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VIII

I once shared a train with a guy who had seven people inside his head.

He wore a pair of worn blue jeans and a faded T-shirt, and he talked to himself in seven voices. People talk to themselves all the time, but that don't make them crazy, right until that day the voices don't leave you alone and you lose yourself in the crowd. One of his personalities was dimwitted and spoke in a throaty whisper. Another had taught himself Swedish, while the others berated him for being a traitor to his country. One personality tried to calm the waters, with little success. Two personalities argued over football. They loved the game, but hated each other and each other's team.

The conductor came by to check our tickets, and for one brief moment, the arguing stopped. The man resurfaced, snapped for air and presented his ticket, exchanging a few pleasantries with the conductor in his normal voice. Then the bickering returned with undiminished force. I don't know which of his personalities was an alcoholic; maybe they all were. The man sucked a half-gallon bottle of vodka between bouts of arguing and chain-smoking. It was a non-smoking train, but nobody said anything; not even the train conductor. The harder he drank, the louder the voices screamed at each other, and one by one the other passengers got up and left.

By the time we reached Oakenford Central, only the two of us were left in the railcar. I inched closer, one seat at a time, watching him drink, smoke and argue while vodka and saliva formed trails down his shirt.

Suddenly he doubled over and puked into a brown paper bag that came with the bottle. He kept puking and retching into the bag before looking up, his eyes red and bloodshot.

"That's it," he said. "It's over."

The vodka soaked the bloated paper bag, coloring it dark brown.

"That bag's gonna rip." I said.

"I know."

The crazy man was quiet now. He held the bag between two fingers, watching it drip. Moments later, the bag tore open, releasing a pukefall of vodka and vomit that spread out on the linoleum floor.

"This is me," said the man, holding up the deflated paper bag.

"Will they be back?" I asked.

The man nodded. "In a month or so."

"A month?" I was dumbfounded. Just imagine: a whole month without voices, at the cost of a single day of searing hangover.

"Want some?" The man offered me his bottle. There was perhaps a quart left.

Thinking maybe the man wasn't so crazy after all, I put the bottle to my mouth and drank greedily. It's been four years and I'm still drinking. I drink myself into a stupor, I drink until I drop to my knees, I drink until hallucinations take over my every sense.

And that's when I solve the murder cases.

---

IX

I was back in the Phantom Cat at noon, with nine hours till sunset. Nine short hours to catch the serial bomber before he struck again. I decided to start my investigations in the apartment of Dianne Walsh, the first victim. She'd been a writer of romantic novels but there was no glorified marriage in her life, and no happy ending on her final page. I took two bottles of Farvale Bourbon from the bar when I noticed a woman sitting alone on a bar stool with her back turned.

"Who does a lady have to arrest to get a drink around here?" I didn't recognize her back, but her voice sounded strangely familiar.

"We're not open yet, lady." I called out from behind the bar.

The guest turned around slowly and I stood face to pretty face with agent Evelyn Dakota of the MI-16.

"Maybe you'd make an exception for an old friend?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "I'd make an exception ...for a friend. But when it comes to the MI-16, this place is still closed for business."

"Don't make this any harder than it is." Dakota said." Coming to you for help is awkward enough."

I shrugged. "Can't be too careful. Your agents tried to kill me."

"Relax," she said. "We scratched you off our hit-list months ago."

With the Olanzapine out of my system, my every sense was razor sharp, my every nerve screaming for stimulus. Agent Dakota's eyes darted from side to side, checking out the nightclub and the street outside. I followed her glance across the street where a gray van held parked.

"Tell your people to scram, I might just return the favor."

Evelyn's green eyes narrowed, her mouth tightened into a grimace. She tapped a button on her wristwatch and spoke directly into it. "It's AOK, Schorr. You can call it off." The van across the street flashed its headlights and drove away.

"How did you know?" asked Dakota.

"Birdshit," I replied. "We're in lower East Oakenford. When you see a car that's not all covered in pigeon shit, you know it doesn't belong here."

"You're just as sharp as I remember from Hotel Kisanti. [* in Cry me a Murder.]"

Dakota walked around the counter to pour herself a tumbler of liquor with goldflakes swirling around. For a government agent in plain clothes, this broad sure had refined tastes. "Let's get down to business," she said. "You need money and I need you to solve a case."

I stuffed the two bottles into my knapsack. "I got eight hours and forty to stop a murderer, and your Goldschläger is killing my time."

"Carter, I know you have mixed feelings towards the MI-16, but right now you're the only one I can trust."

"You must have hundreds of agents in your organization," I growled. "What makes me so damn trustworthy?"

"-because you hate us," replied Evelyn bluntly. "Plus, I'll make it worth your while."

"Listen," I said. "I might be a special kind of guy and you are one attractive woman. But I'm not that desperate for company."

Evelyn sighed and took out a checkbook. I didn't catch the first digit she wrote, but the number of tailing zeros was as long as her legs. Both put the concept of infinity into perspective.

"I'm not hiring you because you're special," she said. "But because you're so predictable."

---

X

The Lakeview district always makes me uncomfortable. You can tell the people here are well off, by the way they walk, the way they dress and the way they look at you without making eye contact. That's why I feel out of place the moment I cross 6th avenue. Within one block, the cars change from middle-class clunkers into imported luxuries that never seems to age, and neither do their owners. They play by a different set of rules than the rest of us, but that don't mean they are less crooked than those who live in Lower East. They just have expensive lawyers to cover their asses, instead of goons.

Dianne Walsh had an apartment above a florist; the kind that sell birds of paradise by the flower. Only, they call them Strelizia and charge you twelve bucks for the privilege but wrap them for nothing. I opened the first bottle of bourbon the moment I let myself into the charred remains of Walsh' living room. The cops had boarded the windows, and scattered beams of sunlight cut through the cracks. I drank half a bottle in a few gulps and shuffled around, waiting for the shadows to make the first move. Walsh had an entire section of her bookcase reserved for her own novels. I flipped through a copy of The Heiress of Dunblaine, and a fistful of hundred dollar bills dropped out of the pages, fluttering to the floor like wounded birds.

No trust in your own bank, huh?

I finished the bottle, ignoring the complaints of my liver, and waited for the alcohol to trigger an episode. Walsh had hammered out all her novels on an old fashioned Olympia. A single page was still stuck on the roller. I tore it out of the typewriter and held it to the stream of sunlight that pored in between the cracks of the boarded window.

Kyell yawns and stretches out in the grass, soaking up the warmth of a June day. He watches the languid clouds make shifting patterns as they drift by, momentarily blocking out the summer sun.

"Here's to your promotion," says Rhania and raises her glass.

"I couldn't have done it without you by my side," says Kyell. "We have a pretty good life, the two of us."

Rhania smiles and takes Kyell's hand. She puts it gently to rest on her stomach and smiles. "You mean, the THREE of us?"

I was halfway through the page when the words stopped making sense. The letters seemed to rearrange themselves to form words that you would never find in her books.

Finally, I thought.

Now show me something the cops have overlooked.

I knew I was in for a hard time when Dianne Walsh's walls came alive. They were decorated with a flowery wallpaper, the kind you would expect in a Bronte novel. But the flowers were long withered, and bugs the size of a thumb had moved in to feast on the remains . I tried to squeeze them dead with my hand, yet there was nothing to feel and the critters just kept moving. Not real, I told myself. They were gnawing at the paper and clawing the bare wall with their feet, exposing patches of gray concrete below.

What are you telling me?

The insects made soft clicking noises as they scuttled along, eating away at the wallpaper. I blinked, trying to snap out of the hallucination but the wallpaper remained an intertwining mess of withering beauty and never ending hunger.

Something died a long time ago? Or something withered?

Like the dead writer, we were definitely somewhere in the past.

I held my hand to the wall, and a beetle instantly fell into my open palm. It was on its back, with all eight legs flailing.

You're not for real either, are you?

Without warning, the insect dug its mandibles into the flesh of my palm. I spat out a curse and shook my hand to get the creature off, but it clung to me harder than an insurance salesman. Relax! I told myself.

It's not real. It's all in your mind.

The insect ate away at my hand, exposing raw flesh and sinew below the skin. He gnawed and grew to the size of a cockroach, before spreading its wings and fluttering away. As if following an unspoken lead, every insect that occupied the wall took off like a swarm of ants. They spiraled around my head like fireflies before disappearing. Some flew through the ceiling, others vanished whenever I blinked. Within a minute, they were all gone and the darkness that had occupied the room lifted.

Intoxicated from the drink, I staggered across the room and collapsed into the ruined couch. The bourbon set my stomach on fire and the taste of sour bile was in my mouth. Is it worth it? I wondered. I'm not getting ANY of this!

With the episode over, the alcohol hit me hard. I rolled onto the floor into fetal position, trying not to puke on the scorched rug while the room spun and the shadows stopped moving.

I'll just rest here for a minute.

Moments later I was out cold.

---

I woke up hours later, with an aching head and no clues. It was eight PM. With one hour till sunset, I searched the rest of the apartment and found a photo album stacked between piles of memorabilia. The photos were at least twenty years old, some dating back even further. I flipped through the pages, not knowing what I was looking for. Heck, I didn't even know what Dianne Walsh looked like. The photos Quinn had shown me only showed a smoldering corpse with half the face blown away. Maybe this was a way of getting closer to the woman, whose murderer would strike again in less than an hour. The pictures were mostly holiday snaps: summer vacation at the beach of Ra'gasso, Christmas eve, a birthday party, another vacation in the company of people I didn't know or recognize. At least one of them was dead, but who?

I put the album down and picked up a copy of her latest novel. It was the size of a brick and had a snapshot of the author on the inside cover. Dianne had been a mousy woman in her mid-thirties with dark curly hair and a timid smile. Pretty, but not beautiful. She was someone you would pass in the line at K-mart, smile, and forget all about, not knowing she was raking in more dough a month than the rest of us do in a year. But the killer wasn't interested in her money; he wanted her dead, and he had gone to a great length to make it happen. Fragments of the exploded lamp were still embedded in the walls. I dug a sliver of solid brass out of the plaster. With a charge of C4, there was enough damage here to shoot the splinters through flesh, bone and wood.

I returned to the photo album. With the portrait of the adult Dianne Walsh in fresh memory, I recognized her from one of the photos from the late 90's.

She was a young girl at the time, no more than ten or eleven. She was all smiles, holding up a home made paper ornament for a Christmas tree.

Something caught my eye in the background of the photo. It was a brass reading lamp with two light bulbs, just like the one that blew up in her face. I dropped the photo album where I stood, and stared silently at the remains of her charred apartment.

The cursed thing had been with her for the past twenty years.

---

XI

The desklight bomber had claimed three victims: Dianne Walsh, Bernie Clemens and Sarah Lillison. Three people living separate lives in three separate areas of town. I reached for my smartphone and did a google search for the three people. It only returned a single hit:

A surgical Approach to Treat Patients with Intermittent Explosive Disorder, by Lillison J, LaSalle M, Walsh J and Clemens R.

They were all co-authors on a paper in a psychology journal dating back to the late eighties. I knew it was a long shot, but I didn't have much else to go by. The victims shared last names with three of the authors, leaving only a person by the name of Maurice LaSalle.

When I checked the phone registry, there was only one LaSalle currently living in Oakenford: Bernard LaSalle, a pro racing driver.

With fifteen minutes to go, I floored the speed pedal and drove to his house, ignoring every stop sign, ran every red light and broke every speed limit. It was growing dark, but I kept the headlights off, in the vain superstition that this gesture would magically reach LaSalle and prevent him from turning on his own light. I screeched to a halt in front of his house.

"Hello?" The race driver eyed me over carefully, before opening his front door.

"Carter...Wolf..." I panted. "Listen. Don't turn your lights on."

"Are you here for an autograph?" Asked LaSalle. "Did you bring a notepad?"

I shook my head, "Notepad? Fuck no."

LaSalle looked at me for a moment, bemused. Then he lit up in a smile. "Who needs one, anyway. I'll sign a napkin or something."

He turned around and left the doorway. With LaSalle out of the way I saw the source of light that had illuminated him. It was a brass lamp in the back of his living room, with two lightbulbs. Horrified I recognized it from the photo in Dianne Walsh's apartment.

"Screw the autograph!" I shouted. "Get the hell down."

I lunged at LaSalle, wrapping both my arms around his chest. He let out a confused cry. "Hey, what the..." and shook his body like a wet dog to throw me off.

"Hit the floor," I rasped. "It's going to blow."

Seconds later, the lamp exploded in an ear deafening roar. We were both thrown off balance and tumbled to the floor while brass splinters and dust charged through the air.

"Far out," gasped LaSalle. "You saved my life. Who are you, again?"

I brushed soot and debris off the shoulders of my T-shirt, trying to save what little dignity I still possessed. "Carter Wolf. Private investigator."

"That was the serial bomber, wasn't it? They talk about him on the radio."

"He planned you to be the next victim in his spree of combustible crimes."

"But who wants me dead?" Cried LaSalle. "Race driving is my life. It's what I do."

I shook a cigarette from its pack and lit it slowly.

"You really oughtta dial 911 before your house catches on fire."

I blew a smoke ring, biding my time and hoping he wouldn't ask for details about the case. But LaSalle wouldn't let me off the hook. He stared at me in almost childish anticipation.

"So..."

"So what?"

"Who is the desklight bomber? What is his secret identity?"

"No idea," I sighed. "Haven't got a clue."

---

XII

"Do you like rock music?" Evelyn Dakota was driving me to the outskirts of Oakenford to a destination she was reluctant to reveal. Without waiting for an answer, Dakota slipped a CD into the radio and rock music blasted from the speakers. "REO Speedwagon," she said when I raised an eyebrow. "They were big in the eighties."

"I wasn't even born back then," I replied.

There was a moment of awkward silence between us. Over the past year, our relationship had grown from being enemies to reluctant collaborators. And now it seemed we would be partnering up for a case. A mutual respect was slowly growing between us, but it had never crossed our minds that Dakota was fourteen years older than me.

"So," I observed to break the silence, "you drive a KIA."

"It's a rental," said Dakota. She seemed only happy to change the subject. "They might have bugged my car."

"THEY?" I asked. "That's the kind of stuff I say when I'm paranoid."

"We have enemies," Dakota said bluntly. "All branches of the Military Intelligence do. It pays off to be paranoid."

"The KGB? The 610? DGSI?"

Evelyn shrugged. "The list is infinite."

We were driving at the outskirts of Oakenford on the road leading to the woods of Farvale. Dakota had picked me up at the Phantom Cat at nine in the morning to discuss the case. I was confused and bruised from last night's explosion, and I had a headache the size of Nebraska from drinking in Walsh's apartment. I needed my goddamn coffee and Dakota kept rambling on about rock bands I knew only from AOR radio stations.

"Can't we make a stop for coffee?" I asked.

"It's only another twenty minutes till we get there," said Dakota.

I eased back into the passenger seat and swallowed a handful of Tylenol. "About the case..."

"Ever heard of Manfred Altschuler?" asked Dakota.

I shook my head, never having heard of the name.

"He was head of Project Aquila, back in the eighties. A government project to investigate people with extraordinary abilities."

"Like ESP and telekinesis? I thought that was all bullshit."

"More like code-breakers, hackers, people with photographic memories and that kind of thing."

"Sounds harmless enough."

"Harmless and inefficient. The MI shut down the project when the cold war ended."

I tried to pay attention while Dakota filled me in, but the details were sketchy. I wasn't born when it happened, and Dakota was a fifteen year old teen at the time, with boys and bands on her mind. Professor Manfred Altschuler had spearheaded the project, and while some subjects had shown potential, the people in charge lost patience with the prof and the project. They pulled the plug when the Berlin wall crumbled. Now, twenty five years later, Altschuler was given a second chance to form a counter terrorist unit, built around a team of skilled hackers and code-breakers.

Dakota pulled the KIA over and made a stop in a 7-11 parking lot. She reached into the glove compartment and took out a sealed Manila folder.

"This is where you fit into the picture."

The folder contained three photos: one black and white, two in color. The first showed a row of columns, ranked one through seventy-eight. Each was divided into short, horizontal lines on a dark background. It could have been a military coding system or a work of modern art for all I cared. I put it back into the folder and studied the two color photos. They were lit and shot with professional equipment as if to emphasize their gruesome content.

"That's Dr. Thompson and Dr. Dwyer," said Dakota. "Or what's left of them."

The photos showed the bloated remains of two dead people. I couldn't tell which corpse belonged to whom, and judging by the state of their remains, neither could the MI-16. Both victims had been ripped open from neck to naval and left sprawling in their own insides until they bled out. The skin on their faces was missing, exposing round, staring eyeballs and rows of teeth framed by raw flesh. It gave the uncanny impression that the victims died with a surprised grin on their face.

"They were MI-16 agents?"

Dakota nodded. "Not officially. Thompson and Dwyer were researchers on project Aquila, along with Dr. Altschuler."

"Maybe somebody's trying to kill the project?"

"Not somebody... but something. When we dusted for fingerprints, you know what we found?"

"Fibres from gloves?" I guessed.

"Animal pawprints! And DNA with seventy eight chromosomes. That's what. Our people were torn to shreds by a canine -a wolf to be exact." Dakota took the black and white photo from my hand. She pointed to one of the tiny horizontal lines.

"That's the W24 gene. It tells us if we're dealing with a domestic dog or a wolf."

"That tiny line there?" The W24 line looked just like the thousands of other genes. From its looks, you couldn't tell whether it gave the animal the ability to run, drool or lick its own balls. I laughed. "Wolves are shy creatures, They don't go around killing people in their own homes."

"Wolves don't open front doors either, or turn the lights off when they leave the scene. This killer is a wolf who walks on two."

We both went quiet as Dakota returned the folder back to the glove compartment.

"What leads do you have?" I asked.

Dakota clenched the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "The killer knows everything we know; that's how he gets to us. Somehow he knows our every move," she said. "He knows who is on the project and where they live. He knew the victims were alone that night, he knew that Sgt Schorr was off duty, he knew where and when to strike."

"Sounds like you have a double agent on your hands."

"Damnit! The MI-16 hasn't had a traitor since the cold war...but now..." Dakota paused and looked around, checking we weren't being spied on.

"Carter," she said. "I'm scared."

"You're a big girl," I said. "You can take care of yourself."

"I'm not concerned about myself," she replied. "I'm worried about Altschuler."

For the first time, I saw the person behind the agent, if only for a second. Behind the business dress, the tough talk and the secret handshakes, Evelyn Dakota was just another Oakenforder with an unusual job. Yet, this was the first time I had seen her caring for the well being of another man.

"Altschuler is more than a friend," Dakota said. "He's like a father to my sister and me. And I don't want to see him getting hurt. I want you to find that leak... I want you to find out before he gets to Altschuler."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?" I asked. "Your people yell demon! and reach for their guns every time they see my face."

"I want you to join project Aquila," Evelyn replied. "You're a special case."

I laughed. "I'm hardly MI-16 material. I solve cases, but I'm sure your records show how my brain and I don't get along."

"The records also show you have neutralized three of our top agents," said Evelyn. "That makes you one of a kind."

"I kill people. That's not the one-of-a-kind you want."

"Don't flatter yourself," Evelyn said bluntly." You may be special, but we've seen worse... much worse."

"Somehow I find that difficult to believe."

"Do you prefer garroting your enemies with piano wire to shooting them, like agent Tarkus? Do you smear the blood of your victims in your face as warpaint, like agent Honani? When it comes to protecting our country, we value efficiency before personal shortcomings. Honani and Tarkus are as troubled as you - maybe even more, but the MI-16 prioritizes getting the job done."

"We may have the same goal in mind, but your ways leave a mess."

Evelyn shrugged. "Reality is messy. We've learned to deal with it. Maybe it's time you do the same."

I sighed. What agent Dakota was telling me was almost a verbatim copy of what Quinn was always preaching.

Embrace your demons, they're what makes you survive.

"How many know of the project?" I asked.

"Only Altschuler and myself... and of course Agent Schorr. It was his duty to protect Thompson and Dwyer."

"Maybe Schorr failed on purpose. He could be spying for the enemy."

"He's in the clear," said Dakota. After some hesitation she added. "We've...bugged his place."

"You spy on your own people?" I was shocked.

Dakota shrugged, "You'll be surprised how easy it is to wire a place up... any place."

In a sudden flash of clarity, I now understood why getting the rights to the nightclub had been such a pushover, and why the MI-16 had been so eager to redecorate the place before we moved in [*in a Fall from Grace.]

"You've rigged the Phantom Cat."

Dakota flashed me a sly smile. "Of course. We were enemies once."

"You KNEW I was already on a case," I fumed. "You knew Quinn was paying me pennies, so you added a few extra zeros to the check to lure me away."

"We also know your favorite album is Kind of Blue, because you play it every night. We know you have conversations with the voices in your head, and you shout at chicken fillets."

I sighed. "That last part is a bit complicated."

"-and we also know your friend is a werewolf."

"Quinn?"

Dakota nodded. "Strange coincidence, don't you think?"

By cheeks began to burn and I snapped for air. I didn't like where this conversation was heading.

"Quinn is my friend. He would never kill a government official. Not in his human form, neither in his wolf form."

"Have you seen him shift?" Asked Dakota. "Do you know what his kind is capable of?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know WHAT to answer. In all the time I had known Quinn, I had never seen him in other form than his human one. Heck, I wasn't even sure his werewolf self was anything more than a spiritual thing.

"Just gimme the damn check," I sneered. "I'll find your killer, be it man or beast."

Agent Dakota dangled the check in front of my face. "You sure about this?"

I grabbed the check with both hands and stuffed it into my wallet before anyone could get to it. With the payment from the MI-16 and Quinn, we could pay our way, and keep the nightclub.

"I'm sure," I grunted.

"Just be careful, Carter. Remember... the killer might be your friend."

---

XIII

Professor Altschuler folded his glasses and put them in his breast pocket. His eyes were itchy from staring into the PC monitor for too long. Half past midnight already; where had the hours gone?

Altschuler hovered the mouse over the shut-down button. Maybe he could spend a few minutes checking the news again, or reply to an email no one would read until tomorrow? Finally, he pressed the button and the monitor went quiet. Altschuler remained in his chair, staring at his reflection in the blank screen for minutes. The bags under his eyes had grown prominent and dark from the lack of sleep. He didn't want to admit that his main reason for working late was that he was scared; nervous about crossing the parking lot, frightened of going home, terrified of being alone. While he was in the lab facility, his every move was monitored and recorded on a security hard drive in 2160 pixel resolution. Here, no one could get to him. Not without the fire doors slamming shut and security troops automatically called in. But outside... outside he was vulnerable, like Thompson and Dwyer.

One final check, then I'll go home.

He rode the elevator to the animal facility on third, and for fifteen seconds he felt safe within the confinements of the elevator.

They can't get to you in a moving lift.

A dim fluorescent light illuminated the rows of cages, day and night. Without windows, the lab was like a sealed vault you could lose time and yourself in.

"Dr. Palmer? Dr. Chen?"

He called out; mainly out of courtsey. He knew both animal handlers had left at five, but he felt he needed to broadcast his presence in someone else's facility. If nothing else, then out of respect. Altschuler liked the smell in the animal handling facility. The air was ripe with notes of molasses, grass and hay. But he knew his allergy would react to the airborne strands of fur and animal dandruff within minutes. He stopped to gasp a quick puff of Ventoline. Ironic how someone in his job would develop an allergy to rabbits.

He walked past the section of cages containing mice, rats and chinchillas until he reached the rabbit section. The facility contained twenty cages, each housing five rabbits of various ages and sizes that ate, slept and reproduced quietly in a pre-programmed day/night cycle. Only Altschulers footsteps, the hum of neon lights and the scratching sound of plotters next to each cage broke the silence. Altschuler found cages Aqui-23 through Aqui-26, where twenty young rabbits shuffled around. A young female poked her nose through the bars when she sensed Altschuler's presence. He reached into the pocket of his white lab coat and took out a foil pouch adorned with a drawing of a grinning rabbit.

"Emma!" he said." You always know in which pocket I keep the goodies."

He poured a small handful of rabbit treats that looked like white Hershey's kisses and carried the smell of vanilla.

"Dr. Chen would throw a fit if she knew I was feeding you outside authorized times."

"Very bad, Mr Altschuler!" she'd shriek." You make them fat. Rust up their arteries."

Altschuler looked over his shoulder, double checking he was alone in the lab.

"Tell you what," he wispered. "Let's live dangerous. I'll have one along with you."

The treats were basically white chokolates with added vanilla flavoring and tiny pieces of nuts. Altschuler knew they were made with pre-teen girls in mind; it was a way for the children to connect with their pets and share a tender moment. Not for a balding professor in his mid sixties. "I shouldn't be sharing with you," he said.

"My arteries are rusty enough."

He came to an abrupt stop at cage aqui-25 and took an involuntary step back. The cage was an unregocnizable mess of blood, hay and tufts of white fur. Four dead rabbits lay slumped in a pile against the back wall. From the remains, Altschuler estimated they had been kicked, clawed and bitten to death. One dead specimen was on its side, squeezed up against the bars as if it had tried to escape. Half of its face had been gnawed off, exposing raw flesh, teeth and bone. The one remaining eye stared into space, slowly glazing over.

Altschuler studied the plotter that traced cage activity over the past 24 hours. Twenty minutes ago, there had been a violent outburst of activity in the cage. It had lasted less than two minutes and ended as abruptly as it started. A single, surviving rabbit was curled up against the bars. When the animal recognized the scent of Dr Altschuler it sprang to life and sniffed at the bars.

"Did you do this, Henry?" Altschuler asked the rabbit.

"all by yourself?"

Dr. Altschuler put on a pair of latex gloves and inched the cage open. He removed the blood soaked hay, one handful at a time and dispensed it into a wastebag, which he sealed with a strip of tape marked Incinerate.

The surviving rabbit, sniffed at the doctor's gloved hand, but winced at the chemical smell. Altschuler discarded his gloves and lifted out the rabbit, stroking it gently.

"That's my boy. This calls for a celebration, don't you think?" Altschuler reached into his pocket for another chocolate button, but hesitated.

"Better not," he said.

"We don't want to rust up those precious arteries."

---

TO BE CONTINUED