The bruise on Jeff's sprained right ankle, swollen large now, had turned an ugly purple, and there was a deep mark where the metal of the cuff had cut into his damaged flesh.

"Okay," Ames said. "Let's get the cuffs off his wrists."

As soon as his arms were free, Jeff sat bolt upright and began flailing out at the men around him, his eyes glowering angrily in the bright light.Kennally and Jenkins moved in behind him, each of them grasping one of his shoulders, and managed to force him down, holding him still while his arms, like his legs, were secured to the table with the heavy straps.

Only when they were certain Jeff was immobile did the two men step back. Their foreheads were beaded with sweat, and Jenkins's arms were trembling with the strain of fighting against Jeff's strength.

"All right," Ames said. "I think we can take it from here." He moved to a small cabinet against the wall opposite the door and picked up one of several hypodermic needles laid out on its white enamel surface. One of the orderlies cut the sleeve of Jeff's shirt away from his arm, and Ames slid the needle expertly into a vein.

The drug seemed to have no effect whatever on the boy, whose eyes, wild and glazed, darted about the room as if still seeking a means of escape.

It wasn't until Ames had administered the third shot that Jeff's struggles finally began to abate. As the group around him watched, the strength seemed to drain out of him. Finally, his head dropped back onto the hard metal of the table and his eyes closed.

"Jesus," Frank Kramer finally said in the sudden silence that hung in the room. "I never saw anything like that before. And I hope I never do again."

Marty Ames met Kramer's gaze. "I hope you don't either," he quietly agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, after DickKennally and his men had left the sports clinic, Marty Ames went back to the examining room. The two orderlies were still in the small cubicle, one of them cutting away the last of Jeff's clothing as the other finished setting up a complicated array of electronic monitoring devices. As Ames watched silently, they began attaching sensors to Jeff's body. Only when they were done and Ames was satisfied that the equipment was functioning properly and that Jeff was in no immediate danger, did Ames finally start toward his office, preparing himself for the call he now had to make to ChuckLaConner.

He considered these calls the worst part of his job. But they were also part of the deal he'd made with himself five years before, when Ted Thornton had approached him about heading up the sports center Thornton had envisioned for Silverdale.

Thornton had seduced him, of course, as Thornton managed to seduce so many men, but in the moments when Ames was being completely honest with himself-moments that were becoming more rare as he approached the success that was now almost within his grasp-he had to admit that he'd been willing to be seduced. Thornton had promised him the world, almost literally. First, a lab beyond his wildest dreams, far beyond anything the Institute for the Human Brain in Palo Alto would ever be able to provide. Anything he needed, anything he wanted, would be provided.

Unlimited funds for research, and nearly total autonomy.

If he were successful, a Nobel prize was not out of the question, and certainly he would be able to write his own ticket, both professionally and financially.

Best of all, the project was a direct extension of his work at the Institute, where he had been working with human growth hormones in an effort to correct the imperfections of the human body.

It was Ames's theory that there was no reason why every human being should not possess an ideal body, no reason why some people should be undersized, or overweight, or prone to any of the myriad physical defects and weaknesses that plagued mankind.

Ted Thornton had recognized the commercial value of Martin Ames's studies and hired him away from the Institute, sending him to Silverdale. Immediately, the town itself had become his own private laboratory.

He'd limited his most advanced experiments to the children ofTarrenTech's own personnel. Thornton had decreed that early on, explaining that it was merely a matter of damage control: they both understood that things would go wrong; some of the experiments would fail. But when such things happened, Thornton wanted to be in a position to deal with the fallout immediately and effectively.

So far it had worked just as Thornton had planned. Most of the experiments had gone well. But when things had gone awry, when some of his subjects had developed serious side effects from his treatments-extreme aggression being the most common-Thornton had kept his promise. The boys were quickly and quietly taken care of in whatever manner Ames deemed appropriate, and their families were immediately transferred out of the area, with large enough promotions and raises so generous that so far no one had so much as whispered that the financial remuneration was nothing more than a payoff for the loss of a son.

His failures had been so few-only three in nearly five years-that Ames considered his program at Rocky Mountain High a complete success. Most of the boys had responded well to his treatments, and for some of them-Robb Harris, for instance-growth hormones had not been indicated at all. Which was perfect, for it meant that Jerry Harris was able to explain exactly what had been done to his son with complete honesty.

For JeffLaConner the treatment had been the norm- massive infusions of growth hormones-and until just two weeks ago it appeared Jeff was going to be a success. But now things had gone sour, for the first time since Randy Stevens-and Marty Ames had to make the onerous phone call. Quietly, he'd explain to ChuckLaConner that Jeff would have to spend a certain amount of time in an "institutional environment."

That was the phrase Ames had come to prefer. It allowed the boys' parents a vague hope that perhaps someday their children would be well again.

And perhaps, if Ames were lucky, it could be true for some of the boys. Perhaps he would find a way to reverse the uncontrolled growth and unbridled fury to which they fell victim.

Indeed, during the past few months he'd even begun to hope that there might be no more RandyStevenses, no more necessity for calls such as he was about to make. He was so close-so very close.

Perhaps tonight's call would, after all, be the last.

But of course, with experimental science, you never really knew.

Sharon sat quietly on a straight-backed chair next to the bed in which Mark lay sleeping. He looked younger than his sixteen years, and the bruises on his cheek, the bandage over his right eye, and the swelling on his jaw only made him look more vulnerable. Sharon was no longer certain how long she'd been sitting with him, how much time had passed since he'd finally drifted into a sedated sleep. His breathing, the loudest noise she could hear, sounded labored, and although she knew he felt nothing, she imagined she could feel the pain that each of his shallow gasps must be inflicting on his bruised chest.

Behind her there was a soft click, and she sensed rather than saw the door opening. A moment later she felt Blake's hands resting gently on her shoulders; automatically her own hands went up to cover his. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Blake's hands slipped away. "Don't you think we ought to go home?" he asked, moving around to the other side of the bed so she could see him.

Sharon shook her head. "I can't. If he wakes up, I want to be here."

"He's not going to wake up tonight," Blake replied. "I talked to the nurse just now, and she says he'll sleep through till morning."

Sharon sighed heavily. Her eyes left her son and she looked up at her husband. "It doesn't make any difference. I just want to be here for him, that's all."