After a profitable morning and a productive lunch, Phillip was being chauffeured from his Wall Street office to his next meeting in Midtown when he received a disturbing phone call.

"Mr. Stana? This is Principal Richardson calling from the Cold Spring Harbor Academy. Your son is my office. I need to speak with you in person. Today."

"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Richardson. Unfortunately, my schedule is quite busy this afternoon." Phillip pulled up his schedule on his Blackberry. "Can we meet first thing tomorrow morning? I can have a driver pick up Luke from school early, if you'd like."

There was a long pause on the phone. Phillip tried again. "Mr. Richardson? Are you still there?"

"Yes, Mr. Stana, I'm still here. I regret that I haven't conveyed the magnitude of the situation, but I'd prefer not to do that over the phone. I think you need to come here this afternoon. Unless you'd prefer that I call the juvenile authorities instead...."

Phillip sighed. "Mr. Richardson. Whatever the situation is, if you haven't called the authorities already, it isn't so urgent that you can't wait another 18 hours. I'll send a car for Luke, and I'll ensure that he is properly supervised tonight. I will see you in your office at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and we can determine the appropriate course of action at that time. Oh, and I've been meaning to write a check for the Academy's endowment fund. I'll bring that tomorrow, too. Will that be satisfactory?"

There was another pause.

"Very well, Mr. Stana. I'll see you at 7:30 sharp tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Mr. Richardson. I appreciate your flexibility."

Phillip's next call was to his office. "Marie, please send James to the Academy to bring Luke home. Oh, tell John to go, too, and ask him to stay with Luke until I arrive, okay? Thanks."

Phillip got through the rest of the day's meetings and delivered his weekly lecture at Columbia Law without letting on how distracted he was by the principal's phone call. He spent the drive home thinking about what he would say to his son, and remembering a talk he had had with his own father twenty-five years earlier. Was Luke on the same path that he had been on at that age? If he was, was there still time to save the situation, or was Luke already a lost cause? He shuddered at the thought.

The limousine pulled into the circular driveway in front of the estate house just after 7:00 PM, and Phillip excused the driver with a curt, "7:15 tomorrow, please, Andrew." He was met at the front door by his house manager, Matthew. "Good evening, Matthew," he said.

"Good evening, sir. Luke is in his room; John is with him as you instructed. I took the liberty of deferring dinner."

"Thank you, Matthew. Any word on what exactly happened at school today?"

"No specifics, sir. Apparently the classroom's guinea pig was butchered."

Phillip bounded up the stairs and threw open the door to Luke's. John, Phillip's towering head of security, was standing just inside, arms folded across his chest.

"Good evening sir," he said. "Master Luke has something he would like to say to you."

"Thank you, John. Sorry for the short notice this afternoon. You may leave."

"Yes, sir." John left the room silently.

Phillip turned to the bed, where his son sat with a conflicted expression on his face. Part fear, part shame, and, Phillip realized, part something he hadn't really noticed before.

Evil.

"You have something you wish to tell me?" Phillip asked Luke.

Luke stood up and walked over to stand in front of his father. "I am sorry, Father."

"What did you do?" Phillip asked.

"Does it matter?"

"What, exactly, did you do?" Phillip repeated. He spoke calmly, but Luke sensed that he was on dangerous ground, so he told the truth.

"Braveheart was on cable last night. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be the English executioner. During recess, I stayed inside and executed Mr. Cuddles, just like William Wallace was executed in the film. Mrs. Prince sent me to the principal's office."

Phillip stared at Luke for a full minute, trying to grasp the reality of what he had just heard. Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, he fell back on a question his father had asked him, under similar circumstances, many years ago.

"And what did you learn?"

Luke thought for a minute.

"I learned that guinea pigs can scream," he said.

Phillip raised his hand, and Luke started to flinch. But Phillip merely pointed to a chair.

"Sit."

Luke sat.

"Luke, you just turned twelve. How many schools have you been in the past two years, since your mother died?"

"Four."

"Well, enough of that. Starting next week, you'll be schooled at home, and I'll expect you to work harder than you ever have in your life."

"But, Father—"

"Silence!" Phillip roared. He began again, more quietly. "It is my turn to talk. I know that the loss of your mother was hard for you. And I know that attending the Academy is not easy. And I know that as you grow older, controlling your...feelings—well, that is not easy, either. Some of this is my fault; I should be spending more time with you. But this is a difficult time in America, and my expertise is desperately needed. You are going to have to grow up faster and do more on your own than either of us would like, but that is the Stana family tradition. We have plans for you, and you have to be ready when the time comes. None of that can happen if you keep succumbing to every idle fantasy you have. Do you understand?"

"Not exactly."

"For five generations, the Stana family has been respected. You have to be able to control yourself, to inhibit your crasser impulses, so you can participate in greater, richer things."

"But, Father, these feelings come over me, and I can't—"

"You must. Let me show you how my Father helped me, at a similar time, when I was your age."

Phillip held up his left hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Four. You lost one in an accident."

"Not an accident. How many fingers does your grandfather have on his left hand?"

"Three."

"Very observant. Do you know why?"

"An accident?"

"No. It's because whenever a Stana son over the age of twelve brings shame upon his house, he loses a finger."

Luke gasped.

"As does his father. Our tradition is that the father goes first."

Phillip held up his left hand, and retrieved a knife from his pocket with his right.

"Luke, there's a reason we need to learn to control our petty evil impulses, become educated, and gain the trust of others. We need to be respected members of our community. Can you guess why?"

"Why?"

"To gain their confidence. Our best work is done from within an unsuspecting society. Satan himself teaches this. It is a lesson, a blood oath, passed from father to son, in his name."

The knife flashed in his hand.

Remorse. Pity. Empathy. You tell me that belief in these words is a prerequisite to humanity. I argue that words are invented by people to imprison the truth. These emotions do not exist in nature. Any attempt to define primal humanity limits it, creates a false reality. Society needs these boundaries; I do not.

Each of you think that you understand me, but with your minds confined within prisons of language, none of you can agree on what I am. I have been called villain and hero, sadist and savior, lunatic and leader. I am none of your pathetic definitions. If you must call me something, call me Man, one of the only true ones to ever exist. I have transcended the confinements society imposes upon us all and found our true nature. And it is brutal.

When you asked me why I killed, you were taken aback when I laughed and did not answer. It was not a refusal to answer; your attempt to categorize and define a feeling which exists outside of words amused me. You wouldn't have listened even if I tried. And that is why I stand before your court today, because I tried to show people the answer to this question.

When you asked why I thought human nature was so debased, I laughed again and did not answer. Your words failed you again, since nature needs no value judgment. It is neither right nor wrong, neither high nor low, it simply is. Undeniable truth exists in a realm beyond comprehension, one can only accept or refuse it. What exactly it is cannot be explained. I was arrested because I tried to show people.

In fact, these two questions are the same, as their answers are the same. I will attempt to tell you, not because you will understand, but because you won't understand. And that lack may make you search for the truth yourself.

Man is meant to be in constant terror. We must fear nature, fear each other, and fear failure. To combat terror, a Man must conquer those things which inspire it. One will never defeat all his fears, and that is exactly why true Man cannot be idle. To relax is death, perhaps not literal, but mental. The mind that is not fighting invents justifications for giving up. A mind, once it has given up, is rarely recovered. It will stagnate in a cesspool of fear, rapidly decaying until there is nothing left of Man inside; it will be a husk of failure devoting its energy towards further rationalizing its shortcomings.

It is a spiritual death as well. Not in the religious sense of an everlasting soul, religion is but another hoax perpetrated by those who cowered before the truth. The loss is of your essence as human beings. When you deny nature, you distort and pervert yourself. A distorted man destroys himself and destroys others because he may submit to domination. Domination is not an act by those who dominate, but a choice by those who are dominated. They are so paralyzed by their fear, that they forfeit the fighting of their fear to an outside body.

I killed to cleanse; to cleanse myself, to cleanse mankind. Only through this most primal act of conquest could I break the walls society had implanted in my mind. Our true nature can only be discovered when it is in action. I chose to destroy the prostitutes and drug dealers because they represent the furthest departure from true Man. They willingly submit to domination, whether by other men or by a drug. Moreover, they facilitated the other weaklings, the ones who were too afraid to become real Men, but were tricked into believing otherwise due to their control over the already defeated.

But I also killed to inspire terror. This is how a Man conquers others, by making them fear him more than he fears them. Look at yourselves, you tremble before me, constantly afraid of what I might do. The details of my murders terrorized the nation, the world. You fear for your perverted lives, but more importantly, you fear that your prisons will crumble around you. In your idleness you have all submitted to your fears, become complacent, grown comfortable in your restraints, and cannot imagine life without them.

But here is the difference between you and me, between civilized man and true Man. You will never confront me. Your greatest fear is facing your fears. You think containing me within concrete walls will hide me from you, just like you use words to hide the truth from yourselves. Like children hiding under the blankets, you hope that if you cannot see your fear, it cannot exist.

So do with me as you will, it is a farce to believe that you can judge someone who has transcended your society. Put me away in prison, there I can continue my work to cleanse the filth. Put me in a madhouse, there for once I may find peace among the truly sane. And neither will contain me for long, that I assure you. You can do nothing to stop me.

General Garcia traced his fingers over the surface of the globe.

"Conquest," he said to Luis, his longtime bodyguard. "That was always my goal. I wanted not only to see the world, but to create an empire. To look out my window and survey holdings that stretched beyond the horizon."

Luis watched impassively, a dark shape near the door of the general's study.

The general spun the globe, his hands delicately skimming over Europe, Asia, the Americas.

"When I saw an opportunity to seize control of this government, I took it," Garcia said. "I left nothing to chance. I knew that the governors would oppose me, so I had them shot. I suspected that General Chavez would attempt to turn the military against me, so I killed his wife and sons to demoralize him. I knew that the People's Movement would protest, so I arranged for its directors to be thrown in jail. All of this I did out of love for my country. The nation's leadership was too weak, too timid. I did what had to be done."

He moved away from the desk and toward the window. He wore a silk robe and his hands were elegantly manicured. Behind one of the priceless oils on his wall was a safe containing hundreds of thousands of dollars and Euros.

"I knew that my actions would leave me with enemies," he said. "All the great leaders throughout history have had enemies. I knew that many would want to destroy me, so I surrounded myself with guards."

The study's windows were made of bulletproof glass. Garcia gazed out at the rooftops beyond the walls of his ornate palace.

"There was a time when I could walk among the common people," the general said. "Women would bow when I approached. Men would duck out of the way, knowing that mere eye contact could mean punishment or death. Children watched from the shadows in awe, and by observing the actions of their parents they learned to fear me, to tremble when I approached."

Luis, a hulking man in a black suit, said nothing.

"That was a long time ago," General Garcia whispered. "There are spies now, assassins blending in with the merchants and the farmers. Who knows who sent them? There are dozens who would like to see me dead. I remain in the palace now, meeting with my department heads and giving orders by telephone."

The general removed his robe and began to get dressed. His shirt had been custom-tailored and imported from Rome. His merino wool suit had been purchased on London's Savile Row for nearly six thousand pounds. Diamond cufflinks glittered in the soft lamplight.

"How much sleep did I get last night?" Garcia wondered. "Two hours? Maybe three hours? How can I possibly allow myself the extravagance of sleep? I have a nation to run, Luis. Millions of people depend on the decisions I make. There are those who would wrest control of this country away from me. Traitors ... saboteurs ... rogues and rabble-rousers! While I sleep, they are working, plotting, forever scheming. I must be one step ahead of them."

There was a plate of fruit on the side table, beside a carafe of vintage claret. General Garcia examined a fig carefully before popping it into his mouth, alert for signs of tampering. Of course, he had an entire team of scientists and inspectors to test his food for radiation and poisoning, but how did he know he could trust them?

"The only man I can really trust is myself," he said, swallowing the morsel. "I only say these things to you, Luis, because you're mute and slow-witted. Strong, yes, and fiercely loyal — but an imbecile. I can confide in no one. My wife is terrified of me. She satisfies my physical needs not out of love, but because she knows I can discard her. My advisors are all sycophants. They tell me what they know I want to hear. Can I believe a word they say? The last man to bring me bad news was hanged for treason."

Garcia ate another fig, and when his teeth crushed a seed he winced, wondering whether it had in fact been a tiny ampoule of cyanide. He knew about the technologies the intelligence agencies had at their disposal. Miniature cameras disguised as flying insects … lasers that could be pointed at windows and relay conversations to distant listening devices.

He waited a moment to see if he would die, and when he did not, he continued his monologue. His attention returned to the globe.

"I spoke of empire, of conquest," he said. "I spoke of a desire to see the world, and now my world is within these walls. I cannot leave the palace, much less the country."

He looked again at Luis. The general's face was pale and deeply lined.

"I am a prisoner. Do you realize that? I have incarcerated thousands over the course of my career. I have banished my adversaries to jails, to torture chambers, to dungeons. And now I am the prisoner! My palace has a movie theater, a billiard room, magnificent greenhouses. Right now, if I wanted to, I could visit my library and peruse the works of Shakespeare, or smoke the finest Cuban cigars in the world. I could go to my garage and admire my fleet of Lamborghinis. I could snap my fingers and have a trembling maiden brought to me for my pleasure, or command my chefs to prepare a nine-course banquet. I desire none of these things."

The general examined his reflection, adjusting his hand-painted silk tie. It was time for a meeting with his top cabinet members, and he had to look his best. He slapped himself in the face to bring color to his cheeks, to restore vigilance to his eyes. The leader couldn't afford to appear exhausted, or frail, or feeble.

"I desire none of these things!" General Garcia repeated. "What I want is to go for a leisurely stroll in the countryside, as I did in my youth. To feel the warm sunshine, and smell the freshly tilled dirt in the fields, and even to taste the dust and grit in the air. All of these are things that the country's poorest, lowliest beggar could enjoy, and these humdrum pleasures are lost to me."

Garcia cleared his throat and took a final glance in the mirror. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," he quoted, leaving the study.

Luis, who was neither mute nor an imbecile, followed, always silent ... but watching everything, hearing everything. His employer — his other employer — would be very interested to hear of the general's latest soliloquy.

There would be a time when new powers assumed control, and on that day, Luis would be there to witness it … and be rewarded.

He thought it would happen quite soon.

Mac walked along the quiet street his senses strained to their limit. This tree lined stretch of suburban paradise had become the most dangerous part of his walk home. The danger had a name; Pete Corby.

Pete was a gorilla in the skin of a tenth grader. Actually, Mac thought, that was a real insult to the gorilla. From his perusal of the nature channels it was clear that no gorilla would make a past time of hunting down and tormenting its lesser kin. Mac heard the telltale scrape of size elevens on the sidewalk. Pete was coming. There was no way that Mac would be able to outrun him so he turned and faced his opponent.

Pete was a blocker on the senior football team. He towered head and shoulders above the spindly frame that wasn't welcome on any sports field. Mac knew just how he measured up against that behemoth. He had an intimate and unfortunate knowledge of the exact stench and wetness of the armpit which was at the exact level of Mac's head. Unconsciously he rubbed the aching back of his head where Pete's knuckles ground into his skull in their daily locker-room ritual.

"Hi Pete," Mac said, and grimaced as his voice broke.

"It's the little pipsqueak," Pete said, and nudged his buddy. While Pete wasn't the brightest light in the school, Mac was fairly sure that Junior was the dimmest. Only Junior's size and ability to run in the direction he was pointed got him on the team. He though Pete was a genius. He said so regularly.

"Where? Where?" Mac looked around frantically. Junior looked at Mac slack-jawed.

"I mean you, idiot," Pete said, "Don't try to be funny."

"Yeah, no funny stuff." Junior pushed Mac onto the grass. The grass belonged to Mr. Carkindoyle. Carky was the fussiest old fart on the block. He had once tried to have a drunken senior charged with indecent exposure for peeing on his tree. The last few days he had been coming out and screaming at every kid who walked by accusing them of putting fireworks in his garden. Carky loved his garden as much as he loathed the kids who walked by his house every day. At least that's what Mac gathered from the daily more incoherent rants.

"Don't, you'll set off Carky," Mac said.

"We wouldn't want to do that would we?" Pete smiled evilly and picked Mac up by his jacket and tossed him into Mr. Carkindoyle's roses.

"Genius!" Junior said, chortling. He stepped up and they began a game of catch with Mac as the ball and the flowers as the unfortunately thorny ground that Mac bounced on. No matter what he did he couldn't escape. He tried rolling, crawling and even tried punching Pete's stomach. All Pete did was laugh and push him back into the bushes. In the midst of the mayhem Mac caught a glimpse of Carky's curtains moving. Pete caught him looking and laughed.

"Don't think Carky's going to save you. I know just how long it takes for the cops to get here."

"How do you know that?" Junior asked.

"Shut up, moron," Pete turned on Junior.

"Pete's been looking in Marie Claire's window," Mac said, "He knows just how long he has to look before the cops arrive."

"Shut up!" Pete aimed a kick at Mac and sent him rolling back into the roses. "She's my girlfriend. A guy has a right to see his girlfriend."

"That's not the way I heard it." Mac said, "I heard she saw what you doing and wondered why such a big guy would have to work so hard to find his..."

"SHUT UP!" Pete ignored the snickering Junior and picked up Mac. He slammed Mac into the tree and Mac saw stars. It didn't help that Pete's huge hands were tightening around his throat.

"LET HIM GO!" thundered a voice from the black and white car that miraculously pulled up in front of Carky's house.

"Huh?" Pete said as he turned and dropped Mac.

"He's got a gun!" Mac screamed through his tortured throat, "In his belt."

Pete looked down then pulled something out of his belt. The police officer pulled his weapon and emptied into the high school's best hope for a winning season. Pete fell to the ground and let the gun fall from his lifeless fingers. Mac massaged his throat and watched as Junior wet himself and old Carky came out on the porch. Carkindoyle's mouth was moving but no sound was coming out. Then he clutched his chest and fell down the steps to the ground. Mac buried his face in his knees as he smelled what was in Junior's pants.

He didn't lift his face when the police officer wrapped his shaking shoulders in a blanket or even when the paramedics came and tried to revive the old man. He didn't look up until he stopped laughing.

It's a good thing these cops couldn't read minds, Mac thought, or they would know that he had been systematically dropping firecrackers in the old man's gardens until the police, in desperation, had promised to send a patrol to watch the neighbourhood. Carky was as deaf as he was mean and Mac could hear from his hiding place the old man arguing that a patrol wasn't enough.

When Mac found the gun he had thought about shooting Pete himself, but he didn't want to spend more years in therapy manipulating the psychiatrists. That game was old. It was a simple matter to leave the gun buried in the rose garden and wait for the right time. The big moron was sure to pull it out when he saw it in his belt. He hadn't even noticed Mac plant it while he was being strangled.

This whole thing was more fun than watching Pete watch Marie Claire. He put his face into his knees again and let the shaking start again. A paramedic came and tucked the blanket in tighter around his trembling form. Mac lifted his streaming face to watch the gurney take away the old man's body. Pete lay covered by a bloody tarp. Mac could still feel the visceral joy he felt watching the bullets tearing apart the body of the clueless bully. This was his best one yet. Two at once!

He knew his parents would move again to protect him from this trauma. Then he could start planning his next one.

Mac could hardly wait.

The Butcher staggered up the stairwell, almost bent double under the weight of the large Hessian bag on his shoulders. Overhead, a single naked bulb struggled to illuminate the blackness, casting ugly shadows onto the damp and filthy walls. He ignored the obscene graffiti and piles of rubbish scattered everywhere, and despite the burden on his back, he was happy - this was the last journey he would have to make for a while.

His shoulders felt wet under his clothes but whether that was sweat, or some fluid leaking from the sack, the Butcher didn't know. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was breathing hard. Ahead of him stood a door, heavily padlocked, its red paint cracked and peeling. Unmindful of the noise, he let the sack fall onto the bare floorboards and felt for the keys in his pocket. This building was unoccupied, and mostly derelict; one of several he visited around the city when he was working. Outside, the constant din of the streets would drown out any sound; and besides ”“ in this neighbourhood, who would bother to investigate? Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and listened for a moment.

He smiled. In his secret heart, the Butcher fancied he could feel the city within his soul, a great, dark monster; alive with unknowable menace and infinite dangers. He knew its nature; its quirks and foibles, its rhythms and energies; and he imagined that it knew him, in return. Outside the boarded up windows he could hear its breathing - the constant rattle and hum of the city at night, the flow of traffic, the shouts, arguments and screams. Always screams.

A muffled moan jerked him from his reverie. Looking down, the Butcher saw the bag was moving weakly. It was a filthy thing, coated with grime and stains, but it served its purpose every time. The Butcher was a simple man ”“ he hated change and valued dependency, and knew the bag was strong and reliable despite its awful appearance. In the weak light he could see that liquid was indeed soaking through the material. He ran a hand over his shoulders and it came away glistening red. He wiped it on the wall, grabbed the bag with both hands and pulled it toward the door. As it moved, it left a sticky trail behind it.

* * * *

With all the windows boarded up, the inside of the apartment was almost as dark as the stairwell, but the Butcher had memorised the layout long ago and moved through it easily. He dragged the leaking bag into the main room, ignoring the cries from inside it. The place was as he had left it; his tools lay on a wooden trestle table beside his apron and mask. In the centre of the room was an autopsy table with a blood gutter and drain. Straps and restraints lay across the surface, and the whole thing was canted at a slight angle to allow liquid to flow easily. Along the walls were stacked piles of plastic water canteens.

He changed his clothes quickly, eager to get the wetwork finished. Despite his title, the Butcher found this the most unpleasant part of his work. He had little taste for it, however unavoidable. Actually, he preferred to hunt ”“ the detailed planning appealed to his fastidious nature. He untied the Hessian bag, and his catch rolled out.

The man would not be missed by many, and the Butcher didn't think anyone would bother to go looking. A low level drug dealer and pimp, the Butcher had tracked him for days before taking him, making sure of his prey. The man was an enemy of the city, a virus. Violent and degenerate, he was a disease, a blight on society. The Butcher had relished the look of confidence draining from the man's eyes as he realised he was faced with a superior power. The fear forming there, as the Butcher came toward him holding the Hessian bag.

Now those eyes were wild and panicked, the naked skin slick with sweat and blood. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles as the man squirmed and howled through the rag in his mouth. The Butcher was slightly alarmed at how much blood he could see in the bag - such a waste! But the man had put up more of a fight than expected, and some early cutting had been necessary, unfortunately. Still, this catch would provide more than enough. He hefted the struggling man onto the table easily, secured the restraints, then looked deep into the frantic eyes. The man stopped struggling, but his breathing was deep and rapid, his chest heaving with fright.

“I'm sorry,” said the Butcher, “I'm not really the bad guy. It's better this happens now, before we go to him.”

He picked up a filleting knife, and the screaming began.

* * * *

The Butcher moved down another stairwell, the stone steps slick under his feet. His back was aching again; the bag was lighter than before, but there were a lot more stairs here, and he was tired and dirty from the night's work.

It was almost silent, this deep below the city, and his echoing footfalls and laboured breathing were his only companions as he descended. He was still happy, but a little nervous, too. He always was at this stage in a job. He was sure they would be happy with his work; but you never really knew with the High Council. All things being well, It would be at least a month before he was summoned again.

Eventually, the Butcher arrived at the heavy steel door. It was already open, and firelight glowed from somewhere inside.

“Come in,” said a voice. He paused, bent over with his hands on his knees. The Butcher steeled himself and stepped inside, pulling the bag after him.

Sitting on a raised dais at the back of the room, the Councillor might once have been human. Grotesque, fat and blind, its flesh was horribly white in the dark. The Butcher caught a glimpse of its stained lips before he lowered his eyes. The thing tittered.

“You can leave those there,” it said, gesturing at its feet. The Butcher opened the bag and removed four canteens, each filled with red liquid. He placed them where the thing had indicated.

“You may leave. I'll send for you again when I need you,” it said. He could hear the awful hunger in its voice, and was glad to back out of the room, trying not to hear the dreadful sounds from within.

Only a select few ever got to see the High Councillors, the real City Fathers, the power behind the dark curtain of the world. The rewards of servitude were many and plentiful; but the cost... the Butcher shuddered, thinking about how long he'd been doing this.

Sometimes he wondered if the councillors existed for the cities, or if the cities existed for them.

The monster hid behind the curtain, biding his time patiently. His hands fidgeted, unable to hold still. A victim would be along shortly, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear, making him want to let loose his bladder. He crossed his knees to hold it back and waited. At the right moment he would leap out, springing into the open like a tiger. The victim would never see it coming.

"I see you behind the curtain," the girl called out in a bored voice as she approached.

"RAAAAWR!" cried the monster as he threw back the curtain and leapt out. His lips were curled back to give his victim a good view of his fangs and canine teeth. His arms were splayed out on either side with fingers fully spread and claws curled inward ready to slash her stomach open.

The girl sidestepped him and walked past. The monster lowered his head with a low growl and stomped away slowly, his heavy steps pounding the carpet as he looked for his next hiding place. He saw the kitchen table in the next room, surrounded with chairs whose legs created a forest of wooden bars.

The monster dropped to all fours and slinked like a cat. He slipped between the chair legs under the table and settled with his knees pulled to his chin. Now all he had to do was wait for an innocent victim. This time no one would see him. The kitchen was quiet and although the monster could feel his bladder begging for relief he refused to move.

Two women entered the kitchen chatting. The monster grinned. He knew who they were. The wooden bars in front of him pulled away and he concentrated very hard on being as still as he possibly could. Two fat juicy bare legs appeared in front of him and the monster could wait no more.

"RAAAAWR!" cried the monster as he grabbed both flabby legs and squeezed as hard as he could.

The woman convulsed in her chair as if shocked with a jolt of electricity. "Emily!" she shouted. "Get out of there! You should be getting ready." The woman took a deep breath. "Are you ready to put on your pretty white dress?"

"No," responded the monster in the deepest most guttural voice he could.

"C'mon. Let's go get dressed. You're gonna look sooo pretty today." The woman reached under the table and clamped onto the monster's hand with a vice grip, dragging him out from underneath the table. The monster clamored to his feet and stumbled along behind the woman as she pulled him down the hallway saying, "You're gonna wear your pretty white dress and you'll get to hold all those pretty flowers and we're going to take lots of pictures."

The monster looked about for an escape but saw none. The woman pulled him into his bedroom and shut the door. Laying on the bed was a clean, white dress. Next to it was two shiny white shoes and a pair of new white tights. "C'mon," said the woman. "Let's see how pretty you'll look."

The monster whined and protested very persuasively but the woman paid no attention and quickly pulled the monster's shirt up over his head with the finesse of an experienced quick change artist. The monster's pants were removed with equal speed and before he knew what was happening his legs were being forced into the white tights.

A few minutes later the monster stood in front of a mirror. He saw himself staring back in his new white dress looking sullen. He was not sure how to react. He had to admit he did look very pretty - very very pretty even.

"Now, let's go do your hair," said the woman. A flush of panic filled the monster, but the woman grabbed his hand in a vice grip again before he could escape.

Fifteen minutes later the monster was ushered into the den by the woman. He saw all his family sitting around - his sisters, Grandma, Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, and even his mother's boyfriend, Bill. They were all wearing pretty clothes too, the monster noticed.

"Look everyone!" exclaimed the woman. "Doesn't Emily look sooo pretty in her dress?"

Everyone turned to the monster and their faces contorted with exaggerated smiles. The monster's hair was pulled back in a pony tail. His bangs had been combed perfectly smooth and trimmed to be perfectly straight. His pony tail was a bouquet of shiny golden curls. The monster's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He lowered his head. All at once the voices came.

"My goodness look at you!"

"Oh you look so pretty Emily!"

"Oooooo Emily, you look like an angel!"

The monster looked around for his mother but did not see her. Where was she?

"Don't you love wearing a dress Emily? See how nice you look!"

"You're the prettiest little flower girl I've ever seen."

"See? I told you you'd look beautiful in a dress if you'd just try it."

The monster wished he could disappear. He did not like everyone staring at him and making a fuss over his pretty white dress. He wanted to find his mother right away. A sting and a little wetness filled his eyes as he kept looking around for her and not finding her. "I want momma!" he said and began struggling to pull his hand free so he could run down the hall to his mother's bedroom, but the woman's vice grip could not be broken.

Without warning two giant hands grabbed the monster from behind and lifted him off the ground. The monster found himself in the arms of Bill, his mother's boyfriend. Bill was not wearing white. He was dressed all in black, black just like his funny mustache. The monster squirmed and grunted while voices told him to calm down.

"You'll get to see your momma real soon," promised Bill. "She's gonna be wearing the prettiest dress you ever did see. Just wait."

The monster yelled "No! No!" and started kicking and twisting to get free. He tried to bite Bill but the man sat down and wrapped his arms around the monster like a human straight jacket. The monster grunted and pushed with all his strength, but no matter how hard he tried he could not break free. Finally, dejected and frustrated to the point of complete exhaustion, the monster gave up. He relaxed, let his limbs go limp, exhaled and then completely let go of his bladder.

Bill shoved the monster off his lap. He looked down at his black pants at the even blacker wet spot on his crotch and sighed. The monster could feel the wetness running down his legs, being soaked up by the white tights and dripping down into his white shoes. He looked around at his family and saw they all looked wide eyed like they were scared.

The monster started giggling maniacally. They looked very silly with their mouths open.

Bill looked up at the giggling four year old. He wanted to knock her head off but knew he could not. "Fourteen years," he thought and hung his head.

This is the story of my awakening.

It begins the same day I met The Chef, a day I’ll never forget.

I was a runner, working freelance in the big city. The Substance had already become the backbone of most drug rings, especially the bigger ones. It was very addictive, and very illegal. That made it easy for me to find work; I delivered the drugs so the dealers could keep their clients happy without too much heat from the bluecoats. And for my services, I got good coin in my pocket.

It was a cold and impersonal life, and the only constant I had was Markov, fellow runner and childhood friend. Neither of us did well in school, and by the time we realized street life wasn’t all guns and glamour, we’d dug ourselves too deep to climb back out.

One day I got a job from Old Man Mikuyo, who’d heard about me through word of mouth. He needed two runners to deliver a big order, so obviously I thought of Markov, called him up, and pulled him in. We found out that the shipment was two briefcases, containing thirty-six vials each, four ounces of Substance to the vial.

Then, in a moment of boyish camaraderie, or perhaps just plain foolishness, we scraped a quarter-ounce from each vial, giving us eighteen ounces and leaving the delivery looking good as new. Of course, the clients noticed, and that was when everything changed. Word on the street was no one dared to steal from the Old Man, and at first we thought ourselves heroes for crossing that line.

Turned out Mikuyo’s bite was worse than his bark.

When he found out what we’d done, the retribution was swift. His men surrounded us, and when I drew my weapon to defend myself, they took off my arm. The rest of it was a blur; all I could see were splashes of red, and all I could hear was screaming and an awful, tearing sound. When it was over, I was left for dead, a blade deep in my chest, lying in a puddle of my own blood.

The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the towering, obese figure of The Chef walking towards me, the butcher knives that hung off his belt gleaming in the light. He was flanked by two of his henchmen, who looked like dwarves in his shadow, each carrying a submachine gun. He leaned over me, inspecting, then everything faded to black.

Over the next few months, The Chef slowly brought me back to life. He gave me a new arm: the Fujitsu X-8800, the most advanced cybernetics unit on the market. Machines also replaced the parts of my torso that had been too badly damaged by the blade, including a piece of my heart.

When I could finally walk again, The Chef explained to me the nature of his deal. He saw value in what remained of me that night, and spent good coin to fix me up. And for that, I was to work for him, for as long as he pleased.

Markov had been in too many pieces to salvage.

A part of me died that night with Markov, and no technology could replace what had gone. When I returned to the streets, they began to call me Tommy Half-Heart, and I suspect it wasn’t just for the metal in my chest.

* * *

The next two years were a drug-induced haze. I continued working for The Chef, and was content to do so. I became his primary hitman, and when he was displeased with somebody, or had made some inconvenient enemy, I was sent out to kill. I got to keep any money or drugs I could find on the corpses.

Murder became an addiction as much as The Substance was, and in between jobs I found myself longing for The Chef to give me my next target. It helped keep me sane, just as the drugs helped me sleep at night. I found comfort in knowing that other people suffered too, and that because of me, other people also lost friends.

Then one day I got my wake-up call.

It was a job that started out like any other. My head was buzzing from a particularly good hit of Substance, which I always took before a kill. My pace was quick and swift, and I could feel the rush of the impending bloodshed in my veins. When I kicked open the door of my target’s apartment room, however, all of that went away.

I recognized the man immediately: he was one of the four men that had attacked us that night, one of the men who had killed Markov. I could see the recognition dawning on his face as well, an expression that soon turned to horror.

He fired three shots at me with his pistol, and I sliced all three bullets out of the air with my sword, my mechanical arm moving at an inhuman speed. He tried to run, but I had a pistol in my other hand, and I shot him in the hamstring and brought him to his knees.

As I stood over him, I saw how weak and helpless this man actually was, this man who had haunted my dreams for the past two years. In a broken voice, he pleaded with me. He thought someone had been sent to kill him because he crossed The Chef. He didn’t think it would be me instead, coming to get revenge for what he did to me and Markov that night. He said he was sorry, oh God, he was so sorry.

And the truth was, I had come to kill him because he crossed The Chef. The thought of revenge had never even crossed my mind. I was nothing but a puppet, lost in an endless sea of drugs.

So I realized it was time for me to take matters into my own hands.

I carved up his skin with my blade. His screams of agony sent shivers of pleasure down my spine; it was music to my ears. I wanted to taste his blood on my tongue. I wanted to feel all his pain, just so I could make sure he was suffering as much as I intended him to. But I left him alive.

I attached a note to a piece of string and tied it around his neck.

“To Mikuyo, from your old friend Tommy.”

Then I dumped him, still groaning, in front of the Old Man’s favourite spot.

* * *

That night, I stood on the rooftop of the tallest building, surveying the city below. My revenge against Mikuyo had only just begun, but I felt liberated. The Chef wouldn’t be happy that I disobeyed his kill order and abandoned his employ. He was probably looking for me, but that’s a story for another day.

Finally, I'd had my revelation:

There is no decency in this world. The only way to survive this darkness is to blend in with the shadow. When the earth smothers and chokes until all that is left is a glimmer of hope, I will be the soil that snuffs out the last of the light.

"Oh, dear God!" Inspector Harris covered his mouth in feigned revulsion at the sight of his own bloody crime.

"Sir, I- how-?" With mouth agape and face drained of blood, Constable Lambert stood in shock at the gruesome scene before him.

Doing his best to keep his delight at investigating a crime he himself perpetrated at bay, Harris swallowed hard and took in a deep breath. "'How', Constable? 'How' what? How could a man do this wretched deed?" He shook his head. "A man could not, but a monster, aye, a monster could."

The constable stepped back and crossed himself several times over.

"Oh, I don't think that will help you, Constable Lambert," Doctor Jones said as he picked his way through the refuse-strewn alley. "He may be growing ever more vicious, but he keeps to prostitutes, one of which you are not."

"I see, sir. Yes, sir." The constable nodded, though apprehension still colored his expression.

"Now get sketching, will you? I want to have the body packed up before it starts pouring." The doctor plopped his bag down on a half-rotten crate and started rummaging around in it. "This is an interesting case, Inspector Harris. It's quite likely that this victim, like the first two, is missing one, or even several of her internal organs, although which ones I cannot predict."

The inspector turned to face the grisly scene. The body lay naked on its back, arms and legs posed like those of the Vitruvian Man. Blood spatters marred every exposed surface, and the victim's innards had been removed and tossed about the alley. From where he stood, he could see the heart and lungs and several feet of intestine. Doctor Jones would certainly take a complete inventory; Harris was eager to see if the doctor's observational powers were acute enough to see what he had taken.

"It was the heart, wasn't it?" Harris turned to the doctor. "It was the heart that was missing from the first victim."

"Yes, it was." The doctor knelt by the body to examine the marks and bruises on the victim's skin. "And a right mess he made getting it out, too. Here, take a look at this," he said, pointing to a tear on the neck.

The inspector leaned forward. "My god, that's a bite-mark! What in the world are we dealing with, my friend?" he murmured, fear creeping into his voice. He was sure he had excised from the body all marks that could lead back to him.

Constable Lambert paused in his sketching. "A bite-mark, sir? On her neck? Bless me, it must be a vampire!"

"Quiet, you!" The inspector grabbed him by the arm. "You'll want to keep your superstitions to yourself, or you'll be back on the streets, picking the drunks out of the gutter!"

"Of course. Sorry, sir. It's just-" The constable paused to glance at the body. "I was at the last one, too, sir. I don't know if I can handle another one."

Inspector Harris sighed, nodding. "The man's actions are dreadful to behold. I assure you, Constable, this will be the last. We will find him, this awful man. Now get back to work, so the doctor can do his."

The inspector turned to look over his crime scene and began to scribble details in his notebook. She was not overly tall, he wrote, although willowy limbs and long neck would make her seem otherwise. Her hair was dark and straight, and cut quite short. She reminded him of his wife, as had all the others (there were, of course, more than three, but it was only recently that the inspector had discovered the joy of having his work analyzed down to the smallest detail), although that point he did not jot down.

He had cut her from stem to stern, as it were. Such a long incision was unnecessary for what he needed, but he enjoyed it too much to leave it out of the process. He had used a hunting knife, fittingly enough. The doctor would likely figure that out, but the model he preferred was so popular that it could never be traced back to him.

"Inspector! Come have a look!" Jones was kneeling at the victim's side, examining her hand. Harris stepped carefully over to the doctor, his mind in turmoil. He hadn't touched her hands, had he? No, he told himself. Hurriedly, he ran through the incident in his head.

Up for a li'l excitement, luv? she had said, one long, lovely finger teasing at a lock of hair behind her ear. She was all he could ask for ”" a perfect specimen for his hobby. He had smiled at her, charm dripping from his lips, and motioned towards the alley.

That is, unless you want a room at the Grosvenor.

Yeah, that'd be a lark, wouldn't it? Nah, here's jus' fine, she had said, beckoning him on into the darkness.

He followed her, past the piles of rubbish and boarded-up doorways. She reached out to him to pull him close. He grabbed her wrists ”" yes, her wrists, not her hands ”" and pushed her up against the grimy brick wall. She had smiled at first, willing to play his game. He could still hear the scrape of his blade against its sheath and the wet tear of her skin giving way- No, he chastised himself. There's plenty of time for reminiscing later.

"What is it? Please tell me she tore a button off her attacker's coat ”" a unique button, used by only one tailor in Britain, who sold it to only one customer, whose name and address he has conveniently written down on a card locked in his safe?"

"Ha, now that would be a first, Inspector. A case closed in less than a day on account of a single clue. And the offender will also give a full confession, I expect."

Harris laughed. "That would be a singular occurrence, now wouldn't it?" He knelt down beside the doctor. "What's this about her hand? Hello ”" she's got a broken nail. Three of them, I see. You think our man did this?"

Jones shook his head. "Not exactly. I believe this unlucky girl fought back. It's conceivable her attacker is walking around with at least three scratches somewhere on his person."

A flicker of panic squeezed the breath out of his lungs. "Maybe. She could've scratched at a john, though, or even at the ground or a wall."

The doctor shrugged. "The first is possible, the second unlikely. See, under her fingernails, there's blood and skin, but no dirt or grime." He lowered his voice. "There's one other thing. If you look closely at the bite mark, you'll see there's a space where a canine should be."

Harris froze, the words sticking in his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and unemotional. "A missing tooth is not proof, Doctor."

"No, Inspector, but taken together with the scratches on your neck and the victims' resemblance to your late wife, I'd say this chain of murders is at an end."

Jessie Zessler pushed a hand through her barley-gold hair and picked up her glass of scotch as her cobalt eyes went to the file on her desk.

Why she was looking at a closed case, she had no idea. Maybe she was glutton for punishment. Maybe she was hoping to numb herself to what had happened by repeatedly looking at it. Seeing enough murders made it easier to work in Homicide. After a while, one murder was very much like another, and it became completely impersonal and easy to deal with. But this one...

A cold finger slithered down her spine.

Psychopath, sociopath, homicidal maniac, serial killer… the list went on, but so far, she couldn’t pigeonhole him. He completely defied her every attempt at categorizing him.

She looked down at the folder.

Case Number: J3291

REF: Rosary Killer

Suspect: Rathe, Ian

Alias(es): Father

She sat back and closed her eyes. She could still see the bodies in all their headless, mutilated, gruesome glory as they were found dumped in random places around Paris and London.

She didn’t know what troubled her more, the bodies or the fact that even twenty years later, the number of deaths connected to the case was still rising as more and more children, all boys between four to nineteen years of age, were finally being linked to one man. Children were found mutilated, sometimes beyond recognition as humans, and the ones who survived that fate…

Scotch burned her throat as she drained the glass and crossed the room to the bottle on her filing cabinet.

As she walked she could hear the gravel as it crunches under her shoes as she walks through the compound with the representatives from Interpol and a team of medics from the USNS Comfort, the United States Naval Ship on a port call. The Navy had a ready supply of medics on hand who were trained in trauma response, and Jessie knew they’d be needed.

Groups of children are gathered here and there in knots, all of them shying away like feral animals. Then again, the way Father raises the kids, it’s no real surprise. They’re taken off the streets or kidnapped as young as three years old and assigned to groups called packs where they’re raised like competitive fighting dogs.

Each pack sticks together and does everything they can to outdo other packs to avoid punishment and earn privileges like food, clothing, shelter, and safety, but within their own packs, it’s survival of the fittest.

Father is a lot of things, but he isn’t forgiving. It’s the reason he’s so feared even the notorious Russian Mafia kowtows to him without question or hesitation.

Father lets his sons discipline and train the dogs, as the kids are called, and failure, weakness, and stupidity are not tolerated. He doesn’t care how the sons treat the dogs in Primary Pack as long as they aren’t killed. That’s what the other dogs are for: remove the runts, those too weak, stupid, or slow to survive.

Indoors, the second echelon has better living conditions, but the stakes are much higher.

Secondary Pack is where the real fight for survival begins as dogs are trained to fight and kill without a thought. Those who fail go to the basement to be punished by Father himself, and it’s no secret that the stairs to the basement only go in one direction.

Here in the Kennel, it’s pack against pack, but in each pack, it’s every dog for itself. Father disciplines the dogs himself, but he shares the task with his sons, and failure in any way will earn your entire pack extra training and discipline. The offender wins a one-way ticket to the Yard to wear a leather collar connected to a pole by a three-foot chain.

The Yard is paved with concrete, has no shelter of any kind, and the concrete is stained from years of dogs being whipped, flogged, burned, or beaten.

Indoors, in the servants’ quarters, the dogs in the ”˜Letter’ Packs are quartered four to a room. The quality of life improves, but there are noticeably fewer dogs in each pack and succeeding in training is literally a matter of life and death.

Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta Packs are distinguished by the color of the dog collars the boys wear, and as with Primary and Secondary Packs, the packs unite against each other, but in each pack, only the strong survive.

Only the best will become a son, and it’s no surprise to see members of each pack intentionally setting each other up for failure, sabotaging each other’s efforts, even killing each other to improve their own position and chances of becoming a member of the Family.

In Letter Packs, Father himself handles all discipline, and those not meeting expectations are taken to the basement for ”˜final disposition’.

Jessie stops at the door leading to the stairs. She’s seen the basement and lived to wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror from the nightmares.

She doesn’t need to look to know the walls are stained with blood and the room reeks of blood, gore, and death. There are whips of every kind and knives from as simple as scalpels to jagged-toothed saws.

The room is lit by four naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and the room echoes with decades of screams of agony.

Her hand tightens as it always does when she sees that door, but for some reason, she can’t make a fist no matter how hard she tries. Then again, as badly broken as her hand was thanks to Father, she’s not surprised. Still, she can’t figure out why she’s holding a glass in her hand.

She looks down at the scotch glass as her office seems to coalesce around her as the staircase vanishes.

“You okay kid?”

Jessie looked at the figure in the doorway, not sure if she should be startled or relieved by his presence.

Something about North Wind always evoked feeling of safety, warmth, and comfort. She had no idea what it was, and at the moment, she honestly didn’t care.

She was glad he was there. She had no idea what she’d do without him, and when the Great Spirit called him home, she knew the world would have one less safe harbor to provide common sense, reason, and compassion in the middle of life’s chaos.

North Wind, North for short, gave her a quiet, searching look before looking at the file on her desk.

“I can’t forget what happened,” Jessie admitted slowly. “It’s like I’m reliving it everywhere I go. I can’t escape it.”

“And this ain’t gonna help, kid.” North took the glass from her. “I know. I’ve been there, done that.”

Jessie couldn’t fight the tears.

North set the glass on the filing cabinet and pulled her into his warm bear hug.

“It just won’t go away,” Jessie’s voice was muffled by his heavy, pullover sweater.

“Evil never does, Squeaker,” North stroked her hair gently. “It just takes another form and does its best to make you think it doesn’t exist so it can go on about its business.”

Greg Thomas made his way quietly up the stairs of his brother’s house. He listened at the door for a second and then slipped into the bedroom. Immediately he pointed the pistol at the man standing by the dressing table.

“I thought you might have come to meet me Den,” he said, “after all it’s not every day your little brother comes out of gaol.”

The man turned in surprise and his face went ashen.

“Greg, I didn’t think…”

“I’m sure you didn’t…”

The door to the en-suite opened and a woman emerged straight from the shower. “What was that…” she said. And then froze.

Greg smiled sarcastically. “Well hello Rachel. What a surprise hey.”

Greg threw a dressing gown that was lying on a chair at Rachel. “Cover yourself up,” he snapped.

She threw the gown around herself. “Greg, you’re frightening us. Please, put the gun down.

“Keep out of this. This is between me and Den.”

Den went to move towards him, but he stopped in his tracks as Greg pointed the gun straight at his forehead.

“What do you want Greg? ”

Greg waved the gun. “The two of you… sit there on the bed.

“Isn’t it obvious. I want to get even with you. You know, you the multitalented successful one, and me, the family’s failure.”

“Don’t say that Greg. It’s not like that.”

“Oh yes it is. It’s always been like that from day one, you got all the good genes: looks, brains and health, and I got premature, colic and bipolar. Mum and dad loved you. I was just hard work.”

“That’s not true, they treated us both the same.”

“Who was sent away then... me!”

“They sent you away to school to get a better education.”

No they didn’t. They sent me away to school to get rid of me. They couldn’t cope with a seven-year-old. Do you know how that made me feel, especially knowing that you were at home?”

“But I was doing ok at the local school, they couldn’t afford to send both of us.”

“You were the one, they sent to university.”

“You didn’t qualify.”

“And why not, because I hated that prison they called a school, and because I ranted and raved and absconded and hit the teachers and beat up the other kids and burned the evil place down.”

“Precisely.”

And when I got home, dad could have given me a job in one of his shops. He could have made me a manager. I’d have been happy to start on the tills and work up. But he never gave me a chance. Got one of his mates to give me a job in a chicken packing factory. What sort of father would do that? And you were sucking up to him all the time.”

“Ok, but…”

“Don’t dare move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“ Greg, there’s no need for this. We always got on didn’t we?”

“No. You got on with me, because you just constantly patronised me. I had to watch you amass houses, cars and listen to you boasting about how you sold dad’s business for a fortune. And what did I get, nothing. Even when I got my head together, when I got the medication...”

“… I set you up in business.”

“ Did you hell. You paid my course fees, and that was it. You wanted me to fail. You didn’t want a rival. You had mother’s ear and you wanted to make sure you got all the inheritance. But in spite of everything I made it, didn’t I, and that bothered you.”

“Come on Greg, that’s…”

Greg increased his pressure on the trigger.

“No, no, don’t,” screamed Rachel, throwing her arms around Den.

Greg gave a laugh. “How touching. What lies did he tell you? Get away from him or I’ll shoot the two of you.”

Rachel hung on, but Den slowly pushed her away.

Greg lowered the gun.

“That’s better. Now Rachel, shall I tell you the truth about the fire at the warehouse? It wasn’t me; it was him… my dear brother. I only figured it out when I got back on the medication. Remember how he convinced me that I didn’t need the tablets.” Greg waved the gun towards Den. “Then you played the long game didn’t you, allowed me to go manic and build up the business, and then when I hit the depressed side of the cycle, you set fire to the warehouse. Of course, the police sussed out straight away that it was arson. I was the only suspect. After all the business wasn’t going too well and the insurance was the obvious motive, and I’d already burned down a school. I didn’t have a hope. Perfect plan wasn’t it Den?”

“No, no, Greg, that’s not true. I…”

“ But you didn’t know I’d employed a night watchman. And he burnt to death.”

“Greg you’re being ridiculous.”

“And, with me locked away forever, you thought you could have the lot. Must have gutted you when I got parole.”

Greg turned his stare to Rachel. “How long dear wife before he lured you into his bed.”

Rachel’s eyes were open wide. She looked desperately at Greg and then at Den.

“Oh yes, you’ve been sleeping with a murderer,” said Greg

Den started to get up. Greg brought up the gun and Den sat down again.

“This is nonsense, Greg. It wasn’t fair on Rachel to be alone for the rest of her life. She needed looking after. For all we knew you would be behind bars forever.”

“So you decided to fill in the gap... you worm.”

“Look Greg. It wasn’t me that started that fire. It has to be someone else. I love you. We’ll work together, find out who it was.” Den turned to Rachel. You know I love you both don’t you?”

Rachel shook her head. “I… I don’t know what to believe.”

Greg pulled a sheet of paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He threw it over towards Rachel. “This might help you make up your mind.”

Den moved more quickly and snatched the sheet. “What’s this?”

Greg extended his arm, pointing the pistol right into his brother’s face. “That,” he said, “is an affidavit signed by Karl Nelson, a man dying of cancer, and it tells how you hired him to set fire to the warehouse.”

Den’s jaw dropped. “He’s lying. He…”

“Whose side are you on now Rachel?”

Rachel backed away from the two of them.

Suddenly there was a hammering at the front door. “Mr. Thomas. Police, let us in.” Then there was a crash.

“Well brother, now it's time for me to get even.”

Greg smiled, and pulled the trigger.

The sound of Rachel’s scream almost drowned out the click from the unloaded gun.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Greg pushed the pistol into his pocket and opened the door. “That’s the guy you want over there,” he said.

As the officers piled into the room, Greg turned to Rachel. “If you want to find me, I’m at the Curzon Hotel.”

And he walked out.