Dusk was edging into darkness when Derwin reached the home of the boy's third victim. The family lived in an upper duplex apartment. A large wreath hung on the apartment door. The woman who answered his knock was middle-aged, with dark hair and dark eyes, and quick, nervous hands. "Come in," she invited listlessly, as she recognized the sheriff. Derwin followed her to a chair in the front room and sat down. "Can you give me any details of your husband's death that you might not have remembered when I was here before?" he asked. "You've got to see that that maniac pays for his killings," the woman spoke rapidly, excitedly, ignoring the sheriff's question. "If you don't, I'll...." Her voice broke and she began to cry. After a few minutes she wiped her eyes with a square of tissue which she took from her apron pocket. "I'm all right now," she said. "What do you want to know?" "Anything you remember. You might tell me first what time of day it happened." "About the same time in the evening as now," the woman answered. "We had already finished eating. George was lying here on the davenport and I...." "Pardon me a minute," Derwin interrupted. "How ill was your husband?" "He was too sick to work, though he could still get around a little. He had silicosis of the lungs, you know." Derwin nodded. "Go on, please." The woman needed no urging. Apparently she enjoyed talking. "Where was I? Oh, yes. I heard something scratching at the door--it sounded like a cat--and I went to see what it was. The boy was standing there, smiling. I didn't know who he was then. He looked so young, and so sweet-like, that I didn't ask what he wanted; I just let him come in. "When George saw him I thought, at first, that he knew him, because he sat up straight and spoke to the boy. He said something like, 'So you've come?' He looked glad, as though he was happy. Then he changed and looked scared. But he didn't say anything more, and neither did the boy. Finally he sort of relaxed, and sighed, and let himself ease back on the davenport. He asked me to make a pot of coffee, and I left and went into the kitchen." The woman stopped and blew her nose. "That's all, except that the boy was gone when I came back--and George was dead." Derwin looked down at the hat on his lap and searched for a way to express what he wanted to say. At last he looked up. "Some people believe the mutants killed only people who were very sick--people who had no chance to live anyway, and probably wanted to die quickly?" His voice rose doubtfully as he finished. "That's not true." There was no expression in the woman's flat voice. "I read where they killed some that weren't sick at all. And how would they know how sick the others were? Or if they wanted to die?" "How about your husband?" "George did suffer quite a bit. But I'm certain he never wanted to die." "Was there any chance that he might have recovered from his particular illness?"