orrect； Bill had been a man with a nose for integrity in others。 Sometimes； particularly when the vodka filled him with sentiment and remorse； he missed Toy badly。 But he was damned if he'd mourn： that had never been his style； and he wasn't about to start now。 He poured himself another glass of vodka and raised it。
〃To the Fall；〃 he said； and drank。
He'd worked up a good head of steam in the white…tiled room； and sitting on the bench in the half…light； blotched and florid； he felt like some fleshy plant。 He enjoyed the sensation of sweat in the folds of his belly； at his armpits and groin； simple physical stimuli that distracted him from bad thoughts。
Maybe the European wouldn't e after all； he thought。 Pray God。
Somewhere in the benighted house a door opened and closed； but the drink and the steam made him feel quite aloof from events elsewhere。 The sauna was another planet； his； and his alone。 He put the drained glass down on the tiles and closed his eyes； hoping to drowse。
Breer went to the gate。 There was a hum of electricity off it； and the sour smell of power in the air。
〃You're strong；〃 the European said。 〃You told me so。 Open the gate。〃 Breer put his hand on the wire。 The boasts were true： he felt only the slightest tremor。 There was just a cooking smell and the sound of his teeth chattering as he started to tear the gate apart。 He was stronger than he'd imagined。 There was no fear in him； and its absence made him Herculean。 Now the dogs had started to bark along the fence； but he just thought： let them e。 He wasn't going to die。 Perhaps he would never die。
Laughing like a loon； he ripped the gate open； the hum stopped as the circuit was broken。 The air was tinged with blue smoke。
〃That's good；〃 said the European。
Breer tried to drop the section of wire he was holding； but some of it had welded itself into his palm。 He had to tear it out with his other hand。 He looked down incredulously at his seared flesh。 It was blackened； and smelled appetizing。 Soon； surely； it must begin to hurt a little。 No man…not even a man like him； guiltless and sublimely strong…could receive a wound like this and not suffer。 But there was no sensation。
Suddenly…out of the dark…a dog。
Mamoulian backed off； fear convulsing him； but Breer was its intended victim。 A few paces from its target the dog leaped； and its bulk struck Breer center chest。 The impact toppled him over onto his back； and the dog was swiftly on top of him； jaws snapping at his throat。 Breer was armed with a long…bladed kitchen knife； but he seemed uninterested in the weapon； though it was within easy reach。 His fat face broke into a laugh as the dog scrabbled to get access to the man's neck。 Breer simply took hold of the dog's lower jaw。 The animal snapped down； clamping Breer's hand in its mouth。 Almost immediately it realized its error。 Breer reached around the back of the dog's head with his free hand； grabbed a fistful of fur and muscle； and jerked neck and head in opposite directions。 There was a grinding sound。 The dog roared in its throat； still unwilling to let go of its executioner's hand； even as blood sprang from between its clenched teeth。 Breer gave the dog another lethal wrench。 Its eyes showed white and its limbs stiffened。 It slumped down onto Breer's chest； dead。
Other dogs barked in the distance； responding to the death…yelp they'd heard。 The European looked nervously to right and left along the fence。
〃Get up！ Quickly！〃 Breer loosed his hand from the dog's maw and shrugged the corpse off。 He was still laughing。
〃Easy；〃 he said。
〃There's more。〃 〃Take me to them。〃 〃Maybe too many for you to take on all at once。〃 〃Was this the one？〃 Breer asked； kicking the dead dog over so that the European could see it better。
〃The one？〃 〃That took off your fingers？〃 〃I don't know；〃 the European replied； avoiding Breer's blood…spattered face as it grinned at him； eyes sparkling like an adolescent's in love。
〃The kennels？〃 he suggested。 〃Finish them off there。〃 〃Why not？〃 The European led off from the fence in the direction of the kennels。 Thanks to Carys； the layout of the Sanctuary was as familiar to him as the palm of his own hand。 Breer kept pace with him； stinking of blood already； a spring in his heavy step。 He had seldom felt so alive。
Life was so good； wasn't it？ So very good。
The dogs barked。
In her room Carys pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the din。 Tomorrow she'd pluck up her courage and tell Lillian that she resented being kept awake half the night by hysterical hounds。 If she was ever going to be healthy she'd have to start learning the rhythms of a normal life。 That meant going about her business while the sun shone； and sleeping at night。
As she turned over to find a portion of the bed that was still cool an image flashed into her head。 It was gone again before she could entirely grasp it but she caught enough to wake her with a start。 She saw a man…faceless； but familiar…crossing a tract of grass。 At his heels； a tide of filth。 It crept close behind him； in blind adoration； its waves sibilant as snakes。 She didn't have time to see what the waves contained； and perhaps that was a good thing。
She turned over a third time； and ordered herself to forget these nonsenses。
Curiously； the dogs had stopped barking。
And what； after all； was the worst he could do； what was the very worst？ Whitehead had tried on this particular question so often it felt like a familiar coat。 The possible physical torments were endless； of course。 Sometimes； in the clammy hug of a three…A。M。 sweat； he would deem himself worthy of them all…if a man could die a dozen； two dozen times…because the crimes of power he had mitted were not easily paid for。 The things； oh； Jesus in Heaven； the things he had done。
But then； damn it； who would not have crimes to confess； when the time came？ Who would not have acted out of greed； and envy； or grappled for station； and having gained it； been absolute in authority rather than relinquish it？ He couldn't be held responsible for everything the corporation had done。 If； once in a decade； a medical preparation that deformed fetuses had slipped onto the market； was he to blame because there'd been profit made？ That kind of moral accounting was for the writers of revenge fiction： it didn't belong in the real world； where most crimes went punished only with wealth and influence； where the worm seldom turned； and when it did was immediately crushed； where the best a man could hope was that having risen to his ambition's height by wit； stealth or violence there was some smidgen of pleasure in the view。 That was the real world； and the European was as familiar with its ironies as he was。 Hadn't Mamoulian shown him so much of it himself？ How； in all conscience； could the European turn around and punish his student for learning his lessons too well？
I'll probably die in a warm bed； Whitehead thought； with curtains partially drawn against a yellow spring sky； and surrounded by admirers。 〃There is nothing to fear；〃 he said aloud。 The steam billowed。 The tiles； laid with an obsessive's precision； sweated with him： but coldly； where he was hot。
Nothing to fear。
36
From the door of the doghouse Mamoulian watched Breer at work。 It was an efficient slaughter this time； not the trial of strength he'd had with the dog at the gate。 The fat man simply opened the cages and then the throats of the dogs one by one； using his long…bladed knife。 Cornered in their cells the dogs were easy prey。 All they could do was turn and turn； snapping uselessly at their assassin； somehow knowing the battle was lost before it was truly entered。 They dropped turds as they slumped down； slashed necks and flanks spurting； brown eyes turned up to look at Breer like painted saints。 He killed the pups too； tearing them from their mother's lap and cracking their heads open in his hand。 Bella fought back with more vehemence than the other dogs； determined to inflict as much damage as she could on the killer before she too was killed。 He returned the favor； mutilating her body after he'd silenced her； wounds in return for the wounds