The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadow bulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of his light on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmoving blackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying on his back, with the slash across the throat standing out clearly.

"Walter."

Thornberry spoke softly, moved slowly, easily toward the young man.

At the sound of his name, Clarens looked up, his face calm and composed, his posture expressing complete disinterest in the fact that someone was approaching him.

"Walter: I am Dr. Thornberry. I am a friend of yours. I am here to help you. You need help. I am here to help you."

As Thornberry spoke, he continued to move forward slowly.

Bennington followed, two strides behind and one to the left of the psychologist. He kept his point of aim fixed on Walter's face.

"I am your friend. I am here to help you."

"You are my friend?" Walter asked, and there was doubt in his tone.

"You can be sure of that, Walter. I want to help you. I am here to help you, Walter."

Thornberry, who had stopped when Clarens had spoken, now moved forward again.

"Put down the knife, Walter. You don't need the knife any more. Put the knife down and come for a little walk with me. Come out of this dark place with me. Out of the darkness into the world where you belong. Let us take a walk together, out of the darkness into the world where you belong."

Bennington felt his own tense watchfulness relaxing in the smooth flow of Thornberry's words. Before them, Clarens' disinterest had gradually become absorbed attention. His hands no longer played with the knife, but simply held it loosely.

In another minute, he'll put down the knife and come with us, Bennington decided. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thornberry take a plastic squeeze-bottle from his pocket.

Without any gathering of facial or body muscle to signal his intention, Clarens launched himself from his chair. As he jumped, he shrilled hoa.r.s.ely, "Not into the light again!"

Only Thornberry's height saved him; Clarens' leap could not quite reach the psych-expert's scrawny throat. But the doctor did stumble backwards, did fall on his back with Clarens on top of him.

The killer's right arm swung back. The edge of the knife blade danced brightly in the dim light.

Bennington took no chances with fancy shooting. He dropped his point of aim and his first shot smashed into Clarens' chest, driving the young man back onto his haunches. The general's second and third shots were also into the body.

Then before Bennington's inner eye two scenes flashed fleetingly, one of a darkened garage, the other of an almost-as-dark jungle trail. In both the figure was a weeping mother above a child's still form.

Deliberately, with three carefully-aimed shots through Clarens' head, Bennington killed the wounded tiger again.

Out of ingrained habit, he reloaded his pistol before moving forward to help Thornberry to his feet.

But the psychologist was already standing, was turning toward Bennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice.

"What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguided boy?"

Bennington looked at his a.s.sistant warden and saw that the man was deadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawled grotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against the dead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping the knife.

I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the words to answer this man.

Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.

His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many questions, and a long, long day was still ahead.

Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he was handwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had done during his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almost incoherent co-operation.

The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear than anyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of the city search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of the details of the state search for the errant politician.

Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefully on one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on his appointment had also finally agreed to sleep.

Of course they had all a.s.sured him of complete concurrence with his suggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could they have done?

Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough to insure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters.

"Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting top priority."

"Good."

"The AG called, too."

Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had a cigarette in your ashtray?"

"I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But the next time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only ones who need practical training."

Bennington did not hold back his laugh and he stretched out his hand.

"Thanks, Mossback."

"h.e.l.l, Jim, I owe you the thanks. That was the best training problem my men ever had, taught 'em more in one night that they can ever learn until the real stuff starts whistling around."

Bennington glanced over Mosby's shoulder at the place he was heading for: the hot seat, Chief Scott's desk chair, bright under the TV spotlights, the center of every camera focus.

"You've got work to do, I know, so where's that Thornberry?" Mosby growled. "He should be with you."

"Upstairs, asleep. He said that he was only the a.s.sistant warden, then asked Chief Scott for an empty cell and left me."

"Why?"

"It's very simple: he's still not convinced that I had to shoot Clarens."

Mosby grunted deep disgust, looked over his shoulder toward the hot seat, looked again at Bennington. "You should have shaved.

"No, wait a minute, I guess not. Just go the way you are and give 'em h.e.l.l."

Bennington rubbed his chin and the bristle of his late-night, early-morning beard crackled crisply.

The problem he had antic.i.p.ated was now here, as he had known it would be. And the answer was nowhere, which equally had been a matter of foreknowledge.