Bennington had kept his voice to a whisper, but he had made that whisper a snarl. He further emphasized that snap in his tone by pulling out his own pistol, throwing the beam of the flashlight on his hand, making both the sight and sound of the safety going off clear to the eyes and ears of those around him. Then he followed Thornberry into the black cave of the warehouse. * * * * * Before them stretched a long aisle formed by big boxes piled fifteen feet high. Side aisles branched at ten-foot intervals. They moved slowly, used their lights carefully, in quick flickers on and off. Each branching from the main corridor had to be approached cautiously. Each, when checked by a rapid finger of light, showed only the sides of boxes marked by stenciled words and the blank walls of the warehouse. A flash of light, a few steps forward, another flash, a few more steps ... until they were halfway down the warehouse. Bennington saw it first and halted Thornberry with a touch on the arm: the last row of boxes on the left was outlined by a faint glow of light. Together they walked rapidly, quietly, toward the glow. When they reached the end of the aisle, Bennington tried to take the lead. But Thornberry deliberately shoved himself ahead of the general and turned the corner first. The space from the last row of boxes to the front doors of the warehouse was big enough for a truck and trailer to maneuver in. The feeble glow of light came from an electric lantern on a small desk. Beside the desk, leaning his chair against the warehouse wall, a palefaced young man sat looking down at his hands. His long fingers played with a knife. The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadow bulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of his light on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmoving blackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying on his back, with the slash across the throat standing out clearly. "Walter." Thornberry spoke softly, moved slowly, easily toward the young man. At the sound of his name, Clarens looked up, his face calm and composed, his posture expressing complete disinterest in the fact that someone was approaching him. "Walter: I am Dr. Thornberry. I am a friend of yours. I am here to help you. You need help. I am here to help you." As Thornberry spoke, he continued to move forward slowly. Bennington followed, two strides behind and one to the left of the psychologist. He kept his point of aim fixed on Walter's face. "I am your friend. I am here to help you." "You are my friend?" Walter asked, and there was doubt in his tone. "You can be sure of that, Walter. I want to help you. I am here to help you, Walter." Thornberry, who had stopped when Clarens had spoken, now moved forward again.