Bill Hartinger recoiled from the beggar's grasp. He brandished his newspaper as if to discipline a dog with bad habits. "Goddamn it, don't touch me!"

      The streetperson, a fat man with one empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder, waddled out of reach and said, "C'mon, man! Can't you help me out? I'm in a bad way."

      "Move it! Before I call a cop!"

      Muttering imprecations, the bum moved away, and Hartinger hustled across the street. At a safe distance, he inspected his sleeve, looking for smears of grime. Ugh! Those people were becoming more and more of a menace. He resumed his walk to the parking garage.

      What a week this had been! An endless series of headaches at the brokerage. Not to mention all the fuss and bother at home.

      He wondered what was going to happen with him and Carol. From the very beginning, their union had been more of a merger than a marriage. Each had meaningless affairs that hurt no one and made life bearable. Like her dalliance with that law student, Brad Taylor, or her current fling with Riggs Robertson. But now things had really gotten out of hand, and Hartinger was contemplating bailing out. If Carol would let him.

      He didn't mind admitting that he was scared of her. What fool wouldn't be? When she first told him about Concasseur's proposal and how she would be changed by it, he had been excited, all for it. Think of what a person with those abilities could accomplish in life, how much power she could amass! But after Carol went through her wolfish change, he began to think that maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head and that he should start looking for an escape hatch.

      On the other hand, sex with his wife had never been better.

      He suddenly heard running footsteps behind him. He started to turn. The runner yanked his briefcase out of his hand and fled up the street.

      Another fucking bum! A scrawny asshole in green fatigues and a Niners cap, stealing his $500 briefcase!

      Hartinger gave chase. "Stop! Thief!"

      The streetperson was not very light on his feet. He had a bad knee that slowed him down. He also made the mistake of repeatedly looking over his shoulder. Huffing and puffing, Hartinger gained on him rapidly.

      Less than ten yards from Hartinger, the thief darted into an alleyway. Hartinger followed, nose wrinkling at the garbage underfoot. He watched with triumph as the bum slipped and went down on his butt.

      "Got you now, you bastard!"

      From a darkened doorway stepped three large, ominous figures. The thief stood up, smiled and nonchalantly tossed the briefcase back to Hartinger.

      Oh, Jesus, what had he gotten himself into now? Hartinger spun on his heels and made for the mouth of the alley.

      Four newcomers, all streetpeople, blocked his path. They ranged in age from eighteen to at least seventy. Each looked dangerous. One of them was the fat, one-armed man who had accosted Hartinger just minutes ago.

      Dizzy with panic, Hartinger jittered in place, unsure what to do.

      "Get out of my way," he said, trying to muster the tone he used when ordering his assistants around.

      The derelicts said nothing but moved closer.

      "Look. You'd better let me go."

      He could smell them as they drew nearer, a gruesome mixture of sweat, piss and puke, of soiled clothes and dirty hair. He heard their phlegmy breathing and their footsteps as they shuffled through squishy garbage.

      "Keep away! I'll shout for the police!"

      Someone laughed.

      Hartinger screamed and charged, swinging his briefcase as a weapon. Intent on escaping the alley, he fought wildly, striking out at everything that got in his way.

      There were too many of them. They overwhelmed him, a polluted tide of grimy bodies that fell on top on him and drove him to his knees. Shrieking like a child, Hartinger cowered on the ground, expecting a knife to slip between his ribs or a piece of pipe to come crashing down on his skull.

      Neither happened. Instead, the fat man sat on his chest while the others bound his hands and feet with lengths of rope. Someone jammed a wad of fabric into his open mouth, a horrible rag that tasted of turpentine and dust. Hartinger's gorge rose. A vision of himself strangling to death on his own vomit made him choke it back down.

      They picked him up and dumped him in a handy shopping cart, lined with a obscenely stained blanket. With his knees almost touching his nose, Hartinger barely fit. The bums began to pile blankets and plastic bags on top of him, until he was completely hidden from view. The streetpeople lashed everything into place with more rope. When they were finished, the cart began to move.

      Seeing that further struggle would be useless, Hartinger quit shrieking into his gag.

      The cart clattered along the pavement, each bump sending a jolt of pain up Hartinger's spine. Whoever was steering kept making sharp turns, zig-zagging until Hartinger had no idea where they were heading.

      The cart eventually came to a halt. Hartinger heard whispering voices, and then his cart was unceremoniously up-ended. He spilled out onto the pavement, squalling in indignation and fear. Strong hands picked him up, dragged him into a lean-to made from discarded doors and other lumber, and laid him out flat on his back.

      It was pitch-black inside the funky-smelling shelter. A voice, quite close to his ear, said, "Thanks, Al. You guys did a good job tonight. I owe you."

      "Sure thing," said one of his abductors. Then the streetpeople all shuffled out, leaving him alone with the voice.

      A flashlight clicked on. A face suddenly hovered above him, the light held beneath its chin to create a spectral effect.

      "Hi, Bill. Remember me?"

      At first, he had no idea who this blond, blue-eyed stranger was. But he recognized the voice. He looked closer and gasped. "You're alive!"

      "How perceptive of you."

      On top of the surprise, Hartinger also experienced a small surge of relief. He understood that he was in deep trouble, but at least he could talk to Spelvin, try to reason with him.

      Spelvin said, "Now, I'm going to take your gag off, Bill, because I want to discuss some things with you. There's no point in screaming or carrying on. Nobody can hear you, and even if they could, they wouldn't do anything about it. Okay?"

      Hartinger nodded. Joey set the flashlight down so that it illuminated the wall. He removed the rag from Hartinger's mouth.

      Hartinger coughed and spat, trying to rid his mouth of that nauseating taste. Spelvin watched dispassionately and gave him time to collect himself just a bit.

      "You can untie me, Joey. I won't do anything. I promise."

      Spelvin shot him a contemptuous glare. "Guess again, geek. You're going to stay trussed up like the pathetic capon you are. Now shut up and speak only when you're spoken to."

      Spelvin's words left Hartinger momentarily speechless. How dare he talk to him that way!

      "Before we begin in earnest," said Spelvin, "I want to show you something. Hold on." Joey reached behind himself and brought out a small metal cage. He held it in the light.

      Inside the cage sat the largest rat Hartinger had ever seen. It squeaked loudly and ran in tight circles.

      "Ugly little booger, ain't he?" observed Spelvin. "My friends had a hell of a time catching him, but they finally did. The homeless can be awfully resourceful, you know."

      Horrible tableaux out of Orwell's 1984 sprang into Hartinger's mind. "Wh-what are you going to do with that?"

      "Oh, that would be telling. Let's just wait and see, huh?"

      Spelvin set the cage on Hartinger's chest, door pointed towards Hartinger's face. The rat, which looked the size of a well-fed dachshund, went crazy with frustration and began gnawing furiously on the bars.

      "Tell me, Bill, where is our friend Henri Concasseur keeping himself these days?"

      "I don't know."

      "I don't believe you, Bill. Better do better than that."

      He could barely think over the rat's enraged squealing. He felt a spot of wetness and realized the rodent had just pissed on his shirtfront.

      "He's out of town. I don't know where. Honest."

      Spelvin fiddled with the clasp on the cage door. "You're really starting to annoy me, Bill."

      "OK, OK, he's in Los Angeles. Setting up a new Crossroads chapter."

      "Who's with him?"

      "Some people from Crossroads. You don't know them."

      "What about the Walkman?"

      "Who?"

      "Delmore Zweibeck. Is he with Concasseur in L.A.?"

      Of Concasseur's coterie of freaks, Delmore Zweibeck frightened Hartinger the most. Being in the same room with the man was absolutely excruciating. Even speaking of him filled Hartinger with vague dread.

      "Yes."

      "How about Tiffany Wellington?"

      "No, I don't think so."

      "How long will Concasseur be gone?"

      What would happen if Spelvin opened the cage door? Would the rat really attack his face? Or would it just run off, wanting only to escape?

      He didn't dare risk it. Not yet, anyhow.

      "He'll be back on Sunday."

      "So far, so good. What's Concasseur's home address?"

      Oh, no. There was no way Spelvin was going to get that out of him. The rat couldn't do anything worse to him than what Henri Concasseur would do if he ever found out Hartinger had betrayed him.

      "I don't know."

      "I think you do."

      "I can't tell you."

      Spelvin sighed. He picked up the cage and set it on the ground, where Hartinger could still easily see it. "Time to play rough, I guess."

      From his shirt pocket, Spelvin removed a cigarette case. Opened, it revealed not a set of smokes, but a row of tiny straws.

      Spelvin took one out. He bent down, put one end of a straw into his mouth, and blew through it into the face of the rat. A puff of grey powder momentarily swathed the rodent's face. A violent shiver rippled through the animal. Its eyes went glassy, and foam frothed out of its mouth. The rat emitted a single, piercing screech and toppled over on its side. Its legs scrabbled for purchase, and its sides heaved spasmodically.

      After no more than thirty seconds, the rat lay utterly still.

      Hartinger's mouth had gone bone-dry. He swallowed and said, "Jesus Christ. What was that?"

      "A little something they whip up in Haiti to turn people into zombies."

      Hartinger felt as if someone had come up behind him and given his nuts a good, hard squeeze. He jerked his head away from the sight of Spelvin and the dead rat.

      "Of course, there's nothing truly supernatural about this stuff," Spelvin went on. "It's just an incredibly potent neurotoxin. Shuts down the central nervous system in a snap. Anyone who gets a dose of it falls into a coma virtually indistinguishable from actual death. Now, what did you say Concasseur's address is?"

      Hartinger told him.

      "What's his house like?"

      "Huh? What do you mean?"

      "Lots of security equipment?"

      Hartinger thought about it. "Some."

      "Dogs?"

      "No."

      "Are there other things in the house that Concasseur controls? Supernatural entities? You know what I'm talking about."

      Hartinger had been in Concasseur's mansion only once, but he knew what Spelvin meant. During that visit, he had not exactly seen anything, but he had certainly felt the presence of sinister forces. They seemed to lurk just out of sight, malevolent creatures that would appear in an instant should Concasseur give the proper signal.

      He was tempted to lie to Spelvin. Let him find out on his own. Fear got the better of him, and he said, "There are other things that live in the house. I don't know what you'd call them."

      "OK, Bill, we're in the home stretch here. Just one more questions. When are your wife's powers at their weakest?"

      He was planning to do something to Carol! Hartinger begged, "Please, don't make me talk about that!"

      Spelvin grabbed Hartinger by the chin. He carefully inserted a straw into his left nostril. Hartinger went rigid with terror.

      Spelvin said, "I gave the rat a human-sized dose. He's really dead, and I feel bad about it. I don't like killing things. But I had to show you that I'm not simply fucking around with corn starch."

      Hartinger didn't dare say a word.

      "I'm going to ask you the question again. If I don't like your answer, I'm going to fill your sinuses with this crap. The results won't be as spectacular as they were with Mr. Rat, but within a couple hours, you'll be as lively and talkative as a piece of oak planking. Understand?"

      Hartinger tried to reply, but the word stuck in his throat.

      Spelvin brought his mouth near the end of the straw. "Understand?"

      Hartinger croaked, "Yes."

      "When is your wife at her weakest? Tell me, or I'll give you a noseful of poison."

      Hartinger felt hot tears leaking from his eyes. "She's strongest on the seventh, thirteenth and seventeenth of each month. Weakest on the tenth, fifteenth and twenty-fifth. I don't know why. It just works that way."

      Spelvin smiled thinly. "There. That wasn't hard, was it?" He put his mouth to the straw and blew.

      Evil-smelling, burning powder erupted into Hartinger's nose. He gagged and choked and tried to scream. Spelvin calmly removed the empty straw and took a few steps away from him as he bucked and jerked.

      Hartinger found enough air in his lungs to shout, "Oh, my God!" He tried to blow his nose, but he knew in his bones that not enough of the powder came out.

      Spelvin regarded him with cold eyes, arms folded across his scrawny chest. He said, "What I just did was pretty fucking low. But you, your wife, Concasseur and the Walkman have given me no choice. You four killed Claude, disfigured Chantal, terrorized Alison and shot my life to hell. It's payback time."

      Hartinger wept uncontrollably. Dust-filled snot oozed onto his lip. "You've killed me! I'm going to die!"

      Spelvin shook his head. "With a little luck, you'll survive. But I can't have you running off and telling tales on me. So I'm putting you on ice. Don't worry. We won't bury you alive or any of that shit. We'll keep you relatively warm and safe until the toxin wears off.

      "In the meantime, lie back and try not to fight the drug too hard. You'll just make it worse on yourself."

      Hartinger could already feel an ominous tingling in his extremities and the beginnings of a headache.

      Spelvin walked to the shelter's exit and stepped outside. Hartinger shrieked after him, "I hope Carol rips your fucking guts out!"

      The only reply was, "Nitey-night, asshole."