"Put down the knife, Walter. You don't need the knife any more. Put the knife down and come for a little walk with me. Come out of this dark place with me. Out of the darkness into the world where you belong. Let us take a walk together, out of the darkness into the world where you belong." Bennington felt his own tense watchfulness relaxing in the smooth flow of Thornberry's words. Before them, Clarens' disinterest had gradually become absorbed attention. His hands no longer played with the knife, but simply held it loosely. In another minute, he'll put down the knife and come with us, Bennington decided. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thornberry take a plastic squeeze-bottle from his pocket. Without any gathering of facial or body muscle to signal his intention, Clarens launched himself from his chair. As he jumped, he shrilled hoarsely, "Not into the light again!" Only Thornberry's height saved him; Clarens' leap could not quite reach the psych-expert's scrawny throat. But the doctor did stumble backwards, did fall on his back with Clarens on top of him. The killer's right arm swung back. The edge of the knife blade danced brightly in the dim light. Bennington took no chances with fancy shooting. He dropped his point of aim and his first shot smashed into Clarens' chest, driving the young man back onto his haunches. The general's second and third shots were also into the body. Then before Bennington's inner eye two scenes flashed fleetingly, one of a darkened garage, the other of an almost-as-dark jungle trail. In both the figure was a weeping mother above a child's still form. Deliberately, with three carefully-aimed shots through Clarens' head, Bennington killed the wounded tiger again. Out of ingrained habit, he reloaded his pistol before moving forward to help Thornberry to his feet. But the psychologist was already standing, was turning toward Bennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice. "What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguided boy?" Bennington looked at his assistant warden and saw that the man was deadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawled grotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against the dead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping the knife. I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the words to answer this man. * * * * * Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown. His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many questions, and a long, long day was still ahead.