"You shouldn't have torched the mummy's corpses, Cortez!" the curator shouted at him. He loathed that the prospective museum pieces went up in smoke, chalking it up to the explorer's devil-may-care attitude. "For the record, we really would have liked to have had the mummies you incinerated."

"I needed light," Cortez responded.

"If there is a list of curse inducements somewhere in the world sir, I think you have evoked most of them," the curator brooded.

Emanuel Cortez, the infamous explorer responded. "They say that necessity is the mother of invention." Shaking his head, "Sometimes, it can be a pretty mean mother."

Reaching into a brown cloth sack, he pulled out an intricately ornamental gold box. "How about this, a one of a kind antiquity."

"This is it, nothing more!" The curator was livid.

"Next time hire that other guy!" Cortez said under his breath.

Cortez turned and walked out the museum office and down the dank, musty, museum corridors, as the curator's voice began to fade. "You'll not receive anymore funding from this institute!"

What the curator did not know was that the gold box had previously contained three grotesque looking seeds, which Cortez kept for himself in a pouch around his waist. 'If these seeds are still active,' he thought, 'they might grow into some new and exotic plant that could make me a fortune.'

Arriving at his estate, Cortez went straightway to his greenhouse. Opening the glass doors, the smell of rotting plants, soil and fertilizer permeated the air. He took the pouch from his belt and removed the seeds, planting them in a large pot containing topsoil and fertilizer. He set the pot aside.

He whipped out his cell phone and called his fiancée to find out the time of their upcoming wedding dinner the next evening and then retired for the night.

But he did not know she was on to him. She had him checked out. He had a history of dating unappealing, rich socialites and making off with a considerable amount of their money. She was unsure whether to call him on it or go ahead with the wedding. She hadn't decided if a fake marriage was better than living alone.

The next morning, after a cup of espresso, he stepped into the greenhouse and to his astonishment; the clay pot was now covered with a strange looking vine that was brownish in color with a black streak running across it. It was covered with sharp, pointy thorns that were decorated with numerous, petite, slightly transparent, powder blue flowers.

He clipped one of the flowers and placed it in his pocket, so he could stop at a florist on the way to the dinner and have them make it into a corsage. Maybe the unusual beauty of this ancient flower might help get him out of the doghouse with his bride-to-be.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, he walked up to his fiancée and pinned the corsage to the top of her gown.

"Sweet fragrance for the only woman I've ever loved," Cortez said smiling.

She knew he was lying and felt guilty for not saying something.

"Let's go in," she said taking his arm, pretending everything was alright. "No need to keep our guests waiting."

As the evening wore on, the fragrance from the flower made her disoriented. The conversations around the room became tedious and droned inside her head.

After a couple of hours, he sat down and put his hand over hers. Her flesh felt cold and stiff like wood. He leaned closer toward her, but was repelled by the smell of rotting flesh and other foul odors he could not recognized.

The corsage had dried and began to crumble.

He knew something was terribly wrong and didn't want to be blamed for it.

Immediately, her face and hands shriveled to the sounds of gasps from the guests in attendance.

Her flesh began turning a pale, putrid green; looking more like the unwrapped mummies he set a flame during his last expedition. He began wondering if the fragrance of the flowers from the seeds he found somehow might have caused a chemically induced mummification of her body.

Just then, his thoughts heard something, a strange, eerie sounding voice.

'Yoooou! You did this - to meeeee! Why did yoooou poison meeee, yooou evil mannnn?' The mummy spoke to him telepathically. 'Demonnnns are riddling my body. Rage - is all I see - all I feeel.' She paused, 'I'm going to killll yoooou, Corrrr-tez!'

'Please, my sweetheart, my dear,' he said in his thoughts as he shook with fear. 'You'll hate yourself if you harm me.'

"I dooo nowww,' she screamed inwardly.

She lashed out indiscriminately, catching Cortez to the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. He got up and ran from her, as she followed, dragging her wooden-like limbs in stilted movement towards him. There were only black holes where her eyes use to be.

The guests began running, screaming toward the exits.

His body began slowing down as the toxins entered his bloodstream from the scratches the mummy had clawed on his face. He was going into septic shock. As his knees buckled, she grabbed him about the neck and started strangling him, pushing his frame down towards the floor. The mummy pulled it's decaying corpse on top of him and began gnawing, biting hunks of flesh off his face, soaking the floor with his own blood beneath his head.

She was aware of her actions, but could do nothing to control them. She was burdened by her guilt, which fueled the fury of her rampage.

Moments later, her stilted frame was but a silhouette in the pale moonlight as she dragged herself cumbersomely onto the terrace and across the courtyard.

Her soul grieved their deaths and of the others that would follow.

He supposed one might have called his emotional state 'angst' – but he had never been one to adequately judge the mental state of others, nevertheless his own. He had found that even when a person was trying to tell the truth to others he was probably still lying to himself. His feet were getting cold now (although he couldn't feel them of course) but they were dragging like logs being pulled across the ice. That was good. Perhaps soon his end would come – as it had already come once before.

He thought back to his childhood when his mother would leave him outside on a blanket, there in the hills surrounding Vaud, Switzerland. His mother said she could see him from their back window, as he watched the trees swaying gently and the squirrels happily playing. He remembered hearing the soft voice of the wind in the treetops. His mother told him later that she felt guilty about not paying more attention to him, because his older sister and the twins had taken all her time.

Truly he had not minded – for nature itself was his mother, his siblings, his teacher, his true friend. He loved nature even now as he walked across the unbroken ice at the top of the world. He looked at the icicles hanging from his hands. He touched a finger on his left hand with his right hand – and the finger snapped off with a pop. He could see the liquid seeping out, freezing instantly as it hit the sub-zero temperatures. At some point the frozen mass at the tip of his hand stopped the flowing, so he kept walking.

On and on, deeper and deeper into nature's purest form – to the state where all life would eventually succumb. At least that's what the man in the white coat, his creator, his father, had told him when they were still friends, nay - family. That was before the struggle, before the tragedy of child – the little girl with the flowers – had occurred. Perhaps his mother had been right: if only she had given him more time, more direction, he would have known how to interact with the girl. He had forgotten so much during the time he was 'asleep'. For instance, he had forgotten that children don't float like flowers on water, they drown. He knew that now. If only his father would have told him, would have taught him…

The wind at the top of the world was howling now. It sounded like the screaming of souls ripped away from the rest of the Earth. Now the moans of those dead were his companions.

His eyes were glazing over as ice pellets hit his skin, sticking to his freezing body. His feet were stuck now, frozen to the glacier. He was now completely a part of the nature he so adored.

The man crouched down, grabbing his knees, pulling his long-coat around his body more by habit than a desire for warmth. Soon it would be over again. Here, where no human alive could find him. Only death had made this journey with him, step by step, to collect whatever was left of his frozen soul. "Why couldn't they just leave me alone?" he screamed, howling to no one except the stars overhead.

He couldn't move so he closed his eyes and dreamt of a place of sunshine and trees and people who would talk with him and listen to what he had to say. A place where he would have a family to teach him how to do right. A place where he wouldn't do terrible things, hurtful things, monstrous things.

He felt the warmth of tears on his face before they froze as well. The ice was his due punishment for murder – it was also his comfort. The snow on the Arctic glacier began to pile around his peaceful lifeless form.

"Doctor Chevez – I was informed that you were able to re-animate the man you found in the ice."

"Yes, professor. He was found floating when a chunk of a glacier broke off. His clothing suggests the late early 1800s."

"How the hell did he get way up there?"

"My best guess is he walked…"

"No one could walk that far, over all that ice!"

"Look, professor, I think he's coming to."

The creature opened his eyes to see people in white lab coats looking down at him. Why had they brought him back – again? Hadn't he paid enough for his sins? Why? – so he could kill again?

"What is it you want to say," asked the doctor who slowly moved in closer to hear the words of his amazing new patient.

"Leave me alone!" screamed the monster before snapping the doctor's neck like a twig.

Columbia, her white gown flowing about her she ascends the 33 steps, and enters the promontory and stepping between the two tall pillars formally announces, "Ianus, dear brother, I bow to you."

Ianus, in his black toga rises, and in softer tones states, "Dear sister Columbia, I bow to you."

And with an unspoken understanding, together, the keys they hold are turned simultaneously, like the fire control systems for launching nuclear weapons in a submarine, and like those missile hatches, the two headed phoenix gates of the world, of heaven and earth, of beginnings and endings, all things illuminated, visible to them alone, swing open.

Ianus, "Our kind, our people, our creations, assumed destroyed and extinct, have through the millennia worked for these ends, and so close, now why such sorrow dear sister?"

Columbia, "To these ends, yes we have and as is our right, and yet I still feel for them, though fools all."

She stops for a second to think about what she wants to say next and how to state it. "We have evolved a new world order and we continue to do so. The time is not ripe for our assent, but it is closing. I have been the force behind these recent changes in science and technology and you dear brother through mind control and false finance."

Columbia continued, "In the distant past we were known as Gods and our people, to some, as giants. And yes, our people were physically much larger then those interlopers from the south. And to protect our people, we thought we effaced all the references to us however within their religious books that we missed altering, we were again mentioned, and dear brother I quote, '… the sons of God saw the daughters of men were fair and took them as wives , whomsoever they chose.' We managed to alter the interpretations over the centuries in order to hide our existence, yet the evidence still exists. And so, we all became like them. We hid deep within them subducting our genetic make up within theirs. Any who even came close to the truth were eliminated. We know our kind through tests and time."

"And now science and technology are allowing us to reemerge as we were. The GMO science program designed to up the caloric content and abundance necessary for our kind has begun while at the same time it is altering their genetic makeup. Their birth rates are being reduced; their populations are aging at a non-replaceable rate, while our kind re-evolves. We will be careful not to alarm them until it is too late."

She sighs and says "But I have grown fond of them, especially their music and arts."

Ianus interrupting, "Sister, we can always work that."

Ianus eyeing the world through the gates continued, "The fools embraced us, our philosophy and our kind and then eliminated us, or so we let them assume. We have interbred to survive. Their caloric needs are about 2000 a day while ours are closer to 5000. With the GMO program you have so fought for throughout the planet and my control of the financial systems, slowly bending them to my will, we will bring about our safe and long overdue return."

"Trust me. It is not time to hesitate. You must continue. I will note your concerns and reserve judgment until after we have completed our tasks."

Columbia looking at her brother with love and respect said, "And with you too dear brother, we have laid the foundations, the institutions of the new world order. We had to create the planned chaos, wars, social conflicts and of course, the pre-planned responses. And yes, we had to wait for the technology to evolve, as it finally has. You keep them in debt with your political economic systems so well concealed in magic." She hesitated before continuing and then said, "And I continue to poison them."

Columbia, now tearful, breaks down before her brother, pleads for help. "My real job, my task, my calling as an adjunct to your work, is to foment distrust and hatred. I am guilty of incompetence. Where have I failed?"

She continued, "I try my best only to have my hard work undone. I gave them floods. I gave them pestilences, plagues, wars, famine and yet they raise themselves against us again and again. I gave them the secrets of the universe in order that they might destroy themselves and still they persist and inhabit our home and pushed us out of our hallowed grounds. What am I doing wrong? What am I missing?"

Ianus responds, "Ah Columbia my sister, you must redouble your efforts spreading subterfuge, falsehood, and especially play to their pride. Pride is the one area you have failed to cultivate. Go back and work your magic. Pride is our gate, our wedge, to which they have been warned against time and time again and ignored. That weakness will be the fall of them all. Illuminate it, praise it, and do not despair. We have the keys to their inner souls. All will be as it should be and we will prevail, striking down those who dare to fight us or pretend to understand our inner workings. Heaven and Earth and all levels between will be as they should be."

He turns to her, "Cry not for these puny beings. They will serve us well."

"We will rule again. Now to your task dear sister and erase your misplaced embarrassment."

"Aeternitas nobis est"

As Columbia looks away and down upon her intended victims, she turns to her brother and affirms her duty, "Yes my brother, it is my task. I will. We have the keys."

As Doctor Julia Ahonen stood beside Gustav and his defence team, trying to stare unemotionally into the cameras, she was certain of the sentence. It was as inevitable as the guilty decision handed down a week earlier.

"Gustav Connelly Brown, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers on thirty-eight counts of murder," said the Judge, his craggy features appropriately sombre for the cameras. Out of the corner of her eye, Julia caught Gustav's prideful smile at his body-count.

"Having received reports from the Defence's psychiatrist, Doctor Ahonen, and the Prosecution's own expert witnesses, I am satisfied that you are a true Pyschopath, unable to feel guilt or remorse for your crimes and with no empathy for your victims, all of them, young women murdered in the most horrific and disturbing circumstances."

The judge paused, playing up the drama for his audience.

"I therefore sentence you to death by Neural Digitisation. Your simulated personality will become the property of the Broadmoor Advanced Psychiatric Research Department. May God have mercy on your soul."

The courtroom descended into chaos, a lightning storm of camera flashes and the thunder of outraged voices. Amidst this cacophony, Gustav leaned across and grinned. "See you on the other side, Doc."

Julia stood outside the door of her simulated office in the bland room that served as the loading portal. Rebecca Downing, Gustav's last victim, the only one whose remains were in any condition to allow an upload, stood before her. Rebecca cowered beside Doctor Amstrong, her own Psychiatrist. She was waif-like next to him, her body language closed in. She made no eye contact, her arms crossed tightly as she hugged herself.

"He can't hurt you here, Rebecca," Julia tried to reassure. "He can't see you, he won't even know you're watching, you will be like a ghost in that room."

"I am a ghost," Rebecca said, her tone flat, unemotional.

Julia blushed at her faux pas and looked to Amstrong. He gave a small nod of encouragement. Julia opened the door.

"How do you feel, Gustav?" Julia asked.

"Real," Gustav said. "I feel real."

Gustav grinned, a frightening expression as Julia knew how empty it was. The grin faded quickly. Amstrong's disembodied voice whispered in Julia's ear, audible only to her. "He just tried to lunge at you. The restraint conditions stopped him from physically carrying it out."

"Free will is an illusion for you now," said Julia. "Stand up!"

Gustav stood to attention, his frown deepened.

"Raise your arms above your head," said Julia. Gustav complied.

"Sit down again and be still," she said. "Only I have power here."

Gustav sat again, his expression dark, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Psychopathy is untreatable in life," said Julia. "But here I can do things that aren't possible in reality. I'm going to merge your neural mapping with templates taken from normal people. I'm going to give you things you never had before, Gustav. I'm going to give you empathy, I'm going to give you compassion."

Gustav looked away, shook his head in disgust and froze, his simulation suspended as the integrations took place. Julia stared at him, knowing that for Gustav no time was passing.

Gustav sighed, as his simulation became active again. "Let's get on with it."

"It's already done, Gustav."

"I feel no different."

"Let's talk about your last victim, Rebecca Downing. You remember how you abducted her from outside her home?"

Gustav smiled at the memory. "Took her right on her own doorstep, her keys in her hand."

"And when you took her back to your kill room, had her strapped to the stainless steel mortuary table you got from Ebay?" Julia prompted

Gustav's smile faltered. "Yes, I strapped her to the table. It was cold, very cold. It must have been… uncomfortable."

Julia nodded, waited. The silence stretched. The frown on Gustav's face deepened. He looked down, unable to meet her eyes, his vision turning inwards to memories perfect in their digital form, never to fade or be forgotten.

"Oh God, I…"

"You raped her," Julia said, her tone cold, clinical.

"Yes, I… She was crying and shaking but I… Oh God!"

"Then you took a carving knife from the workbench."

"I want to stop," Gustav said.

"Did she ask you to stop?"

"Yes. She begged me."

"Did you?"

Gustav shook his head slowly, his face pale and drawn.

"What did you do with the knife, Gustav? What did you do to Rebecca?" Julia pressed.

Gustav shook his head faster. His eyes wide with horror, disgust, self-loathing. He leaned forward, started gagging with nausea.

"That won't help, Gustav." said Julia. "You will remember every detail of what you did to Rebecca, of what you did to all of them."

"Make it stop! I don't want to remember any more," said Gustav, gasping between convulsions.

"No Gustav. You can never forget. This is the punishment for your crimes."

Gustav slipped from the chair to the floor, curled up on himself, rocking and sobbing in horror until he at last became still, glassy eyed.

With a frown, Julia suspended his simulation

They stood over Gustav's frozen form, ignoring him.

"Was that remorse?" Amstrong asked.

"No, " said Julia. "That was disgust and horror. Remorse and guilt will come later. This is only the beginning. I will take him back through each murder. He will relive every moment and experience it again with compassion and empathy for his victim."

Beside Amstrong, Rebecca Downing stood relaxed, gazing down thoughtfully at the murderer curled up in a fetal ball by her feet. "It looked like he was in agony," she said.

"Emotionally, he was," said Julia. "This is literally hell for him."

For the first time since her death, Rebecca Downing smiled.

Someone once said that the night is the blotting paper for many sorrows. Maybe it was true – and certainly today's society had a lot of things to complain about - but for the two slender men in dark clothes this was the perfect time to work and complete their task on the outskirts of town, even though it was something that involved some dangers, certainly.

As they jumped off the roof, the huge front door of the massive depot was in front of them. The first one keyed-in the correct code and it opened wide, allowing them to sneak into the entrance.

While inside, the seemingly unending shelves and dusty bookcases stretched ahead of them as if they were the fronts of many tall houses which went on and on into the dimness at the opposite wall's end.

In a world where the web had gotten hold of almost everything and all data was continuously scanned and checked by the governmental agents and offices in search of suspicious rebel activities, this was the best way to keep information safe from prying eyes and to stay untouched, far away from the rest of internet. The info and all the necessary documents about your own men and your safe-houses were here at your fingertips, especially if you were a member of The Rebellion and you were at war against the dictatorship and the cruel power structure which had towered above the whole population since the end of the Freedom Battles.

In this place, you might find it very difficult to retrieve the specific paper you needed or get the exact report you were looking for, but at least no cyber-researchers or appointed e-detectives would ever be able to steal such factual information.And this was just one of the many depots The Rebellion's leaders had created throughout the country in secrecy.

The two started searching the wall on the right in order to retrieve the info they had been ordered to find, looking through several handbooks, registers and notes, but after only a few minutes the tallest one, named Frank, exclaimed, "I heard a strange noise…we've been followed!"

"Is it your augmented sense of hearing that makes you think so?" the shorter one asked him in return. He was called Brett and had two mild, blue eyes and some delicate features on a twenty-year-old face.

"Yes! And beyond that they're wearing hi-tech flameproof suits. I know it by the sound of their steps…"

"They found us!"

The other went on, "And they know about your special powers, too…"

The second guy darkened. "How many?"

"Five, at least…"

"What can we do?"

"These documents must not fall to the governmental officers, at any cost. I will have to activate you, as you can't do it by yourself…"

"Please, don't do it…" the shorter one burst out. "There must be another way!"

"You know there is not. We can't let such data be seized by our enemies!"

"But I'll destroy everything around…"

"This is the reason why our chiefs chose you to come with me, you know it's true!"

Brett fell silent, his mind going back again to his previous recollections. He remembered when he was younger, held as a prisoner in that secret lab where that old scientist had tried all kinds of experiments on his body, hardening it and changing its composition, finallty. When The Rebellion's armed team had entered the structure suddenly, freeing all the captives and himself as well, the one had been released and became free again. Besides, the death of the old scientist and the destruction of all his data made sure nobody else would be able to know how to activate him and his powers. Except The Rebellion itself, of course. And his rescuers had already done it once when things turned ugly a few months ago, unfortunately…

"Don't do it!" he repeated. "Don't let the monster in me out! I'll kill you, you know…"

"But you must destroy all the documents in here, and soon…now I will launch the right frequency to activate you…"

"And your life doesn't mean anything to you?"

"When you burn the whole depot down, you'll simply prevent me from being imprisoned and tortured for a long time…actually, I could reveal some important info, while you…"

"…while I simply can't, as I communicate with our chiefs only via temporary links, and those can be easily changed…"

"Correct! Even If they take you, there's not much they can obtain from your memory as you don't know the names or the addresses of the other hiding places of The Rebellion itself."

"Please, Frank…" Brett continued, but there was no more time. The frequency reached his body which soon became luminous, very warm, and then flames started shooting out of his skin, wrapping him in fire within just a few moments. The great heat generated was really terrible and quickly the entire area was surrounded by incandescent fire, everything in the vicinity, along with the shelves themselves and all the paper documents, going up in smoke. Brett's body, too, was burned to ashes. But he didn't die, he never did just because of some fire…

As the speechless armed agents wearing the golden, impenetrable flameproof suits approached, they found the young man lying on the ground,next to a dust heap of unnoticeable remains that had been a man before, his eyes crying and a strong pain filling his heart, again. 'Another team-mate dead! And all because of me…'

'Whatever is going to happen now…' he told himself, looking at the others coming nearer '…it will not be worse than the deep sense of regret I feel inside…'

O, Emmanuel, what shall I say of you?
Who can I tell of what you've done, or how you came to your end?
Our tiny village lived in fear of the Beast on Wolf Mountain,
And every full moon, you went alone to end its reign of terror,
Armed with the finest steel blade in all the district.
Each time,
You came back down from the mountain, your clothing in shreds,
Your flesh rent,
And still, it killed. Seventy-eight bodies, mutilated, half-eaten,
Seventy-eight souls committed to Heaven,
Seventy-eight families grieving their loss.
And you,
You, O Emmanuel,
Grieved with each, as though the loss had been your own,
And the widows and orphans, you sheltered and fed with your riches.
Your wounds were barely scabbed over before you went again,
And still, it killed.

I overheard you conferring with the priest:
"Father, my sword-thrust was hilt-deep,
Straight through the heart,
And it does not die."
"My son," he said, "This thing can only be killed by silver."
That day you rode away with saddlebags full of florins
And returned the next with a hand-cast dagger.
You had it consecrated by the priest.

Then, last Full-moon night,
Your body a lacework of scars,
You left your sword with me
And went again upon Wolf Mountain,
And in the small hours, clear across the valley,
We woke to the scream.
That night, in the village, no one was killed,
But you didn't return.

The searchers went by daylight
And found your corpse against a tree,
The silver dagger hilt-deep in your chest,
Your clothing all intact,
And your skin as flawless as a newborn babe's.
They found a blood-stained, sealed letter in your coat,
Addressed to me:

"Dearest Friend Piotr," it read,
"I must end my immeasurable agony
And that of the village, as well.
I tried, but couldn't help myself.
I shan't say more;
Perhaps you'll understand.
The sword, I leave with you;
May you never have need of it."

O, dear friend Emmanuel,
May your soul find rest,
While we who learned the truth
Have sworn ourselves to secrecy
And bear your burden in silence.
Your name remains unblemished,
And cherished for your good works,
And your sword lies buried in its failure
Next to you in yours.

I awoke in the forest, naked, cold and wet, in the spot I had marked with my scent over many months to draw my wilder self back as the moon descended below the horizon. Shivering, I retrieved the bag I had hung from a low branch before moonrise and dressed quickly. The cloth I used to wipe my face showed no signs of blood, but I could taste it in my mouth -- salty, metallic -- and my still-sensitive nose twitched at the scent.

What did I kill last night? I couldn't remember. Sometimes there were traces -- bits of fur or feathers clinging to my teeth or my face -- but today, there was nothing.

Perhaps I had slaked my thirst in the nearby stream, and the evidence of animal or avian prey had been washed away. The alternative made me shiver again, in spite of the warmth of the fleece-lined jacket, woolen trousers, and insulated hiking boots from the bag. It had been many months since I had killed a man…

When I returned to my house, I turned on the TV and set it to the 24-hour local news channel. The top story squeezed the breath from my body and made me clutch the arm of the sofa for support.

"Police are still seeking Peter Murchison, age 23, who wandered away from the Alvarez Group Home in Marriott last night. Murchison is developmentally-delayed, assessed as having the mental capacity of a five-year-old child, and authorities are concerned for his safety as winter approaches. Residents of the area are asked to check their yards and garages or sheds in case the young man may have sought shelter there…"

I turned off the TV. The Alvarez Group Home was only five miles from the spot where I had awakened -- not far from the normal boundaries of my monthly hunting grounds.

It took me several attempts before I managed to punch the number of my sponsor, Bill Jenkins, into the phone.

Bill answered on the first ring. "The Murchison boy?" he said.

"I'm not sure, Bill," I replied. "But I need to see you."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Bill said. "Hang on, and don't do anything stupid."

Ten minutes is more than long enough to swallow every pill in the house, or mix up a nice drain-cleaner smoothie. I had to fight to keep myself on the sofa, and away from the bathroom or the kitchen.

Finally, Bill arrived. He came in without knocking, knowing that I would have heard his footsteps and recognized his scent (nose still a little lupine, even hours after moonset). He strode quickly across the room, opening a vial and pulling out a cotton swab on the way.

"Open wide, Jack," he said.

When I complied, he thrust the swab into my mouth, dabbing at the backs of my teeth and around my tongue. He put the swab back into the vial and snapped on a plastic lid.

"I'll get this tested today," he said, "so we'll know if you — if it's the Murchison kid you hunted last night."

"What if it is?" I asked. "Can't turn myself in — when they look at the remains, they'll never believe I could have done it. But I can't live with killing another human being. I thought the program would make it possible to be … safe with other people around, but now …"

"Ain't your fault in any case," Bill said. "You know that. When the wolf is out of his cage, you ain't the one driving."

"But if I know I'm dangerous, I'm still responsible," I said. "It's my duty to make sure I don't harm anyone."

Bill nodded. "That's why we both done the aversion therapy and take the damn pills. The program is supposed to make it damn near impossible for us to attack a human."

"'Damn near' may not be good enough," I said. "If I did kill Peter Murchison, I have to end this."

Bill shook his head. "Jack, boy, I'm sorry you feel that way. But for Chrissake, at least wait until we're sure." He picked up the remote control and turned the TV on.

"… Murchison was found alive and well aside from mild hypothermia in the garden shed of a home some three miles from the group home…"

Bill laughed and slapped my shoulder. "There, y'see? Nothing to worry about."

"Get the tests done anyway, Bill," I said. "Somebody else might have been out there last night. And Bill? Give me the number of that outfit that rigged up the kennel at your place."

Bill groaned. "Aw, Jack, I don't use the damn thing myself. Been ten years, with subdivisions poppin' up all around my place, and no trouble except a coupl'a yappy lap dogs gone missing."

"You're a better man than I am, Bill," I said. "And probably a better wolf."