Marjorie Jackson had run in the other direction at the creature's approach, and managed to flee around the building. Ames was alone now, pressed against the building. Watching Randy Stevens charging toward him, he recognized the same fury in Randy's eyes that he'd seen only moments ago in JeffLaConner's. He wanted to run, wanted to turn away and flee back into the building, but his legs refused to obey the commands of his brain, and he stood where he was, frozen in panic.

Another shot rang out, and Randy hesitated again, staggering to the left. He dropped to the ground and his head swung around as if looking for some unseen assailant that was jabbing at him with an invisible weapon.

All the guards were out of the car now, and Blake saw his opportunity. He scrambled out of the backseat on the side away from the building and broke into a sprint, hurling himself toward the fence that surrounded the property.

It wasn't much, but it was a chance. If he could scramble over the fence while the guards were still occupied with the nightmarish creature in the yard, perhaps he could get away.

Two more shots rang out, but Blake ignored them, concentrating on the fence, his legs pumping. He was only thirty yards from it now, then twenty.

Another shot rang out, and this time he saw a puff of dirt and grass rise up ahead of him and to the right. One of the guards was shooting at him now, and he dodged to the left, then ducked back to the right. When he was still five yards from the fence, another bullet struck the earth ahead of him and he dodged away once more.

Then he was at the fence and he threw himself at it, leaping as high up as he could, his fingers closing on the heavy mesh only a foot or so below the top.

The two thousand volts with which the fence was charged blazed through his body, convulsing his muscles, frying his brain in an instant. His fingers, frozen in place by the sheer power of the shock, clung to the fence, holding his dead body suspended nearly three feet above the ground.

A third bullet sliced into Randy Stevens, burying itself in his left lung, and he felt a stab of searing heat in his chest. He turned away from Ames now, every rational remnant of his mind focusing on escape.

He gazed once more toward the mountains, and broke into an uneven lope. His right leg was crippled, and every step sent spasms of pain shooting through his body, but he ignored it, plunging on toward the distant hills and the refuge he sensed in them.

Another bullet slammed into his body, then another, and finally he toppled forward, pitching face first into the ground, then dragging himself along, his left arm now as powerless as his right leg. But he wouldn't stop-couldn't-for some deep instinct for survival drove him on. He was near the fence now, and as yet another bullet slashed into him, he reached out toward it, stretching himself almost beyond his own limits.

The fifth bullet struck him in the head, exploding in his brain just as his fingers touched the fence and his body recoiled with the sudden jolt of electricity.

The mountains were still far away, but it didn't matter, for after a year locked in a cage in the basement of the sports center, Randy Stevens had at last found a final refuge.

Mark had searched the basement carefully, and finally found a room that held a control panel for the security system. He'd heard Randy Stevens scuffling around outside the closed door to the room he was in once, but had ignored the sounds, concentrating on fiddling with the switches and knobs on the control panel until suddenly one of the monitors flashed with the image of his mother. He'd glanced at the label on the switch-treatment room b-then looked once more at the picture on the monitor. His mother turned around and looked up at the camera. Immediately, the familiar anger rose in Mark. He turned away from the monitor and hurried from the room.

He was at the foot of the stairwell when he heard the sounds of gunfire from outside. He hurried up the stairs, then paused as he saw the open door to the outside. An instinct inside him urged him to make a dash for the freedom beyond the door, to escape from the building while he could, but he forced the urge aside. Instead he hurried to the door, closed it and threw the bolt that would lock it, then turned back, loping quickly along the corridor toward the dining room and the gymnasium beyond.

As he passed Ames's suite, he glanced inside. Beyond the wreckage of Marge Jackson's office he could see the crumpled form of JeffLaConner lying in a pool of blood on the floor. He froze for a second, then rushed on.

He pushed his way into the gym and dashed across it to a small room on the other side.

There was a placard riveted to the door: TREATMENT ROOM B

He crashed his weight against the door, and it burst inward.

He froze where he was and stared into the room.

Sharon, still strapped to the metal table, raised her head as the door burst open, her eyes falling on Mark.

His facial distortion had worsened, thesupraorbital ridge over his eyes now jutting outward so that his eyes themselves had almost disappeared within the depths of their sockets. His jaw seemed far too heavy for his face and hung slightly open, and he held his over long arms akimbo. As she stared at him, an anguished wail escaped his lips. Sharon stifled a scream. "Mark," she gasped. "Help me." She struggled against the heavy nylon straps, but they held firm, pinning her to the table.

Mark stared at her face, and the familiar rage welled up in him again. But she hadn't done anything to him-he had no reason to be angry at her.

And then, vaguely, a memory stirred.

A memory of being on the rowing machine and feeling a growing anger toward the images of his opponents, was part of the treatment-he knew that now. They'd been giving him some kind of drug, a drug that induced anger, releasing extra stores of emotional energy from deep within his body.

A drug that made him furious, and made him desperate to win.

But yesterday-could it really have been only yesterday?- there had been other images, too. He could remember the flickering in the picture, could remember his anger shifting, focusing itself on his mother.

It was what they had wanted, and it had worked.

It was the sight of his mother's face that triggered the irrational rage, nothing more.

"Don't look at me!" he shouted. "Just don't look at me!"

Sharon hesitated, but something inside her told her to obey Mark without question. She let her head flop back onto the table, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead. In the distance, dimly, muffled by the building, she could hear the sound of gunfire.

"What's happening?" she asked in a frightened whisper as she felt Mark's fingers working at the straps, jerking them loose. "What are they doing?"

"Killing us," Mark replied.

He jerked the last strap free, then turned away as Sharon sat up and rubbed at her numb legs.

"They want me to kill you," Mark told her. "That's what happened last night. I wasn't mad at you, Mom. They- They did something to me. If I look at you, I just go nuts!"

Sharon felt a sob rise in her throat and forced herself not to give in to it. Not yet-not now.

Now she could think of only one thing-getting herself and her son away from this place.

"Where are we?" she demanded. She swung her legs off the table and tested them against her weight. They threatened to buckle beneath her, but she steadied them with the sheer force of willpower.

"The-The gym," Mark stammered. "Behind the dining room."

"Come on," Sharon told him. She started to face him then, but remembered his words just in time. "Just follow me. I won't turn around unless you tell me to." Without waiting for Mark to reply, she ran out the door and across the gym toward the dining room.