thelethargy, the stillness of deep thought that had contained andenveloped him since the report of this breaking and entering.
Now, as in that dash to the mess hall, he was ready for the fastsprint, the decisive action.
Before Scott could answer and possibly object, Thornberry had takenthe flashlight from the chief's hand, was fumbling through the openpane for the lock inside.
"Give me a flashlight, too," Bennington said.
Patrolman Whelton responded.
At the same time, Mosby reversed the grip on the pistol in his righthand and offered the ivory butt to Bennington.
"What do you think I am, a psychologist?"
Bennington had kept his voice to a whisper, but he had made thatwhisper a snarl. He further emphasized that snap in his tone bypulling out his own pistol, throwing the beam of the flashlight on hishand, making both the sight and sound of the safety going off clear tothe eyes and ears of those around him.
Then he followed Thornberry into the black cave of the warehouse.
* * * * *
Before them stretched a long aisle formed by big boxes piled fifteenfeet high. Side aisles branched at ten-foot intervals.
They moved slowly, used their lights carefully, in quick flickers onand off. Each branching from the main corridor had to be approachedcautiously. Each, when checked by a rapid finger of light, showed onlythe sides of boxes marked by stenciled words and the blank walls ofthe warehouse.
A flash of light, a few steps forward, another flash, a few moresteps ... until they were halfway down the warehouse.
Bennington saw it first and halted Thornberry with a touch on the arm:the last row of boxes on the left was outlined by a faint glow oflight.
Together they walked rapidly, quietly, toward the glow. When theyreached the end of the aisle, Bennington tried to take the lead. ButThornberry deliberately shoved himself ahead of the general and turnedthe corner first.
The space from the last row of boxes to the front doors of thewarehouse was big enough for a truck and trailer to maneuver in. Thefeeble glow of light came from an electric lantern on a small desk.Beside the desk, leaning his chair against the warehouse wall, apalefaced young man sat looking down at his hands. His long fingersplayed with a knife.
The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadowbulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of hislight on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmovingblackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying onhis 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 andcomposed, his posture expressing complete disinterest in the fact thatsomeone was approaching him.
"Walter: I am Dr. Thornberry. I am a friend of yours. I am here tohelp 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 thepsychologist. 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 tohelp you, Walter."
Thornberry, who had stopped when Clarens had spoken, now moved forwardagain.
"Put down the knife, Walter. You don't need the knife any more. Putthe knife down and come for a little walk with me. Come out of thisdark place with me. Out of the darkness into the world where youbelong. Let us take a walk together, out of the darkness into theworld where you belong."
Bennington felt his own tense watchfulness relaxing in the smooth flowof Thornberry's words. Before them, Clarens' disinterest had graduallybecome 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 Thornberrytake a plastic squeeze-bottle from his pocket.
Without any gathering of facial or body muscle to signal hisintention, Clarens launched himself from his chair. As he jumped, heshrilled hoarsely, "Not into the light again!"
Only Thornberry's height saved him; Clarens' leap could not quitereach the psych-expert's scrawny throat. But the doctor did stumblebackwards, did fall on his back with Clarens on top of him.
The killer's right arm swung back. The edge of the knife blade dancedbrightly in the dim light.
Bennington took no chances with fancy shooting. He dropped his pointof aim and his first shot smashed into Clarens' chest, driving theyoung man back onto his haunches. The general's second and third shotswere also into the body.
Then before Bennington's inner eye two scenes flashed fleetingly, oneof a darkened garage, the other of an almost-as-dark jungle trail. Inboth 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 forwardto help Thornberry to his feet.
But the psychologist was already standing, was turning towardBennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice.
"What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguidedboy?"
Bennington looked at his assistant warden and saw that the man wasdeadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawledgrotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against thedead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping theknife.
I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some ofthem only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know thewords to answer this man.
* * * * *
Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott'sprivate bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed ashave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.
His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too manyquestions, and a long, long day was still ahead.
Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he washandwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had doneduring his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almostincoherent co-operation.
The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear thananyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of thecity search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of thedetails of the state search for the errant politician.
Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefullyon one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on hisappointment had also finally agreed to sleep.
Of course they had all assured him of complete concurrence with hissuggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could theyhave done?
Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough toinsure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters.
"Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting toppriority."
"Good."
"The AG called, too."
Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had acigarette in your ashtray?"
"I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But thenext time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only oneswho need practical training."
Bennington did not hold back his laugh and he stretched out his hand."Thanks, Mossback."
"Hell, Jim, I owe you the thanks. That was the best training problemmy men ever had, taught 'em more in one night that they can ever learnuntil the real stuff starts whistling around."
Bennington glanced over Mosby's shoulder at the place he was headingfor: the hot seat, Chief Scott's desk chair, bright under the TVspotlights, the center of every camera focus.
r /> "You've got work to do, I know, so where's that Thornberry?" Mosbygrowled. "He should be with you."
"Upstairs, asleep. He said that he was only the assistant warden, thenasked Chief Scott for an empty cell and left me."
"Why?"
"It's very simple: he's still not convinced that I had to shootClarens."
Mosby grunted deep disgust, looked over his shoulder toward the hotseat, looked again at Bennington. "You should have shaved.
"No, wait a minute, I guess not. Just go the way you are and give 'emhell."
Bennington rubbed his chin and the bristle of his late-night,early-morning beard crackled crisply.
The problem he had anticipated was now here, as he had known it wouldbe. And the answer was nowhere, which equally had been a matter offoreknowledge.
* * * * *
"What will I say,