With that thought to bolster him, Bill put the wagon in gear and drove up the curb and across the sidewalk until the passenger side of the wagon was hugging the eight-foot wall under an oak that leaned over from the far side. He got out, opened the rear door, and lifted Danny out of the back seat. With the boy's swaddled form in his arms, he stepped up on the bumper, then the hood, then up to the roof. From there it was a short hop to the top of the wall. He swiveled around on his buttocks until his legs were dangling over the inside edge, then dropped to the ground on the other side.

Okay. He was inside. It was dark. The glow from the streetlights didn't reach in here, but he knew where he was going. Just a few paces to the left, against the wall. That was where he had spent a couple of hours tonight after darkfall… hours… with a pick and shovel…

Oh, God, he didn't want to do this, would have given anything to pass this cup. But there was no one in the wings to take it from him.

Bill paused an instant at the edge of the oblong hole in the ground, then jumped in. When he straightened, the frozen grass on ground level was even with his lower ribs. He would have liked the hole to have been deeper, six feet at least, but he'd exhausted himself here earlier getting it this deep, and there was no time left now. This would have to do.

He knelt and stretched Danny's form out on the floor of the hole. He couldn't see the boy's face in the darkness, so he released his writhing body, and pulled back the folds of blanket. He administered the final sacrament, called Extreme Unction when he was in the seminary, now called the Anointing of the Sick. During the past week he had administered it on a daily basis to Danny, and each time it had lost an increment of its meaning. It was little more than a collection of empty words and gestures now.

Empty… like everything else in his life. All the rules he had lived by, all the beliefs on which he had based his life were falling away. The God he'd placed his trust in had not lifted a finger against the force that gripped Danny.

But he went through the motions. And when he was done, he placed a hand on each side of Danny's head, cupping his wasted cheeks.

"Danny?" he whispered. "Danny, will this work for you? I know you told me once that it would, but please tell me again. I'm going against everything I've ever believed in to do this for you. I need to hear it again."

Danny said nothing. He remained lost in agony, giving no sign that he had even heard him.

Bill pressed his forehead against Danny's.

"I hope you can hear me, hope you can understand me. I'm doing this for you, Danny, because it's the only way to end it all for you. All the pain, all the torture will be over in a few minutes. I don't know how much of you is left in there, Danny, but I know some of you still remains. I see it in your eyes sometimes. I don't want you to… to die without knowing that I'm doing this to release you from whatever monstrous evil is torturing you. I'm doing it to stop the pain, and to protect you from those doctors making you into some sort of sideshow freak. You know if there was any other way, I'd find it. You know that, don't you?" He leaned over and kissed Danny's forehead. "I love you, kid. You know that too, don't you?"

For an instant, for the interval that falls between a pair of heartbeats, Danny's pain-writhe paused, his breathy screams stilled, and Bill felt the boy's head nod up and down. Once.

"Danny!" he shouted. "Danny, can you hear me? Do you know what I'm saying?"

But Danny's athetoid movements and hissing cries began again. Bill could no longer hold back the sobs. They burst from him and he clutched Danny close for a moment, then he pushed the sobs back down and laid the boy flat again. He covered Danny's face with the blanket—he couldn't throw dirt on his face—then pulled himself out of the hole.

He looked around. No one about. He had to work quickly now. Get to it and get it over with before he lost his nerve. He lifted the shovel from where he had left it beside the hole. He shoved it deep into the pile of loose dirt he had pulled from the ground only hours ago. But as he lifted a shovelful free, he paused, knees weak, arms trembling.

I can't do this!

He looked up at the starless, cloud-shrouded night sky.

Please, God. If You're there, if You care, if You have any intention of taking a hand in reversing the evil that's being done to this boy, do it now. Under different circumstances I'd consider this an utterly childish request. But You know what I've seen, You know what this child has suffered, is still suffering. We've witnessed the presence of naked Evil here, Lord. I don't think I'm out of line in asking You to step in and take over now. Give me a sign, Lord. How about it?

It began to snow.

"Snow?" Bill said aloud. "Snow?"

What was that supposed to tell him? A snowstorm in July would be a sign. In January it meant nothing.

Except that the ground he had disturbed tonight would go undetected for a long time. Maybe forever.

He threw the shovelful of earth into the hole where it landed atop Danny's writhing blanket.

There, Lord. I've started it. I've played Abraham. I've raised the knife over the closest thing to a son I'll ever have. It's time for You to stop me and say I've passed the test.

He threw in another shovelful, then another.

Come on, Lord. Stop me! Tell me I've done enough. I'm begging You!

He began shoveling the loose dirt into the hole as fast as he could, tumbling in clumps of frozen earth, kicking little avalanches with his feet, working like mad, whimpering, screaming deep in his throat like some crazed animal, blanking his mind to what he was doing, knowing it was the best and only thing for this little boy he loved, throwing off the clutching, restraining bonds of a lifetime of conditioning, two millennia of beliefs, keeping his eyes averted from the hole even though there was nothing to see within its black, hungry maw.

And then the hole was full.

"Are you satisfied?" Bill shouted at the flake-filled sky. "Can I dig him up now?"

There was still dirt left over, so he had to force himself to step onto the fill, to stomp it with his feet, to pack it down over Danny, and then throw some more on top. And still there was more loose dirt left over, so he mounded some of it up and scattered the rest.

And then it was done. He stood there sweating and steaming in the cold as the tiny flakes swirled around him with heartless beauty. He fought a mad urge to start digging again and threw the shovel over the wall so he couldn't change his mind.

Done. It was done.

With a moan that tore loose from the deepest place within him he dropped to his knees atop the grave and leaned forward until his ear was against the silent earth. Fifteen minutes now. Fifteen at least since he'd smothered that wasted little body. No reprieve for Bill now. He had done the unthinkable. But Danny's pain was over. That was all that really mattered.

Was this the only way? God help me, I hope so!

"Good-bye, pal," he said when he could speak. "Rest easy, okay? I'm going away for a while, but I'll be back to visit you when I can."

Feeling utterly lost and empty, he rose to his feet, took one last look, then climbed the leaning oak and jumped down outside the wall. He picked up the shovel, threw it in the back of the station wagon, and began to drive. And as he drove, he began to curse. He screamed out his disgust for a God who'd allow such a thing to happen, he cursed the medical profession for being helpless against it, he swore vengeance on Sara, or rather the woman who had usurped the real Sara's identity. But rising through it all was a tide of loathing, for himself, for everything he had been, for everything he had done in his life, especially what he had done tonight. Self-loathing—it poured from him, it swirled and eddied around him until the inside of the car was awash with it, until he thought he would drown in it.