posed, 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.

"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,