He gave up on the Father Milliken line of questioning. If there was something there, it was effectively hid or repressed. More likely, there was nothing to it at all.

"There is just one more thing, if I'm not being too imposing. I was wondering if I could see your son's room."

Daddy, now relieved that the line of questions has been redirected, answered nimbly.

"Yes."

They sat for another 30 seconds, Myron Floren fingering his accordion, Scott Thelen fingering his coffee cup, waiting for a signal, any kind of signal from the father. Inwardly he shook his head in disbelief. 'Yes? That's it yes? So you want me to just get up and find it on my own.'

He shifted his coffee cup to the other hand and tried the question again, this time with a twist.

"Could you show me your son's room?"

The clarification did the trick. Daddy rose as did Scott Thelen. The movement was detected in the kitchen and mommy followed the two men down the hallway touching her therapeutic talismans.

The door stood open, had been open since the public service officer had retrieved his clothing and cigarettes earlier in the year. The room had gone untouched.

Where there should have been a floor, Scott saw only filth: Dirty laundry, fast food bags, packaging for 8 track tapes, candy wrappers, empty potato chip bags, and a mound of what may have one time been school papers and spiral notebooks unceremoniously dumped the middle and trodden with footprints.

He nosed a smell, a mixture of underarm, bowel and mold. A cardboard tray that once held a Sonic Extra Long Cheese Coney Dog now sported a line of green fur where the chili slopping's had once rested.

In the corner, a jumbled heap of 8 track tapes. And next to the bed, a battered 8 track tape player and a pair of headphones so filthy it would be more merciful to burn them than to try and clean them.

"The heathen! Godless sloth! Godless vanity!" Scott wheeled toward the mother who had snuck up behind him. The woman had a finger crammed into her nose all the way up to the knuckle. She corkscrewed her hand back and forth like a mechanic wielding a socket wrench. "The wicked Georgie Porgie girl shall burn in eternal damnation! Do you want some more coffee?"

It took him a moment to absorb what he had just heard and saw. 'Heathen? Sloth? Eternal damnation?' And oh my god! That most disgusting nose picking!

He looked to the father, expecting either a counter argument or an agreement. All he saw was silent resignation.

"Oh, uhmm, no." He took an obligatory sip from the cup. "Thank you, the coffee is fine."

"I may have left the burner; the faucet is dripping, lord save us from our sin." The mother raced off, leaving the two men to themselves. Scott looked at the untouched room and couldn't help but wonder if it would remain this way until the day this shanty was declared unfit for living.

The family unit was already unfit, the house would soon follow.

"I still have to do some thinking about what will be best for your son when he comes back to Elmwood." He lied to the father. The kid was going straight to the Transitions program where he could have a fighting chance. "We want to make sure we make the right choices." A second lie. There was no 'we.' These people were incapable of choices except bad ones.

He started walking back up the hallway. "I want to thank you for visiting with me. I know it's been as difficult for you as it has been for your son." A third lie? Bet the bank on it.

They reached the living room and Scott realized he had to rid himself of the damned coffee cup before he could get out of this nuthouse. He sidestepped a few feet into the kitchen and placed the nearly full cup on the edge of the kitchen table. "Nice visiting with you, thank you for the coffee." The woman was turned away from him, worrying over the two buttons, one marked light, the other marked fan, above the stove. At the words she whirled around. "I made more you can take a thermos! They entered the promised land! Jesus wept."

"No, thank you. That's fine. Goodnight."

He didn't wait for an escort. He crossed the living room and let himself out wordlessly. On the front porch Scott paused to analyze his visit.

Analyze? How could anyone analyze that! He knew people back on the unit who were far more lucid than these two, and at the top of the list was their son! Poor kid was just-- A scream from inside the house stopped his thoughts cold. He turned back to the door. Grasped at the handle, and was ready to rush in when: "The coffee! He left the coffee! Didn't drink! Such wastefulness! Millions are dying! The lord giveth, the lord taketh away! Evil man! He'll burn in purgatory!"

Oh. My. God.

Scott bounded off the porch and had to deliberately slow his pace as he headed toward his car. 'Dysfunctional, with a capital 'D.' his mind cried. He yanked the door handle and collapsed in the driver's seat.

'Un-fucking-believable!'

He put both of his hands on top of the steering wheel and then rested his forehead upon them. He watched the events of the night so far roll through his mind's eye. The ever-so-promising visit with Mr. Lister at the Transitions program. Then the botched abortion of a visitation with the parents. God! And he had drank coffee served to him via the nose picking hands of that disgusting woman.

His head shot up and he involuntarily wiped his hands on his pants, as if the act alone could rid him of whatever filth he may have come in contact with.

How vile. How disgusting!

Scott gathered himself, then allowed the scope of his thoughts expand. It was now full dark. 8:40 by his watch. He was spent. Originally he had considered three stops in Elmwood, the first two, (the official ones) were complete, the third, more for his own curiosity could be skipped. He considered his options, finally deciding that if he didn't go through with the third, he would forever be asking himself 'what if.'

He started the car, clicked on the dome light, consulted his 89 cent map, and then set out. 700 Front Street. St. Marks church.

Chapter 4.

1.

The passing of the autumnal equinox, bringing darkness at an earlier hour, and the knowledge that cold weather would interrupt stargazing for the next six months, a mini resurgence of St. Marks Tuesday night telescope viewing ensued.

The cool crisp October Minnesota air made the stars glitter like hot diamonds. Plus the tilt of the earth brought new constellations into view. Those who had missed Cassiopeia, Ursa the bear and the dippers, both big and little, in June, now returned for another eyeful of the heavens.

It was Tuesday, October 4. Maybe one, perhaps two sessions remained before old man winter declared 'time to pack it up, this is my territory now.' And so they came. As always, the children, now zipped tight in heavy jackets, some even sporting gloves. And the adults, most returnees, a few new.

The church council had proudly viewed it as a success, none prouder than Linda Wilcher who had introduced the idea. And Father Milliken, he too viewed as a success, if only for his own personal, selfish reasons.

2.

Scott Thelen's mind was enamored on the events of the past two hours. Despite that, he navigated his car easily, retracing route he had memorized from the map. He intersected at Front street, where some young prankster had shimmied the street pole and realigned 'Front' with 'Jefferson.' But Scott was wise to the old trick. He turned right, and the outline of a church steeple against the night sky confirmed his sense of direction.

To be completely candid, he was unsure of the nature of his third stop and of what he hoped to gain from it. As he neared the church, his unease grew. There was a gathering of sorts in front of one of the buildings. The rectory; his mind assumed correctly. By the darkened shadows he guessed there 7 or 8 adults and just as many children, if not more. They were gathered around some item of interest, the adults standing firmly, the children scampering around, hopping from foot to foot, poking and teasing each other the way children do.

This was not what Scott Thelen wanted. He pulled his car to the curb a block away and killed the lights.

He sat in the dark and considered what had been only the sketchiest of plans. He would first find the church, then ring the bell and ask for a Father Milliken. If there was no Father Milliken, case closed, my bad, so sorry to have bothered you. And if there were a Father Milliken, (as had been confirmed during his second stop of the evening) he would---what? Ask him gentle leading questions? Accuse him of being a monster? Inform him he was going to the police?

No. None of the above. He merely wanted to meet the man. The man who only tonight had been confirmed as real. The man who his patient came back to again and again as his abuser; describing in vivid detail his every characteristic.

His best approach would be a charade. Scott would tell the priest that he was considering moving to Elmwood, that he was very involved in the church and wanted to learn all he could about St. Marks. That would get the priest to talking and Scott observing. It there were enough common markers between his patient's stories and his own observations, then maybe, maybe it could be true. If not, and he was positive that would be the case, he could then re-direct and find the true source of the brutal attack.

But the lawn party presented a problem. He wanted this evening visit to be discrete, not some gossip fodder for the church socialites to be in on. Or worse yet, to be re-directed by the priest to have his questions answered by the blue-haired President of the ladies guild out on the lawn.

Then, inspiration. Scott plucked the 89 cent map from the passenger seat. He exited the car and crossed directly to the far side of the street.

The North side of Front street featured mammoth stately houses. You can't build across the street from an institution as glorious as St. Marks and not have less than 20 rooms and three garages. Giant oaks and maples lined the gap between sidewalk and street. Scott moved slowly, well hidden by the sagging branches that would soon give up their foliage for the season. He carried the map in front of him, a simple prop should he be approached. 'I might be lost, either that or the street signs got switched somewhere' he could offer honestly.

The need didn't arise. The group on the far side of the street were engaged in their own little function, not paying attention, not seeing the concealed figure across the way.

As he neared, Scott first heard the voices of the excited children, then he could gradually make out the adults by gender and facial features. And when he was nearly perpendicular to the group, he stopped. Cold. Stone cold.

They were gathered round a telescope.

Scott swallowed hard. His client, only after exhaustive therapy, had talked about a telescope. It was something that frightened him so badly, that he believed it also lived inside of him, a black spindly monster with razor sharp claws on the ends of its tentacles. Future sessions brought anguishing revelations. Being forced to look through the telescope while being reamed up the ass.

And then came a little voice, a boys voice. "Father Milliken, it's my turn, it's my turn!" A line of ice crystals scattered up Scott Thelen's spine. The world swam before his eyes. He took a sidestep behind a large oak and forced himself to take deep even cleansing breaths.

Only after a self assessment that his equilibrium had stabilized, did he dare peek his head out from behind the tree.

A rough semicircle of people surrounded the object of attention. At the controls, a young boy of perhaps 8. Behind him, a large man, a man wearing a black shirt and signature stiff collar with a white square over the adams apple. "You have you to see the stars Dougie. You have to see heaven." The large man coached.

Scotts gorge rose in his throat from what he heard; and then saw. The large man, the priest, had his hands firmly planted on the boys buttocks. The adults in attendance not alarmed in the slightest. 'He's the priest and the telescope expert.' Their apathy conveyed. 'That's how he always does it.'

Dougie finished his turn and the priest made a little announcement: "Now whoever can point out the little dipper will be the first in line to take a look.

Every head in the crowd, including Father Milliken's turned skyward. The nuisance corner street light that interfered with their viewing now illuminated each face to the fullest.

Scott was interested in one face and one face only. He saw it. Locked on it. Absorbed it. Abhorred it.

It was a face he knew.

This face matched perfectly the vivid description from his patient. This was a face with an aura of authority. The face of a man who, if he didn't get his way (especially with a child) would retaliate.

Scott slithered back into the darkness and went to his knees. They had warned him, in school and again when he started the job. You can't let yourself get caught up in your clients lives. You can guide them, coach them, encourage them, but you can't be a part of them.

Too late, he was a part of this. The reasons so compelling they evaded his full comprehension.

He found his feet, then his balance. He forced his legs to move, each step taking him further away from the adults, the children, the telescope, the pedophile. At the end of the block he re-crossed the street. And when he opened the car door, the now forgotten map of Elmwood and the surrounding area, slipped from his hand and landed in the street.

For a moment he stood. Reason advising him to retrieve his 89 cent investment. Then he climbed into the driver's seat, started the car and performing a full U-turn on Front street, avoiding the necessity of driving past and seeing again the atrocity on the lawn of St. Marks.

The map, briefly disturbed by the departing vehicle, waved once, and then lay dead in the street.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't be needing it again.

Chapter 5.

1.

It was the reaction he expected. Silence. And he didn't blame the kid one bit.

Scott Thelen knew that this was going to be a critical session. Somehow, Psycho had sensed it as well.

He started by revealing that he had visited Elmwood on Tuesday. He talked about the drive down, the nice night, stopping at the 7-11, any little inconsequential detail about the trip. He waited for the patient to take the bait. Where would he take the conversation? Would he talk about the theatre, the roller rink, certain restaurants, school (probably not), parks?

But the conversation went nowhere, statements on one side, silence on the other.

Finally the therapist relented. "And I visited your folks, at your house." Was that just the slightest movement he detected? Again silence.

"And just between you and me." Scott Thelen leaned forward. "I don't think that's the best place for you."

Psycho snapped out of his facade. He blinked rapidly and took a fast breath. "Where then, I mean, when I'm ready, where would I go?"

"There's a program in Elmwood called Transitions. They help with your education and can provide work, they'll also continue many of the things we've started here. There are three important rules though, no run-ins with the law, no drinking, and no drugging."

Psycho was thrilled. He had vacillated about going back to pot. This program would provide the accountability he needed.

"When can I go?" The eagerness in his voice was transparent.

"Whoa!" the therapist smiled kindly. "The last time we visited you said you weren't ready yet. Why the sudden change of heart?"

Psycho spilled. "I thought that I would have go back to my house. And it's... well, you know." He looked for affirmation and got it with a knowing nod. "And I haven't said this before, and I don't want it to ruin my chances now, but I wasn't sure about pot."

His eyes pleaded with the therapist, 'please don't change anything because I said that.'

Scott Thelen looked his charge square in the eye and declared: "That is the most honest statement I have heard in a long time. The Transition program has a zero tolerance policy, and that's what you need."

"Yes." The boy was silently crying.

Mr. Thelen extended the tissue box. While the boy cleaned up, he deliberated if he was ready for the final step. They were making great progress, so he moved forward.