button.
      "Is Murry out there?"
      "Yes doctor, he's right here," Bonnie answered.
     "Murry, bring John please.  Take somebody with you.  Take Luis.  Okay Murry?"
     "Yes sir, Dr. Eissler, but--"
     "What," Eissler said.
     "Luis and I don't get along very well.  Could I take someone else?"
     "How long has this been going on?  You'll just have to work things out, Murry.  The situation has changed a little bit."
     Murry looked at the book-sized machine.  "Yes sir."
    "Take Luis, Murry," Eissler said again.

     Later in Eissler's office. 
     "John, good to see you today."
     "Good to see you too, Dr. Eissler."
     "Feeling okay?"
     John was gaining a pound a week.  When he arrived at the clinic, he weighed less than a hundred.  Now he was pushing two hundred and it wasn't good.  His body was becoming pear shaped, with a huge spread at the waistline.  These past weeks he insisted that Murry shave his head because he didn't like his hair. 
     "John," Eissler went on, "you've been a little naughty."
     "I'm sorry doctor...I don't know what happened.  Can't remember it too well." 
     "Let's not dwell on it now.  I increased your medication as you asked and it doesn't seem to be effective.  What happened that would cause you to be agitated like that?"  Eissler stopped writing.  He became motionless.  There was an increase in his heart rate.  A pleasant dizziness passed through his slim body. 
     "I'd rather not say.  I'm not really sure," John said.
     "Then, let's move on for now.  Tell me about the dreaming.  What did you dream last night?"
     "Don't remember."
     "Anything?"
     "Eggs."
     "Hatching...emerging?"
     "Yes, hatching.  A landscape stretching for thousands of miles.  Covered with eggs.  Big, small, all colors.  Like Easter eggs, but very ugly, cracking, hatching out of their shells.  I couldn't move, or I would step on them.  Kill them."
     "And you didn't want to kill them?"
     "Can't remember."
     "Kill what?'
     "Can't."
     "You can't remember?"
     "Can't kill them."
     "Look down," Eissler commanded.  "What do you see?"
     "Eggs within eggs, smaller and smaller, hatching."
     "Does it end?"
     "Yes," John said.
     "And what's there?"
     "Flowers."
     "Describe them," Eissler said.
     "Black flowers."
     The doctor began to write again.  The flowers had reoccurred several times.  Rings of black flowers.  John began to slump in the chair.  His eyes flickered and rolled back.  They had begun using hypnotherapy two years ago and John was an exceptional subject.  Many times he would slip into trance the moment he entered the office.  It was an imbedded command.  If John should become excited or refuse to remember Eissler would simply say, 'Look down.', and John would immediately enter into a deep sleep. 
      A knock came at the door.  "Not now," Eissler said softly.
     "Dr. Eissler, I'm sorry," Bonnie said through the door, "your wife is on the phone."  Bonnie sounded just a shade nervous.  But his wife didn't know.  He was sure of it.  That perfect little body, that uncanny responsiveness to his touch.  He would hate to let her go.  She was a poor secretary, but he didn't care.
     "Thank you Bonnie," he said.  The phone rang once.  This was the signal of his currant mistress.  She would ring once and he would know to take the call, which would come in five minutes. 
     Incredible timing.
     He smiled at the irony of life.  An ambulance pulled outside the window, siren shrieking, tires squealing.  He had heard it approach from the access road, but he wasn't expecting it.  He cringed, bearing his teeth.  In the outer office, he heard his wife's voice.  Then, through the office door.  "Bitch!"  Then mumbled conversation.  He heard Bonnie.  "You're out of your mind, Mrs. E..   I'll call the police."
     "No you won't, you slut!"  Something heavy thudded against the wall.
     "Oh Christ," Eissler moaned.  Under the window the attendants began to shout.  Glass shattered somewhere.  He wasn't sure if it was outside or inside.  He heard cloth being torn.  It wouldn't go away.  Down below, another woman screamed.  He reached numbly for his intercom.  If he had any guts he would open the door and take charge.  But he wouldn't do that.  He felt dizzy again.   The telephone rang again.  It was a car horn, blaring. 
     Car horn.
     John was staring at him.
     He did it.
     Eissler had not known.  In the years since he had begun treating John Doe, nothing like this had ever happened.  He tore open the blinds.  The driveway was empty. 
     He had not known.  The dizzy feeling began to subside.  He jumped up and opened the office door.  The reception desk was vacant.  He realized that it was 12:30 and Bonnie was taking her lunch.  The telephone purred like a kitten.
     "I didn't mean it," John said.  He was weeping.  "I didn't mean it."  He was a child caught in the act.
     "How did you do that?"  Eissler collapsed in his chair. 
     "I don't like the way it smells," John said.
     "What smell's?"
     "You do.  You smell of--," John rolled his shoulders forward and his head shrank into his torso, "--fear."
     "Yes, I suppose I do.  Naturally I would."  The doctor began to scribble again, switching from Arabic to Hebrew, then Chinese, in order to integrate the fantastic information of the experience. 
     John said, "Dr. Eissler, I can't get used to this."  His voice was thick, words slurred.
     "We have to do it John," Eissler said.
     "It's uncomfortable."
     "A necessary evil."
     John held up his feet.  They were encased in a bag of half-inch-thick nylon canvas, padlocked with chrome bolts.  His arms were crossed over his chest, bound with leather straps and strong PVC tubing.  The sides, front and back were reinforced with steel bands.  These were welded into place, bubbling with blue-black melted metal.  The restraint was fitted to the patient to assure as much comfort as possible. 
     "Maybe we could just loosen it up a little.  I'll behave."  John was begging. 
     Fredric Eissler reached into his desk.  He dropped a pile of shredded rags on the green blotter.  It was a standard industry regulated straight jacket.  To all but a trained magician, getting free of it was impossible.  It lay on the desk, seams torn loose, straps wrenched apart, buckles twisted and broken. 
     "Do you remember this?"
     John looked away like a dog avoiding the master's gaze.  "No," he said.      "What does it have to do with me?"
     "You were wearing it last night.  You did this." 
 

    "You don't mind if I phone you at home do you?"
    "I told you to.  But from now on, if you need to talk to me, use the number I gave you."
     "Yeah sure, Frankie.  You don't mind if I call you Frankie, do you?"
     "Can I call you Barrel?"
     "More friendly that way," Venero said.  "I have to keep up appearances.  If I did what you told me, you might not see how easy it is for me to get to you and your family.”
     Frank kicked the door to his den closed and flipped on the recorder.  "What do you have?"
     "Well," Venero said, "everything's on disks.  I don't keep'em around.  But I looked at that date.  On 9-22 that year Toxicom got a call to clean up a spill at the Mercer Elementary School.  The guys got there, and according to the foreman's notes, there was nothing but blood.  No chemicals, acid, just blood.  I talked with him last night.  He says the whole thing was stupid and expensive.  They thought there was a mistake.  But anyhow, they ripped up everything and took the stuff away.  Cleaned it up good."
     "How did you get the job."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Another company was called by a Detective Kirk.  How did Toxicom end up getting the job?"
     "Well," Venero said, "if I told you that, it might tend to incriminate me."  He laughed.  Holtz could hear others laughing.  The guy always had an audience around.  Frank realized he was being heard over a speakerphone, and no doubt, he was being recorded as well.
     "What about Musconetcong?  The cliff face."
     "Yeah, that too.  We cleaned up blood there too."
     "Okay Pete," Holtz said, "here comes the tough one.  Where did it go?"
     "That's hard to--well, I can't just--"
     "Just remember the Times when you when you do remember," Holtz said.
     "Fuck you!  Okay, fuck you!"  There was no laughter this time.  "We threw it all together with the same load and it all ended up in the same place.  We had a deal for landfill.  Outfit named Hingey Ningey or some shit.  A church."
     "Where?"
     "Right up the road from you's.  I got it here.  Gatherers Church of the Light in Wilson Boro.  Morgan’s road."
     "I have the pay record in front of me," Holtz said.  "You were to have disposed of the material with top priority.  The department and the state paid $20,000. jointly.  Class "A" toxic waste.  What made you dump it in a land fill?"
     "They was gonna!  They was gonna do it right!  But this guy, high up in the P.D. comes and says not to.  Told the boys just to get rid of it anywhere they wanted.   He got a kick back too.  Big kick back."
     "Who was it?"
     "Okay Frankie, but this is it.  We're fucking even.  Guy's name was Le Montour."
     "One more question."
     "One more, that's it."
     "Where did it go, at the church?"
     "That's easy.  It went into the berm."
     "What berm."
     "There's a lake there.  Everything went into the banks of the lake.  Your fucking blood...and a lot of other shit, I guess."
     "It's in the banks of the lake?"
     "Yeah, that's what the man tells me."
     "Okay, thanks Pete," Holtz said.
     "About five-nine, brown hair and eyes, plays the violin real good."
     "What's that?"
     "I got a picture here of a real cute babe.  Just in case you forget we about our deal."
     "I won't."
    "That's right," Venero said, "you won't," and rang off.
 

    Kathy Taylor stepped out of the shower.  She dried off, fluffed her hair and turned on the radio.  WEEX  pumped out a Latin beat.  Her room was covered in posters, school pennants, and teenage memorabilia.  The wall color had been the same since she was five and had moved in. 
     As she sprinkled on some bath powder and deodorant, she looked through the window.  It was the same window where she had used to wave at Almo.  They had felt like secret agents with special codes that would go back and forth.  Next day, they would compare to see if they had gotten the message right.  It was usually, will you marry me?  They never did get married, Kathy thought. A pang of regret crossed her heart. She sat nude on her vanity chair, away from the window to keep people from seeing in.  A little troll doll sat on the table.  She picked it up and stroked the hair.  It was old.  It had been a gift from Almo the day before he died.  He had asked timidly if he could show it to the class.  She had rebuked him sternly for such a dumb idea.  Only first graders could show things.  Now she felt emptiness.  She wished she had let him show the doll.  Would he even have gotten a chance?  Probably not.  She spoke to the doll.  "You tried to save me that day, big guy." 
     Opening her knees, she let her hair hang between her legs.  It felt good on her thighs.  The long brown curls shook, beginning to dry.  She stood in front of the full-length mirror, checking herself with a critical eye.  Reaching into her purse, she took out four quarters.  She placed one between her thighs, her knees, calves, and ankles.  If one dropped, then she wasn't a Rockette.  It was an old test to quickly eliminate girls from the chorus line. 
     No problem.
     She dressed in plaid shorts and put on one of Kevin's football shirts.  Number 37.  Some of the two numbers went into the shorts, tucked beneath the belt line. 
     "Cute," she said. 
     It was a good night to be cute.  After what happened up in the woods, she'd be lucky to see Number 37 ever again.  But she knew she would.  She pantomimed writing on a blackboard.  The invisible letters said, "I will never call him a baby again."
     She continued brushing her hair.
     "Never, never, never."

     There was a new poster on the wall.  A little Chinese man in a white shirt stared out from the photo.  He looked so happy.  She heard there were Friday night services. 
 

    A number of things had to be checked out.  It took at least twenty-four hours for missing people to cross his desk.  By the time police action was taken, it could be much later.  That afternoon, a stack of reports was mounting.  The pile was getting bigger. 
     Incredibly, some of these were people he knew.  Going over the addresses, he saw that they were within a thirty-mile radius.  Missing as of Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.  Forty-four people.  One of them was Bob Canoles's wife.  He owned the Mercer food market.  Gail shopped there for Christ's sake.
     That business at the shopping mall.  What was the manager's name?  He pulled out the phone book.  Got the number. 
     "Twenty Fifth Street," a pleasant female voice.
     "Mr. Everet please," Frank said.
     "He's in a meeting right now.  May I take--"
     "This is Captain Frank Holtz.  Pennsylvania State Police.  I need to talk with Mr. Everet now, if possible."
     "Please hold..."

     "Don Everet here."
     "Mr. Everet, I need to ask a few questions," Frank told him.
     "How do I know you're with the police?"
     "You have a number trace, I assume.  Have the girl look it up.  I'll wait."
     "Sorry," Everet said.  "What can I do?"
     "You have a security company working for you.  They've been nicknamed the "hit squad" by the local kids."
     "That's right.  I don't care what you call them, they get the job done."
     "I hear the operation is very smooth.  Like most big theme parks, you never see them; all underground."
     "Yes sir, that's right."
     "So," Frank said, "suppose you have trouble.  They escort somebody out.  Where do they go?"
     "Straight to the Easton police station.  Then they handle it."
     "Well, I checked with them," Frank lied.  "And they say they've never seen your guys."
     "That's impossible,” Everet asserted.
     "Do you have a record of those removed from the Mall?"
     "Yes I do.  I insist on it, though they tried to talk me out of it.  Law suits and that sort of thing, you know."
     "Who tried to talk you out of it?"
     "The company," he said.  "Gatherer Security."
     "FAX me the list," Frank said.
     "Am I in trouble?"
     "Are you going to FAX me that list?'
     "Yes, of course."
     "Then..."
     "You should know this," Everet said.  "The list reads like a horse race."
     "Why's that?"
     "Nothing but names like Knife, Dum Luck, Ghost.  There aren't many given names."
     "Send it," Frank said.

     The FAX rang twice and three sheets appeared.
      A long list it was.

     Two plain-clothes detectives were seated across from the desk.  They didn't look like cops.  The big one had tattoos covering his arms and greasy black hair tied down his back with twelve rubber bands.  The other was a human ferret with a pointed nose and small sharp teeth.  He was dressed in black leather with a golden eagle across the back of his jacket.  His name was Mo. 
     Holtz watched the two men go through the intricate, almost invisible rituals that were their daily habits.  He knew that the act had probably saved their lives more than once.  They weren't what they appeared to be. 
     He said, "We need to run down everything on a company named Gatherer Security and anything connected to them.  This place.  Frank tossed a small flyer at them.  Gatherers Temple.  Look for big accounts in malls, ball parks, video arcades, anywhere kids hang out."
     Mo took notes.  He threw his partner a sly grin.  It meant nothing, Frank knew.  Just part of the act.  Hell's Angels, street people, lawless, will work for food or drugs.
      Little Mo had a P.H.D. in psychology.  His partner, Dirty John, taped everything to keep things straight.  Mo's idea. 
     "Y'know, you guys are like my own kids," Frank said.
     "Yeah," Mo said, " 'cept I can't catch a football.  So I can't be no son of yours.  Thank God she cheats on your ass."  He and Dirty John slapped palms.
     "Let's get serious," Frank continued.  "Go over this list.  Get names where we need them.  Match street handles to real people.  Call families, but be discreet.  We don't know what we have here yet.  You guys been checking in with Bombar?"
     "We were, like, over with him last night.  He's a real down cat," Dirty John said.
     "A fanatic," Mo agreed.
     "He'll come in handy," Frank said.  They knew what he meant.
     "Got ya," said Dirty John.  They got up to leave.
     "Hey!"  Frank yelled.
     "Yes Captain," Dirty John replied with respect that wasn't feigned.
     "Tiptoe," Frank said.
     "Yes sir," they said in unison, nodding, and were gone.
 

    "This is strictly reconnaissance," Bombar said.  "This is what we've been waiting for."
     The team of six officers rested on their knees in front of their Sabonim.  They were dressed in black, each armed with Boken, spear gun, and fully silenced 9 millimeter automatics, just in case.  Charlie looked them over and thought about how far things had come. 
     Tech-age Ninja.
     But they were better than that.  These guys were handpicked and groomed for the job.  They weren't happening by the book at all. 
     "Captain says to get in and out, totally quiet.  Just check the place and come on back."
     One of the men looked down at the floor, closed his eyes and spoke, "Sabonim, I just don't know about these suits.  From what you say and what it says in that report, the enemy can hit pretty hard."
     "You're right, Mr. Coonz," Bombar said.  "Close your eyes and keep them closed." 
     The man looked puzzled but he complied.  Bombar walked to his office and picked up a sledgehammer.  It weighed 18 pounds.  He stepped behind his student and swung the hammer at his head with all his might.  The blow knocked the man over.  Then Bombar swung again at like a golfer at the man's chest.  The steel hit with a terrible thud and should have killed him. 
     "Feel okay, Mr. Coonz?  Any pain?"
     "No pain.  Jesus, I didn't feel a thing."
     "A fellow I know was attacked by a grizzly up in South Dakota. He spent year developing this material. It’s not graceful, but it can withstand a hit from anti-tank rounds. I designed the suits myself and tested them to handle anything.  You could take a direct hit from a grenade and have tea with your wife the same day."
     They rose from their knees as one and grunted a uniform, "Mee Suk!"   On the way to the truck, Charlie kept going over it.  "Under no circumstances confront them directly.  Everyone is a suspect; considered armed and dangerous.  If there are any problems, anything, use the foot technique."
     "Run like hell,” the leader said.  Reaching out the truck door, he took Bombar's hand, squeezed it.
     "Pil Sung," Bombar said.
     "Certain victory," the cop said, and slammed the door.
 
 

It was their first date since Tinicum Park.  Frank was at work, and Gail had allowed Kevin to use the Bronco.  He left for Kathy's house at the south end of Mercer. 
     The sun was touching the horizon coming from the back of the house and Kevin had to squint as he drove up.  He walked to the front door, knocked and was greeted by Bill Taylor.
     "Kevin, how are ya," Taylor said, extending his hand. 
     "Mr. Taylor," Kevin said, "I've been all right."
     The Taylor's house sat at the top of a hill.  The dirt driveway was not more than two ruts separated by a hump of grass.  Across route 611, the Triangle Bar sat at the apex of the highway and Durham Road.  The bar was a narrow white building adorned with wagon wheels and colored lights.  The neon signs in the windows suggested beer and conversation.  As Kevin went through the door with Bill Taylor, a rack of billiard balls was broken, the sharp clack carrying up through the damp air. 
     Kevin seated himself on the sofa.  The room was cozy, with shelves full of knickknacks, thimbles, and a collection of tiny blown glass animals. 
     "She'll be down in a minute," Gretchen Taylor said.
     "Thanks Mrs. Taylor."
     "So, where are you two going tonight?"  Bill Taylor eyed Kevin from a father's viewpoint.  Knew than he was a good kid, but didn't trust any seventeen-year-old when it came to his daughter.
     "Well, I want to do up to Easton, see a movie at the mall."
 Gretchen Taylor looked up and said, "Oh, you don't want to go there.  Nothing but gangs and homeless kids."
     "Now, leave them alone." Taylor said.  "Kevin knows how to stay out of trouble.  Don't you son?"
     "Kath wants to go up to that new church, but it just has to be a boring evening," Kevin said.
     Bill Taylor frowned.  "What church?"
     Kathy came down the stairs, her curls bouncing.  "It's the one with that little Chinese man.  I heard it's pretty neat." 
     "Why would you want to go to church on a Friday night date," her mother asked.
     "Mom," Kathy said, "we can handle it."
     "Okay," Gretchen said, lowering her head, "have a good time."
     "See you got your dad's Bronco," Taylor said, looking out the window.
     "Yeah, once in a while I luck out," Kevin answered. He stood holding the door for Kathy, anxious to be on their way.

     They headed North. 
     "Kev, if you don't want to go up there--"
     "Nah, we can go.  It might be fun."
     "That's so sweet of you.  I know you don't feel like it," she said. They turned left at Raubsville, heading for the hills.  After fifteen minutes of fence rows and farmland, the temple's glow appeared through the trees. 
     "Look at that," Kathy said.  "It's beautiful."
     "Yeah, that must be the lake all around it.  No lights on.  I can see light posts but they're not turned on.  Sure seems like a shame, but I'll bet it costs a fortune.  That must be why."
     Kevin turned onto Morgan's Road, which rose toward the hollow.  A few cars were visible in the parking lot.  The Bronco slowed.
     They sat in the dark above the temple grounds admiring the architecture with the engine running.  The sweet smell of open fields came in through the windows.  Kathy reached over and pulled Kevin in close.  She felt his firm lips pressing against hers.  Their hands began to run like goldfish over each other.  They became totally lost in the green light of the dashboard and feelings that they’d avoided until now. 
     Suddenly a dark figure, a shadow, jumped from the side of the road.  It ran into the Bronco's door, thumping heavily against the passenger side.  The vehicle rocked.  Kathy screamed and pushed tight against Kevin.  Then another shadow ran toward them from the opposite side.  A wide mouth appeared in the window and fingers reached over the two-inch gap.  Kevin put the vehicle in drive and tried to pull away.  He swerved and the right front tire went into a ditch.  They came to a jarring halt, the Bronco sinking.  Kevin opened the door, ready for a fight.  He thought they were being robbed.  "C'mon mother fucker!  I'll kick your fuck--"
     A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, smashing his lips.  He saw Kathy being pulled from the other door heard muffled sounds and a flood of terrible images ran through his mind.  Whoever they were, they were winning. 
     "Kevin," a voice said, "take it easy."  The hand still gripped his face.  "No noise," the voice commanded, relaxing the pressure.  "It's me Jimmy.  Keep it down."
     "What the hell are you guys doing here," Kevin asked, still breathing hard. 
     "Charlie ordered surveillance on this place.  After they close, we're going in."
     Other ghosts moved in, quiet as death.
      "We thought you were your dad," the voice said.  "Then we weren't sure, so we had to make a move."
     Another disembodied voice spoke.  "You can't be here Kev.  Sorry Kathy, for scaring you."
     "Yeah, okay," Kevin said, straightening his jacket, "we'll just go to a movie."
     "That a real good idea," the Jimmy voice agreed.  He reached out, squeezed   Kevin's nose and made a noise like a whoopee cushion.
     Kevin batted the hand away and said," Fuck off."  He laughed quietly and got back in the Bronco.  The ghosts helped him get back on the road. 
     “I thought Charlie wanted you to wear the flak suits,” Kevin said.
     “Can’t do it. It’s like wearing a ton of bricks,” Jimmy said, pulling on his black pajamas.
    Kevin accepted that and drove off.
    "Who were those guys," Kathy asked.
    "They're from the dojang.  I train with them.  They're all cops."
     "I don't get it," she said.  "What could be wrong at the church.  All the kids say it's cool."
     "Babe, if my Uncle Charlie has his guys going in that place dressed like that, then there's something real wrong."
     They headed back down to 611, turned left and went toward Easton.  Kevin pulled over on Northampton Street at a phone booth.  He touched silver plate and dropped in forty cents for a local call. 
     "Mom," he said, "Dad home?"
     "No," Gail answered, "he isn't back yet."
     "I need to talk to him about something."
     "Can't talk to me?'
     "Sure Mom, but this is guy stuff and, you know, it's kind of like police business."
     "I'll tell him when he gets home," Gail said.
     "Tell him I'll call again.  Tell him that Kath wanted to go to this church around Morgan’s Hill and--well--I'll talk to him."
     "Where are you now," Gail asked.
     "Look Mom, gotta go.  I'll call back."
     "He hung up and went back to the Bronco.  In the yellow light of the street lamps, he saw a nasty scratch in the red paint of the door.
     "Son of a bitch," he said.
     "Who is," Kathy said.
     "Nobody," he said, "but us SWAT guys.  The department can pay for that.  Lucky my dad's a captain."
     "Let's stop and get some pizza, when we get there," Kathy suggested. 
     "I love new ideas," Kevin replied.  They drove up the hills of Northampton Street to the mall.
 

    Luis Hernandes walked down the narrow hallway holding his balls.  He had done that since he was a child.   He had been asleep until a few minutes before.  Below, on the stoop, milling around, were his friends.  Tossing pebbles at his window to wake him, they had broken the glass and his mother would be pissed.  He came down the stairs and opened the door.  Still gripping himself, he stood in his boxer shorts and squinted at them.
     Enrique was the first to greet him.  "Hey Holmes, sorry about the glass."
     "You're an asshole, Holmes," Luis said.  He feigned a punch, pulling an open palm to his cheek.  The two friends were blindingly fast.  Luis was a short five-six.  His hair was shaved but for a small cap crowning his head.  At the back, a long cord was braided to the middle of his shoulders. 
     There were nine of them, dressed in floppy shorts; flannel shirts buttoned to the neck, highttop Converse sneakers and tiny razor sharp mustaches.  They were members of the Balazo, "The Cunning Ones."  There were hundreds them throughout Trenton. 
     "Hey Bonnie," Luis said, "the little dancer."  He walked over to her and the others followed.  "Glad you could make it."
     "Hey Luis," she said.  "Didn't know I had to meet all your friends. 
     "You want to be with me, you got to be with them."
     "Forget it son.  I don't need friends that bad," she said in a sophisticated drawl that spoke of Palm Beach and Boca Raton.  She stood looking at nothing in particular and threw Luis a quick glance.  He caught it and changed his tone.
     "Okay, okay, just joking," Luis said, laughing.  He had a strong sexual effect on women.  It was why he was the leader of the group.  It had gotten him as far in life as he had come.   He was vain about it and arrogant.  She felt it.  That's why she was there.  His offer to have her entertain the troops was ridiculous, but somehow tempting, territory she had been over before and she hated him for even thinking it much less letting them know.   She was afraid her bluff might not work and she knew she would stay to see what happened between them no matter what he decided.  Her slender, willowy figure and breast implants that hadn't sagged yet were out of place among these gauchos.  But it would be good, she thought, to get something going with Luis.  Though she had been the ruin of over ten relationships, she always had a sense of optimism as one started. 
     Mrs. Hernandez stomped down the same stairs.  She announced herself by using her excessive weight.  The bangers parted as she walked up the street to the bus stop.  She looked with scorn at her son in his underwear, tossed her head passed through the gang members like a queen.
     "You don't go in my house, little boys," she called over her shoulder.  "I changed the locks.  You gonna pay for that window too, Enrique."
     "Bullshit," Luis said.  The bus went past in a cloud of grey smoke.  Like a tame dinosaur, it knelt to receive Luis's mother.  It lumbered around the corner and was gone. 
     Luis held his hand up and snapped his fingers.  The Balatzos filed up the stairs, slapping, punching, and finding an invisible order.  Crumbling wallpaper fell to the steps as hands felt along in the dark.  At the top, a weak yellow bulb hung from its cord just over the door.  The brassy light colored the ten waiting devotees, washing over them like guppies waiting to be fed. 
     Luis produced his key, held up his hand for silence.  He slid it into the lock and the door opened.  "She's so full of shit," he whispered.  He went in and was hit by the smell of old pork dinners and black beans with onions, scented candles and cat litter. 
     Bonnie followed him keeping her distance from the guppies.  He understood, and though it was unusual, decided to spare her.  But he would have to throw the Balatzos a bone. 
     The living room was a shrine; a collection of bad Jesus paintings by different artists adorned the wall over the huge couch.  Jesus in tears, Jesus inside a rose; all the Anglo versions with long hair and blue ultra-compassionate eyes.  The rest of the apartment revealed shreds of other less mainstream religions.  Here and there were black candles, crystal balls, small ceramics of black saints in beaded gowns. 
     The furniture was cheap Mediterranean, heavy scrolled black wood, with red velvet panels that hid particleboard and stereo speakers.  There was the large gaudy couch; covered with needlepoint pillows from various countries, three rouge easy chairs and a wine colored rug.  Luis went to the kitchen and came back with two six-packs of Budweiser cans. 
     "So how are things going at the nut house," Enrique chided.
     Bonnie thought of the clinic as a serious job.  "Nut house" was an insult.  She looked to Luis to correct the slight, but he said nothing and just smiled.  "It's a private psychiatric clinic," she said, "and things are going good.  At least we have a job."
     "I got a fucking job.  I sell papers over on Olden."
     "Yeah," Kiki said, "that's a good gig.  You can make good money."
     "How many nuts you got over there," Enrique continued, not getting the hint. 
     "Just one," Bonnie answered, "at the moment."
     Luis said, "You should see this dude.  Totally weird man."
     "Let's go."
     "No way," Bonnie said firmly.
     "Yeah, let's do it," Luis said.  "You got a key."
     "I'll lose my job," she said.  "Besides, Murry's there.  You know about him and Doctor E. "
     "Fuck him. I'll fucking slap him," Luis shouted.
     "How are we gonna get there," Bonnie asked hopefully. 
     "Kiki has a van.  It's nice with a mattress in the back."
     "Great," she said, slumping.
 

    "Turn the lights out man," Luis said, as they pulled into the drive.  "We don't want that asshole to call the cops."  They got out and walked quietly around the back of the clinic.  "Check out that thing," Luis said.  He pointed to a cylindrical brick tower recently added to the building.  "They have to keep him in a special tank."
     "Is he a fish?"  Kiki asked.
     "He's a piranha," Enrique said, raising his fingers like claws at Bonnie.  She slipped away and went to the steel door.  Reluctantly, the slipped her key into the lock and it opened, cool florescent light bathing their faces.  The smell of antiseptics and fresh paint wafted out of the corridor.  Bonnie turned to the alarm panel and punched in the entry code.  It beeped twice and the red blinking light went out. 
     "Maybe that fat fuck won't come." Luis said.  "Maybe he'll stay asleep. 
 "He never sleeps," Bonnie said.  She stood in the cool light of the corridor and felt vulnerable.  She had dressed for Luis.  The T-shirt was thin and her nipples were erect from the cool air and the memory of dancing for men. 
     The Balatzos giggled at the thought of a big fat fuck that never slept.  Then the big fuck appeared at the end of the hall and he wasn't as timid looking as they had expected.  White lab coat, orthopedic white shoes that squeaked, and white pants, the fat fuck moved on them like a tank in a hurry. 
     Murry was stunned.  He had just woke up and couldn't believe what he was seeing.
     "You can't be in here," he said.  "Bonnie?"
     Luis ran forward, pointing his finger.  "You just shut your fucking mouth, man!"
     "Luis," Murry said, leaning back, "get out."
     "You just go back to your fucking coobie hole and go back to sleep."  He pulled a nasty little boot knife and held it to Murry's face.  "Or I'll have to pick a fucking booger out of your fat face,”
     Murry threw one more pleading look at Bonnie, turned, and headed back to his office. 
     "We want to go see John.  Give me the key to that thing," Luis said.
     The glimmer of a smile crossed Murry's pudgy face.  "Sure," he said.  "Just try not to wake him up."
 

    Kevin took Kathy's arm as they went through the mall entrance. He wanted no doubt about their status as a couple.  "Wow, maybe your Mom was right," he said.  Walking toward the pizza parlor, they maneuvered in and out of the crowd.  Mohawks and leather jackets, leather pants, tee shirts emblazoned with obscenities, long hairs, short hairs, no hairs and tattooed bodies floated thickly in front of them.  Surrounded by glittering storefronts with gold leaf names and expensive displays, young girls dressed as comic book heroines and warriors in muscle shirts knotted together in tight wary groups.  An enormous boom box was playing the newest number-one hit by the Welterweights.  On a platform originally built for kiddy shows, skinheads played at slam dancing to the music.  Several bloody noses like red light bulbs dipped and swayed drunkenly on the stage. 
     "I haven't been here for a while," Kevin said.
     "Maybe we shouldn't stay," Kathy said, gripping his biceps. 
     "Take it easy," he said.  "You're cutting off the circulation."
     A giant with a tarantula on his denim jacket came close.  "Nice tits," the giant said, leaning down to breath on them.  Kevin bristled, but he knew better than to react.  He had proven himself a hundred times against fighters who were pros and it was beneath him to be provoked by an insult. 
     "Yours too," he said politely. 
     Kathy laughed out loud and bent forward. 
     "Can't believe I said that," Kevin said, grinning.
     "I can't either," Kathy agreed. 
     The giant simply nodded his shaved head and stepped aside.  Several others in his group stared stone-faced as the couple went by.
     "It's pizza time now," Kevin went on, steering her into the booth.  They sat looking into each other’s faces, smiling at the absurdities life could offer.  A woman in a cutoff white sweatshirt came to their table.  The shirt was so high on her midriff that her breasts swelled underneath.   Deep purple stretch marks ran fence-like from one to the other.
     "How are you tonight," she said.  Kevin nodded.
     "Neat crowd," Kathy commented. 
     "Oh, they're tame tonight.  It's only Thursday.  My name's Anita.  Want me to come back, hon?"  She said this directly to Kevin.
     "No, plain cheese'l do fine, and two cokes."
    The interior of the parlor was covered in hand painted murals, depicting a landscape of Alfred Siseley, tall cypress trees, rolling hills, flocks of sheep. 
     "They all start as about 7:45," Kevin said, looking at his watch.  "Any ideas?"
     "Rocky Horror," Kathy replied.
     "Yeah, you're funny.  But we don't have to pay to see that."  He glanced out at the promenade.   Anita came bouncing back with the pizza.  It was on a chrome pedestal.  She placed powdered cheese in front of Kevin. 
     "There you go hon," she said.  She spoke again to Kevin, ignoring Kathy, and set the drinks down in front of him.  "Can I get you anything else?"
     "No," Kathy answered, "that'll be all, hon.” They exchanged smoldering glances, Kathy staring sarcastically at they yawning cleavage. 
     "Is there a problem?" Anita asked primly.
     "No, hon," Kathy answered.
     Kevin said, "Here kitty kitty."
     "The waitress left.
     "Let's change the subject," Kathy said finally.
     "It's quarter after.  So, what do you want to see?"
     "How about Rag Bag?  People change bodies like they were new suits.  Or, I wanted to see The Mert.  A carnival guy buys a killer slug from the Red Sea, keeps it in a jar."
     "That sounds good," Kevin agreed.  "I love jar movies."
     "Great," Kathy chirped.  "It got two thumbs down, but everybody I know says it's going to go cult."

     They paid for the pizza and Kevin shrugged as he left a good tip.  Kathy looked down at her chest and said, "Wow, two dollars apiece." 
     The Movie Theater had six screens, all of which could be seen over the heads of the audience.  As the opening credits of The Mert rolled across the screen, images of dissected insects were superimposed over amusement rides, creating a surreal dream montage.  "This is going to be good," Kevin whispered. 
     Hanley was dead in the mud, the narrator began, and sirens like sick hyenas were coming just over the hill.  It had been a good shot, but God knows, it wasn't my fault.  Then, as I watched the him-it thing laying out there in the rain, I heard that slimy sucking sound, and I knew that I had killed a man.  I felt funny.  My head jerked twice.
     "Oh, this is good," he whispered again.
     "Shhhh," Kathy hissed, finger to her lips.
     Outside, the band was beginning to set up.  They were tuning, and even in the theater, it sounded like a jet hanger.  Welterweight was a group of seven guys.  They were all dressed in boxing shorts that said Everlast and had on ring boots.  The drummer wore a robe with an oversized hood that had the name stitched across the back.  There were five base guitars and two sets of drums, no guitars.  Everyone agreed that when they went on, you could use your foot for an ear.  As they struck the first chord, the building shook.  The lead singer stood off to one side, shadow-boxing with the microphone.  A gorgeous young woman came up to the stage in a bathing suit with a card that said ROUND ONE, an electronic bell rang and the singer crouched, springing toward the audience.  He launched into Third Round K-O, their signature song.  They were a natural offspring of the slam bands of the late punk movement.  Fans showed up in boxing gear and went at it.  After the show, they were hauled off by friends and paramedics, the floor covered in a brown, slick abstract expressionist web of skid marks. 
     After a two-hour set, they went into their third encore and finished the night with Cut Man, which was the title of their new CD. 
     The movie let out and Kevin held Kathy's hand.  He led the way across the floor.  They stayed toward the outside of the crowd, trying not to be caught up in the fray, but in spite of that effort, they were pushed along by the surging mob.  Somewhere in the middle, Kevin fell.  He didn't know why he had lost his footing, or why he had become disoriented.  The blow had come from behind his right ear, connecting with his inferior maxillary.  His lower jaw shot forward and for an endless moment, he blacked out.  Due to years of training, he protected his head as it hit the floor.  His right fist darted up and went behind the same ear creating a full elbow block.  Kathy had no idea what had happened.  She began to bend toward him, but a heavyset young woman with black lipstick pushed her away, slapping her face. 
     A great moon-shaped face looked down at Kevin Holtz and shouted, "Yours too man!"  It was the giant.  As the first kick came towards his stomach, Kevin brought his knees up, took the boot, and in the same motion, wrapped his legs around the giant's ankles.  The man weighed close to three hundred pounds.  As he fell, he managed to end up sitting on Kevin's stomach, pinning his arms.  He pulled back his right arm, ready to plunge a toaster-sized fist into Kevin's nose.  Kevin threw his heel over the man's right calf, pressing down, then thrust his hips upward.  The giant was thrown forward, supporting himself on his hands out over Kevin’s head.  Kevin pulled his left shoulder, rolled him over, and pushed his forearm into the neck, cutting off the carotid artery.  Instantly, he was on top, gaining control, trapping the neck and cutting off blood to the brain.  The giant's eyes flickered and rolled up. 
     Then they were both being jerked up.  It seemed that an army of people in white shirts was surrounding them.  The giant was waking up.  Five of them began to drag him toward the entrance.   His shirt came apart and a multi-colored tarantula was tattooed on his chest.  It had black spade pips for eyes. 
     Confused, Kevin threw a punch and stepped out throwing a kick.  The white shirt jumped back, expertly evading.  They formed a circle around him, holding the giant's supporters back.  He got up, brushing himself off.  He looked for Kathy.  "Where's my girl?"
     "Kevin!"  She shouted and broke through circle.  The white shirts parted like smoke, almost as if they didn't want to touch her.   "Are you okay," she said, breathless.  There was a fresh bruise under her eye.  When he saw it, a new flash of anger went off behind his eyes. 
     "Scored a knockout, of course," he said, touching her cheek, just under the purple mark. 
     They walked to the entrance with the white shirts still surrounding them.  It was like a substantial bubble of influence pushing the Mohawks and pierced patrons out of the way.  There were too many to fight and whatever it was they wanted they were going to have it.
 

    Frank got home at 2:30 A.M.  He went to his office and checked the messages on his private phone.   One from Bombar.  He'd get back in the morning.  He was tired.  The stake out was a bust.  Dirty John and Mo were good company, but they got on his nerves after a few hours.  They had sat on an office that was affiliated with Gatherer Security.  Nothing came of it. 
     He went to bed.  Gail was sleeping soundly.  Looking back, one of the things he would always regret was missing the note on the refrigerator. 
 

    Bernardo had to pee.  He had been holding it since they left Luis's house.  The good-looking secretary drove him crazy and that made him have to go even more.  He knew she would go with Luis; that he himself was too young, but she was so pretty.  Shit, pissing was just something that you didn't bother Luis with.   On the way to the nut's room, Bernardo just pulled it out and went against the wall.  A wide grey stain bloomed on the floral paper. 
     "Yo, Bernardo!"  Luis ran back and cuffed him across the top of the head.  "What's wrong with you, man?"
     "We're gonna get kicked out of here," Bonnie whispered.  "I need this job, Luis.  Jesus, if the doc finds out..."
     "Shut up," Luis said.  "Let's go."

     The Quiet Room was a new addition to the clinic.  Frederic Eissler had designed it himself.  When he showed the drawings to a builder, the man said it looked like a nuclear reactor.  The wall was three feet thick, reinforced with steel rods.  It was a cylinder, eighteen feet wide and fifteen feet tall.  Constructed of cement, all surfaces inside were covered in four-inch thick black rubber, held fast with deeply buried brass bolts.  The only door was a foot thick with a vacuum seal. 
     There were three suites in the Eissler Clinic.  Originally, there had been four, but one of them had been recently destroyed. 

     John sniffed.

     The door sucked at the inner air, the seal broken.  It swung open slowly and he heard laughter.  The sound was so unfamiliar and almost frightening that John stiffened involuntarily.  A face appeared in the doorframe.  It wasn't Murry.
     "Hey John!"  Luis laughed.  "How you doing man?"
     The gang filed in, laughing, slapping, pushing.  They felt a ridiculous urge to show respect to the shackled man.  Dimly lighted by natural wave band florescent bulbs, the Quiet Room had a cool, ice blue haze that gave the interior a stark magnification. 
     Once the Balatzos adjusted to what they were seeing, they got quiet and none of them moved.  Luis, almost proud of this reaction, held out his hand and stood mutely, as though this was his creation.
     John Doe was in the center of the room, his shaved head gleaming.  He smiled weakly.  About five steps to each side a huge ring bolt, like a steel donut roughly the size of a saucer, was imbedded in the cement floor.  Two steel posts rose from the floor, covered in rubber, as wide as the patient himself, also with steel rings.  He was chained at the ankles and wrists.  A steel collar around his neck was secured by a chain that hung from a bolt in the ceiling.  The hardware that held John Doe was a dark grey titanium alloy.  Eissler had had it specially heat treated to withstand tremendous tensile stress.
 John was dressed comfortably in sweat pants, shirt and running shoes.  The fingers of his left hand were formed into a claw, kneading rhythmically. 
     "Hi Luis," he said.  "Hello Bonnie."  His voice was childlike, almost hopeful in its expectation.
     "Hi John," Bonnie said, not meeting his eyes.  She knew he did things that Dr. E. couldn't figure out, but to see him like this chilled her blood. 
     "What did this dude do, man?" Bernardo asked.
     They formed a semi-circle around John Doe, keeping several yards away.  "He's a fucking nut," Luis said.  "We told you that Holmes.  Me and John go way back.  Right John?"
     "Yes," John answered, a flat emotionless syllable. 
     "Let's go, Luis," Bonnie said.
     "No...no...we gonna have some fun with John.  He ain't going nowhere."  The Balazos laughed at that.  They moved closer.  Luis pinched John's nose and twisted, leaving it like a red beat. Tears came to his eyes.  John pulled the chains tight and sneezed.  His breath was foul, filling the air. 
     "Woah!" Luis screamed.  "You need a Tic Tac, mother fucker."  The Balazos howled. 
     "You wanna beer, man?"  Enrique pulled open the sweat pants and poured in half a can.  The patient gasped, a dark grey stain blossoming across his crotch.  Bonnie retreated to the wall, pressing against the rubber.  "Luis, c'mon man.  John's just a nice old man.  He's never done anything to you."
     "Shut the fuck up," he said.  He rushed forward, threw himself into the door, slamming it.  He grabbed a handful of blonde hair and pulled her to the center of the floor.  He reached down and clutched the patient’s crotch, squeezing.
     "How about this shit, huh.  You want some of this shit, bitch?  John won't mind."
     "Let go Luis," she said, remembering all the times young men had battered her, the humiliation, the confusion.  Her last boyfriend had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. 
    "Let's get it on," one of the Balazos said.
     "Let's do it!"  They hissed in unison.
     "Luis, I'm embarrassed," John said.
     "Get his fucking pants down," Luis ordered.  He pulled Bonnie's head toward the chained man.  Three others rushed in, tearing at the sweat pants.  They were giddy, frenzied, as John's genitalia popped into view. 
     "Luis please,” John pleaded.
     "Shut--the--fuck--up," Luis commanded.  "You gonna get a blowjob, man."  He lashed out, hitting John's upper lip with the back of his right hand.  He frowned, looking at the captive woman's head.   John had pinched him, nipped his elbow.  Just a little nip, a little bee sting.  Still looking at the fistful of hair, he saw the others jump back, their eyes wide, staggering.  They hit the rubber wall as though they didn't know it was there. 
     "Holy shit!" Screamed Enrique.  He held his stomach and turned his head to the wall, eyes tightly closed against what he saw.  Luis gently let go of Bonnie.  She sank to the floor and crawled away.   He didn't understand the little pinch.  He didn't see why his gang was lined up like punks against the wall.  Bernardo was crying like a little bitch.  What was happening?  He turned his attention back to John.  Bit me like a little fucking rat.  Like a little fucking Mexican hairless.  Gonna bust his head, make him scream with my little fucking slicer-dicer...
     His eyes fell on the empty space where an arm had been.
     The man's head was a clump of thick, flesh colored sausages, dripping, sagging, full of red gums and curved teeth.  In the middle of the wiggling mass, a shredded arm hung, the red rose where the elbow had been, held out like a sacrifice.  Luis watched in fascination, the dark spots appearing on the floor.  His face took on an expression that it hadn't worn since he was a baby.  His mouth was open in a silent, primal scream.  He looked at his friends, pleading, with a help-me grin.  He reached down with the only hand he had left and tried to say something.  They broke at once for the door. 
     But it was locked from the outside. 

     The steel pillars on either side of John Doe began to lean inward, the chains pulled tight.  One of them cracked, which sounded like two cars in a head-on collision.  John's face was open like the beak of an obscene pelican, dropping lower from its own weight.  Inside, raw, wet muscle bubbled and ran, flowing around jagged ivory tusks. 
     Gaining slack in the chain, John pulled.  His arms were now swelled like an ox's haunch.  Metal snapped like huge-bore firearms, throwing shrapnel from puffs of grey smoke. 
     The jaw hit the floor and flowed around Luis's feet.  A hundred white hooks tore into his ankles and up his calves.  He tried to lift his foot to get away, but a piece of flesh dropped from his pants and he stood still.  He fell and was engulfed by tearing, puncturing, probing needles.  The dark crimson pool of blood spread and then was drawn back, leaving a glistening stain. 
     Luis Hernandez, leader of the Balazos, the clever ones, was consumed.  The others, the homeboys and the secretary, screamed as the wave of teeth came for them.  It was supported only by a chain from the ceiling, that vanished into the mass of black fur, which was expanding, biting, swallowing. 
 

    "Dr. Eissler, yes sir, I know it's late.  Something's happened and I think you should come right over...before the police do."
 

    Saturday morning, Bombar called early.
     "I tried to get you last night," Charlie said.
     "What's up?"  Frank asked.  He sipped coffee, booted up the computer. 
     "Well, I did something.  I guess it was stupid."
     "What?" Frank said.
     "I sent a team up to the Gatherers Temple."
     "No."
     "Yeah."
     "Charlie, you've got no authority to do that," Frank answered.
     "I--I know.  After what you showed me, I just thought it might turn up something.  I sent Jimmy and five of the guys."
     Frank said, "So, did they?"
     "Did they what?"
     "Did they turn up something?"
     "Well, what they did--I mean--they were in contact with me--"
     "Goddamn it, Bombar, get to the point!"
     "They didn't come back and I can't raise them."
     "Oh Jesus," Frank said.
     "They were the best, Frank.  Those guys were better than Navy Seals."
     "Yeah well, Jimmy and Art Tyler had kids.  The Seals don't like married men."
     "Oh shit Frank.  What're we gonna do?"
     "Are you sure they went there?  Could they have considered the fact that they were trespassing and just gone home."
     "No, they were hot to go."
     "Why?"
     "They wanted to see what's going on up there."
     "No, I mean, why were they so hot?"
     "Because I told them about the missing."
     "That was totally confidential.  Police business."
     "I know but--"
     "You went way over the line Charlie, and probably put my job at risk.  That aside, my first concern is to find out what happened.  I'll get on the phone to Jerry and get a warrant."
     "I screwed up Frank."
     "I was getting ready to do the same thing.  Forget about it.  I just hope those guys are all right.  They didn't know what they might run into, no matter what you told them."
     “There’s something else,” Charlie Bombar said.
     “What?”
     “I ordered them to wear the bear suits and I found them stacked in the back of Jimmy’s truck.”
    “Oh God,” Frank whispered.
    "What can I do?"
     "Stay put.  It's going to come down to you and me anyway."
     "Do you have enough evidence for a warrant?"
     "I had Dirty John and Mo check into a security company.  They've got a dummy office up on College Hill in Easton.  Gatherers Security has over sixty-two accounts.  They hire only young men under thirty.  They never carry weapons, but they never get shot or hurt.  Never call in local police.  'Perps just get whisked away.  Nobody knows where."
     "Man, I blew it."
     "I hope they're still alive.  I've suspected something for a long time.     Everything the old man did was an effort to contain them.  But I tracked down the company that did the cleanup.  It was mob connected and they didn't do right.  To make it short, they dumped the stuff at the church.  Right into the banks of the lake.  I called the architect and he said that they fully intended to use the lake as a water supply."
     "No shit."
     "No shit."
     "What does that mean," Charlie asked.
     "One thing they found at the lab was that the blood goes a long way.  It has a shelf life that’s almost indefinite.  They tested it with ultraviolet and its potency just doesn't go away.  You can step on it almost forever and it keeps on tick'in.  In plasma, it goes right to town, but in water, it would keep dispersing for decades."
     "I just remembered something.  I saw one of their posters.  They give communion up there.  What if they give the water to those people?"
     "That's what I'm telling you.  No way to tell how many are infected."
     Charlie said, "You can't sit on this any more."
     "Don't intend to.  But here's something.  I just found out that it was Le Montour who countermanded the order.  He went over Norman's head and hired another company for disposal, at less than half the price.  Then kept the change.  I don't trust him any more."
     "I sent those guys into a meat grinder," said Charlie.
     "We don't know that.  They might be hostages.  They might be playing poker."
     "Le Montour will have to do something.  They were all off duty cops.   He'll have to help us out."
     "I'll call him."

     "Unauthorized search, trespassing, invasion of privacy without a warrant!"  Commissioner Le Montour was not taking the news well. 
     "Yes sir.  I consider it to be my fault.  We built that team and it was bound to get out of control.  It's my fault."
     "Bombar was a good guy, Frank.  But he's off the force now.  You had no business giving him information."
     "You're absolutely right commissioner, but the fact remains that he's the only other person who has dealt with this thing directly.  We've got a big problem here and it's going to get bigger.  I need a warrant to search the premises and if I'm correct, about fifty men,"
     "Okay, you've got them.'
     "Thank you Jerry."
     "Frank,"
     "Sir?"
     "You know that Marian and I--"
     "That's not my business."
     "Hear me out, Goddamn it!"
     "Sorry."
     "I thought Norman was dead.  He did such a good job that everybody thought so.  Why wouldn't we?  I'm sorry for telling her about your part in the whole thing.  I thought she had to know.  What I mean is, I thought she already did know.  With all the fuck-ups and reckless spending in the department, how could I get a twenty thousand dollar clean up bill past the board?"
     "Apology accepted.  But I want to get something straight.  You have to take my word like it was the word of God.  If we don't stop this thing now, thousands might die.  Your reputation will be the very last of your worries.  I have to have total cooperation from you and the whole department.  Bombar and I have trained thirty men, civilians and police officers.  At least until last night.  I have to find out what happened to them.   It's going to get mighty grey and we can't keep it by the book.  Right now, we've got six men who went up there and they might be dead, or worse than dead."
     "You'll have the paper by noon."
     "Thanks Jerry," Frank said.  "Wish me luck, old man."
     "God be with you," Le Montour said. 

     Frank left his den and went to the kitchen.  He stood looking out the window over the sink.  The new house was only a mile from where officer Rearson had lived.  The fields where Frank had first seen his enemy ran behind his own back yard. 
     A swing set was tucked into a corner of the fence.  Candy cane metal tubes, two swings, seesaw and slide.  It was time to give it away but then again, grandchildren might use it.  In just a few years...
     The weight of the universe came down and began to crush him.  With a handful of officers and volunteers he was expected to stop--what? 
      Outside the kitchen door, a walk led to the driveway.  The Bronco was gone.  Frank walked the few steps to the door, pushed aside the light blue curtains and noticed the note.  It was tacked to the refrigerator door with a magnetic pineapple. 

                              Kevin called.  He and Kathy went
                                to a church on Morgan's hill. 
                                 He called around 7:00 and said
                                 it was police business?
                                                                                G.

     He stared at the note.  Ripped it from the white enamel door, leaving the little pineapple. 
     Kevin was not in his room.  Gail was still asleep.  He went to their bedroom, opened the door. 
     "Hon."
     "Hmmmmmm, good morning."
     "What's this?  He said, thrusting the paper forward. 
     "Oh, Kev called last night, very mysterious, very man to man.  Wanted to talk to you."
     "Did he come home?"
     "Of course," she said answered, blinking.
     "The Bronco's gone and his bed hasn't been slept in.  Hasn't been touched."
     "I went to bed around nine," she said.  "Is something wrong Frank."
     "You never wanted to hear about this before.  Just a little more of all that craziness.  We have that church under surveillance."
     "What are you talking about?  What do you mean?"
     "There are some bad things going on up there," he answered.
     "Is Kevin in trouble," she said, still calm.
     "He may be."
     She sat up, swung her long legs over the side of the bed.  She slept in the nude and it was distracting at that moment.  "Now you listen.  You're scaring the hell out of me.  Tell me the truth."
     "Where did he call from.  Why didn't I get that message until now?  Why didn't he have the cell phone?"
     "Oh, that's easy.  He was going on the first date after the big fight and he didn't want to be reached.  Now, what's going on and don't give me any of your cop shit."
     "We're getting a warrant to search the place and I should be going up there with some men."
     "I don't understand any of this Frank."
     "And you never wanted to!"  He shouted.
     "What are you talking about?"
     "Ten years ago, I went through hell in the line of duty and I never got one ounce of support from you!"
     "Monsters, vampires!  You asked me to believe you were killing vampires!"    She was screaming. 
    "I never said that," he spoke calmly.  "And this is no time to have it out...I guess."  He crumpled the note and threw it on the floor.   "If we had more trust, more communication between us, maybe our son might be here.  Maybe I could have warned him--"
     "Stop it!  You stop it!"
     "Yeah, stop it," he mimicked.  Closing the door, he left her sobbing, knowing that she would keep it up for an hour.
 
 

    The Lobesomen, also known in some parts of the world as the lobishomen is the fully developed symptom of the infected organism.  Undiluted exposure to the blood or saliva causes septicaemic manifestations in two to three days.  Selection depends on an unidentified process resembling that of sea lions and other higher mammals. 
     (Uninnoculated mice had a strong reaction to the infected specimens.  They attacked immediately and were overpowered.  Weak or diseased mice were stored within the cage, head down, and later devoured.  Healthy mice showed the same tendency to attack, but were not always killed.  A bite then, was the mode of transmission. 
     Fully matured specimens demonstrate heightened perception.  From pre-cognitive and telepathic powers to hypnotic suggestive control over victims, they exhibit a variety of abilities. 
     In mice, they take the shape and size of a mole or shrew, with thick glossy black hair and large eyes without white, pupil or iris.  Autopsy revealed that both pupils and iris are present but at times invisible due to a membrane that is assumed to be protective as in the case of a shark which closes its eyes to bite. 
     In humans, (by all accounts) they are crossed between the grizzly bear and the wolverine.  They can alter their shape and size to accomplish any need.  This, of course, takes the pattern of luring and trapping a victim.  Their ability to alter shape may at first seem fantastic, but in nature, a number of animals duplicate this feat.  The crucian carp, a little European fish, has escaped the jaws of larger pike by growing a mass of back muscle.  In a few weeks after the intrusion of pike, the carp have developed a pronounced hump, making them too large to swallow.  Blowfish inflate to several times their normal size.  Hundreds of insects, fish, and birds become invisible due to camouflage.  The Lobesomen demonstrates these abilities to a degree far beyond anything extant in nature.
     Vector Efficiency: The vector is nearly perfect.  They show no sign of aging or weakening with time.  The pathogenic potency is beyond measure.  The number of infected hosts seems not to matter, as one inoculated mouse was capable of transferring the pathogen to hundreds of others.  This did not happen because only one out of 500 escaped the pattern of necrophagia, or devouring the deceased victim. 
     The habits of the vector and host coincide all too well because of transitory nature of the present population.  Certain factors obviously affect the survival and development of the Lobesomen.  In the original habitat (which we must assume was Portugal) they were restricted to one or two per a thousand square miles.  But where the number of hosts increases, we cannot accurately predict the outcome. 
     The Bite: The mouthparts of the vector transform according to the job at hand.  Bite radius can be anywhere from the human 3.5 centimeters or hand-sized; to up to one meter (based on relative radius size of the lab mice).  Mouth, head, and torso have been seen to be interchangeable during an attack.  The number of teeth, tusks, an/or claws also vary.  Claws extruding from infected mice, at times became longer than the body itself.  They grew long and thin like talons or short and thick like a bear or tiger.
     Blocking:  It was at first thought that transference was achieved by touch.  But this was false.  Touch theory was a natural assumption because of the potency.  Infected mice tested at blood pressure over 25 times greater than healthy mice.  This could account for the belief that a mere touch causes infection. 
     When punctured with a wooden shaft, the extreme pressure creates a spray of the creature’s blood, which covers an area up to thirty feet. 
     Control of Outbreak: In the event of an outbreak, all effort must be made to destroy the vectors.  Though they tend to move about freely, we must assume from the first two cases that they are territorial.  The habitat must be sealed off and the spread stopped from within. 
     The blood itself can be effectively washed down with muriatic acid.  Stronger acid has little or no effect.  We were unable to establish why.  Effects of the disease are irreversible once they have begun.  Martie downing, Norman Kirk and myself had progressed too far to stop it at the onset. 
     The serum we developed before that time is adequate to stop these effects.  Since the pathogen moves along the peripheral nervous system at about three centimeters per hour, and it must seat itself in the brain tissue to multiply in sufficient numbers, there is allowable time to inhibit its progress.  However, the serum works for short periods only (10 minutes) and must be injected directly into the brain.  During an extermination, this can only be accomplished by way of a skull plug.  The inoculation is then self administered as needed.  Total coverage of all skin surfaces is imperative.  The injection is absorbed through the cerebellum where the virus is focused.  Systematic neurectomy in mice showed the clear pathway to the brain. 

    Murry wouldn't explain.  Just come right away, and come alone.  Eissler hated to be manipulated by underlings.  The evening had started out well, with champagne and a new acquaintance.  Sometimes he wanted to throw his beeper into the Delaware. 
     A beat up brown van was parked beyond the entrance.  He could see rust around the bottom panels.  No hubcaps.  For a few moments, he sat lookin at the lights of the clinic.  There was no movement inside.  Rolling down the window of the silver Jaguar, he listened.  A soft breeze brought the smell of honeysuckle and clover into the car.  Eissler began to tremble slightly at something he was unable to describe. 
     He rolled up the window, got out, and locked the doors.  Pausing a few steps from the car, he went back, opened his driver's door, and popped open the console.  Inside was the Walther, the good feel of machined steel and weight, reassuring in his hand.  Murry had always had strict instructions to keep all doors locked.   He was sometimes up all night with patients and so he was allowed to sleep late.  Bonnie opened up in the morning and Murry closed at night.  But the door swung open at a touch.  Inside the hallway, the lights were out.  Eissler walked on the outside edges of his feet, being as quiet as possible. 
     "Murry," he said.  His voice echoed, pinging off the cinder block walls. 
     "Murry," louder this time.  He continued making his way to the office.  Murry was sitting in a chair in the corner.  The man appeared to have cut himself; a fine pattern of maroon dots was spread across his white coat.
     "Murry!"  Eissler threw open the door.  "Murry, what the hell is going on?" 
     "John got out," Murry said, wheezing.
     "He got out?"
     "He's gone.  I think he ran outside."
     "Let's take it slowly," Eissler said. "Tell me what happened."
     "Luis came.  He and Bonnie--"
     "Bonnie?"
     "Yes, he and--"
     "What was Bonnie doing with Luis?"
     "I don't know," Murry answered, holding his chest.  "They just showed up.  She used her key.  And Luis threatened me with a knife.  He to the key to the quiet room and they went in there.  All his friends..."
     "Where are they now?"
     "In there..."
     Eissler turned and ran to the chamber.   The door was hanging at an angle.  As he got closer, he could see that the hinges were bent.  He pulled on it, but couldn't get it open. 
     "Murry, get out here!"
     The orderly came limping, out of breath.  Together they pried the door open a few inches.  The lights were still on in the Quiet Room. 
     "I heard it," Murry said.  "I heard what he did to them."  Inside, torn clothing lay on the floor in pools of dark liquid, glinting in the cool light.  The remains of the gang members were strewn about the floor in chunks of dismembered limbs and flesh.  Dark smears were visible several feet above their heads.  The bodies had been thrown and dragged high against the wall.  There were dents and gouges in the hard black rubber. 
     Luis was still alive; balisong knife still clutched in his fist.  He was on his stomach, beginning to roll over.  Suddenly, he jumped up roaring, knife in hand.  He was in shock, seemingly unaware that he was mortally wounded.  "I'll kill you mother fuckers!"  He rushed at Eissler and Murry, his right arm gone, boot knife in his left.  The doctor fumbled with his hand in his waistband.  Only a moment stood between him and the knife.  The gun came up.  He leveled it at Luis, prepared to fire.
     "No!"  Murry screamed.  "No! She's alive!"
     The blur of Luis as he ran the few steps, intending slash them melted into the woman with whom Fredric Eissler had been a lover.  Bonnie knelt against the wall, surrounded by body parts.  She held her hand up to ward off the bullet.
     Luis was indeed dead.  His ravaged scull sat on the floor in the spot where John Doe had stood, chained to the ceiling.

Jimmy Vaun and Artie Tyler sat huddled behind a tree.  They wanted to smoke, and knew it was stupid but what the heck.  The coal from a single cigarette could be seen for a mile.  Though they were sure that the assholes at the church below wouldn't have their shit that together.  Mostly, the six members of Charlie's handpicked team were on an exciting excursion.  That was all.  No big deal.
     The panel truck was parked a quarter mile away and they waited.  Shortly after the lights went out, they would go in.  Charlie had grilled them for months in Nin Jut Su, which was the art of the Ninja.   They could move quietly in the shadows anywhere and take out anything from a room full of terrorists to half an army of mercenaries.  They watched constantly for hand signals.  The lights around the pond had flickered on for a moment and they saw something.  But what they saw couldn't be.  They forgot, as a unit, what flashed in that second and gave it no more thought. 
     Then Frank's kid showed up.  He was sitting right in the middle of God's own fresh air with the motor running.  But the kid moved on and that was okay.  Good kid.  They were still clean.  Artie Tyler stubbed out his smoke and held up his open palm.  He clenched his fist two times and pointed toward the church.  In an instant after he did that, the lights all went out and he felt a sense of power.  To the others, it appeared that he knew the lights would go out.  From that point on, they would not say a word. 
     They moved across the road and down across the open field.  They ran sideways in a curious high stepping gait.  In ancient Japan, the Ninja could run for miles that way without tiring or tripping.  As they approached the wall, they could hear movement through the water.  Just as Bob of Bob's Too knew, they also knew, it was ducks. 
     In spite of Bombar's instructions to wear the special protective suits, they had shed the gear.  Those suits were overkill and they all knew it.  Charlie was a good man, but he wasn't here, and he wasn't in on this one.  Besides, he couldn't run, and on this op, they had to move fast. 
     Tyler thought about his kids.  This would make a good story.  He watched the others glide effortlessly across the grounds toward the building.  They would try to gain entry if possible and see what there was to see.  Shadows moved and merged out in front of him.   Someone grunted and fell.  That was bad.  Clumsy. 
     He crept along the wall, his hand lightly tracing the stones, listening to the sweeping noise on the other side.  The team was still moving closer.  They all had those little spear guns.  Charlie had been real clear about no guns.  But Jimmy Vaun had brought a nice little Colt Python just for the hell of it.  So what. 
     Art Tyler scanned the parking lot.  He was puzzled.  They were gone.  Every one of his men were gone, or out of sight, or fucking around.  But he couldn't see anybody.  Then, unbelievably, incredibly, that Python went off and the muzzle flash ripped into the dark like a cutting torch licking up sheet steel.  Jimmy must be nuts.  The whole mission had just gone to shit.  For a split second, Art thought he heard his men crying.  Somebody was next to him breathing hard.  Breathing real hard.  Just for the heck of it, he pulled out the dumb little spear gun.  And the feeling was just something that he couldn't describe.  He was laying on the ground.  He'd been hit.  He reached out with his arms and fanned gravel with his fingers.  He wanted legs so badly.  He just wanted to get up and go home.  Wanted to walk in his own door, have some breakfast and go upstairs and grope his willing wife.  That's all.  That wasn't too much to ask.   The one thing he kept saying was that this just wasn't real.  This was a dream.  Had to be.  It was so fast.  Didn't feel a thing.  His hand was shaking like crazy.  But he had to do it.  He reached down and felt for it.  And there it was.  Right below the belly button.  There was nothing, just muck and a little pain and a lot of juice.  There was nothing.  And that pair of legs six feet away doing a jig.
     Oh God, they were his.