He nodded, dry–washing his hands, still apprehensive. "You said something in court…about drugs…"

"Don't worry about it. Sometimes a court insists on DepoProvera…so–called 'chemical castration.' But that's not a problem here. And even if it were, we could give you one of the androgen group, reverse it almost instantly."

"My lawyer said it would be real expensive."

"Oh yes. We're the only clinic in the country that provides this range of services, but look what you're getting for your money…no victim confrontation, no shock treatments, no encounter groups, no drugs. Just preparation for how you're going to…successfully…live the rest of your life. And you don't spend a day in jail. Pretty good, isn't it?"

"How did you…?"

"Get into this? It's easy enough to understand. While I was still in medical school, I realized that pedophile treatment is the growth industry of the nineties. The money's great, the malpractice premiums are low, and there are other benefits too."

"Like being paid in cash," he said, smiling the sociopath's smile.

"Like that," I said, holding out my hand for the money.

IV

Okay, Mr. Wilson, you're about ready for discharge. Our records will show you've completed intensive individual psychotherapy, participated in group, undergone aversive conditioning. All satisfactory. I can truthfully say you're ready to live without probation supervision. Have you made plans?"

"I sure have. In fact, I've been corresponding with a few boys in an orphanage in Florida. You know, counseling them about their problems. I've been offered a job down there, and I'll be leaving as soon as my lawyer gets me released from probation."

"Good. There's just one more thing. You've never really apologized to the boys, and most therapists think that's a key element in treatment."

"I don't want to…"

"No, of course you won't have to see them. What would really help persuade the court is a letter from you to the boys…just telling them you understand what you did, how you take full responsibility. Like we taught you, remembers Urge them to go on with their lives, and promise they'll never see you again, okay''

"You think it'll work?"

"I'm sure it will work. I know these people. Write me out a couple of drafts, and I'll stop by tonight when I'm done with the last group and look them over. Then we'll pick the best one."

"Thanks, doc. You saved my life again."

V

Wilson lived in a modern highrise right near the city line. I rang his bell around 11:30. He buzzed me in. The lobby was deserted—the place is mostly a retirement community. I insisted he move from his old address to a place where there were few children around. To reduce the temptation.

I took the steps to the twenty–sixth floor, not even breathing hard. I don't get to work out at the dojo anymore, but I like to stay in shape.

Wilson had a half–dozen samples ready for me, all in his educated handwriting on personalized light blue stationery. He stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette while I read them through. Finally, I found one that was suitable.

I'm sorry for everything I did. I know now that no excuse, no rationalization will ever make things right. I've been learning about myself, and now I know the truth. You are the victims, not me. I know why I did what I did, and I'm sorry for all the pain I caused. It's better this way. You will never see me again. I hope you grow up to be good citizens, and always stay true to yourselves. Goodbye.

His signature was strong, self–assured. I left the letter I selected on his desk. Then I went outside to join him on the balcony.

The night was warm, velvety dark. City lights winked below, quiet and peaceful.

"Was that what you wanted, doc?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said, patting him gently on the back. "Look out there, Mr. Wilson…see your future."

He leaned over the balcony. I knife–edged my right–hand, swept it into a perfect power–arc to the back of his neck, followed through with the blow, spinning on my right foot and sweeping him over the side with my left hand.

He didn't scream on the way down.

I stepped back inside, dialed 911, told them he had jumped. While I waited, I tore the other letters into small bits and flushed them down the toilet.

Treatment works.

UNDERGROUND

Bum's Rush

It all started when one of them spilled wine on Rajah. We were all together when it happened—Game Boys, out on the stalk. We all had our ID jackets, blue and white Celex. Every jacket cost more than two months' tokens, but we wear only the very finest. You can't be a Game Boy unless you can style. Rajah is the leader. He was then, anyway.

We were coming from the Arcade, where we play. Game Boys play video games. Every crew plays something. You are what you do. The Scooter Boys all ride. The Magic Girls do potions. I even heard about a crew out in Brooklyn, the Cricket Boys. West Indians, I think they are.

Anyway, this bum was staggering down the platform. We were waiting on the Uptown Conveyor—we saw him coming. Just a bum. In a long, floppy coat. Burns have no style. We spread out in a fan, the way we do with outsiders. The bum had to walk real close to the tracks to get past us. Rajah was the closest. The bum turned kind of sideways to get past. His hands were shaking. He had a bottle in a paper bag. Some of the wine bubbled out. Red wine. It splattered on Rajah's jacket, right on the white sleeve with the four Tron–marks branded in blue.

Everybody went quiet then. Nobody can touch our jackets, Rajah just looked at the bum with his mouth open. Like it couldn't be happening.

I took out my blaster. It's really just a pistol, a little .25 caliber automatic. Chrome, with a pearl handle. From the old days. We all have them. You have to have one to be a Game Boy. We call them blasters, like in the video games.

I never shot it before. The Conveyor was coming. I pointed it at the bum and pulled the trigger. It didn't make much noise, like a little pop, but the bum grabbed his chest like he'd been stabbed. I kept pulling the trigger, thinking "Zap!" in my head, like I was wasting a whole army of Trons. I felt the rush you get from wasting, running right through me. A perfect score means a free game.

The bum fell down. Rajah kicked him until he went over the side, onto the tracks.

We walked away, smooth. Game Boys don't run.

The next day, it was on the Info–Board in every station. The bum who got done. The sensors light up in the Sanitation Tunnel, and the Squad goes out, finds the dead ones. They had the bum's number on the Info–Board. A low number—he must have been a real old one.

Merlin gave me the idea for the mark. Like we do for Trons. Rajah had four. On his sleeve, where you wear them. You get a Tron–mark for a perfect game. Rajah had four—it was the most of any of us, so he was the leader. Anyway, Merlin said I should have a mark…for blasting the bum.

Rajah said that was bogus. Only Trons counted. Merlin said a bum was like a Tron, only harder, maybe. Some of the Game Boys went with Rajah, some went with me. It was a true dispute.

We went to the Arcade to settle it. Game Boys don't fight each other, it's the rules. None of the crews fight each other. I heard they used to, years ago, before the Terror. Before everybody lived underground.