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〃The kennels？〃 he suggested。 〃Finish them off there。〃 〃Why not？〃 The European led off from the fence in the direction of the kennels。 Thanks to Carys； the layout of the Sanctuary was as familiar to him as the palm of his own hand。 Breer kept pace with him； stinking of blood already； a spring in his heavy step。 He had seldom felt so alive。
Life was so good； wasn't it？ So very good。
The dogs barked。
In her room Carys pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the din。 Tomorrow she'd pluck up her courage and tell Lillian that she resented being kept awake half the night by hysterical hounds。 If she was ever going to be healthy she'd have to start learning the rhythms of a normal life。 That meant going about her business while the sun shone； and sleeping at night。
As she turned over to find a portion of the bed that was still cool an image flashed into her head。 It was gone again before she could entirely grasp it but she caught enough to wake her with a start。 She saw a man…faceless； but familiar…crossing a tract of grass。 At his heels； a tide of filth。 It crept close behind him； in blind adoration； its waves sibilant as snakes。 She didn't have time to see what the waves contained； and perhaps that was a good thing。
She turned over a third time； and ordered herself to forget these nonsenses。
Curiously； the dogs had stopped barking。
And what； after all； was the worst he could do； what was the very worst？ Whitehead had tried on this particular question so often it felt like a familiar coat。 The possible physical torments were endless； of course。 Sometimes； in the clammy hug of a three…A。M。 sweat； he would deem himself worthy of them all…if a man could die a dozen； two dozen times…because the crimes of power he had mitted were not easily paid for。 The things； oh； Jesus in Heaven； the things he had done。
But then； damn it； who would not have crimes to confess； when the time came？ Who would not have acted out of greed； and envy； or grappled for station； and having gained it； been absolute in authority rather than relinquish it？ He couldn't be held responsible for everything the corporation had done。 If； once in a decade； a medical preparation that deformed fetuses had slipped onto the market； was he to blame because there'd been profit made？ That kind of moral accounting was for the writers of revenge fiction： it didn't belong in the real world； where most crimes went punished only with wealth and influence； where the worm seldom turned； and when it did was immediately crushed； where the best a man could hope was that having risen to his ambition's height by wit； stealth or violence there was some smidgen of pleasure in the view。 That was the real world； and the European was as familiar with its ironies as he was。 Hadn't Mamoulian shown him so much of it himself？ How； in all conscience； could the European turn around and punish his student for learning his lessons too well？
I'll probably die in a warm bed； Whitehead thought； with curtains partially drawn against a yellow spring sky； and surrounded by admirers。 〃There is nothing to fear；〃 he said aloud。 The steam billowed。 The tiles； laid with an obsessive's precision； sweated with him： but coldly； where he was hot。
Nothing to fear。
36
From the door of the doghouse Mamoulian watched Breer at work。 It was an efficient slaughter this time； not the trial of strength he'd had with the dog at the gate。 The fat man simply opened the cages and then the throats of the dogs one by one； using his long…bladed knife。 Cornered in their cells the dogs were easy prey。 All they could do was turn and turn； snapping uselessly at their assassin； somehow knowing the battle was lost before it was truly entered。 They dropped turds as they slumped down； slashed necks and flanks spurting； brown eyes turned up to look at Breer like painted saints。 He killed the pups too； tearing them from their mother's lap and cracking their heads open in his hand。 Bella fought back with more vehemence than the other dogs； determined to inflict as much damage as she could on the killer before she too was killed。 He returned the favor； mutilating her body after he'd silenced her； wounds in return for the wounds she'd given him。 Once the clamor was over； and the only movement in the cages was the twitch of a leg or the splash of a bladder giving vent； Breer pronounced himself finished。 They went together toward the house。
There were two more dogs here； the last of them。 The Razor…Eater made short work of them both。 By now he looked more like an abattoir worker than a sometime librarian。 The European thanked him。 It had been easier than he'd expected。
〃I have business inside the house now；〃 he told Breer。
〃Do you want me to e？〃 〃No。 But you could open the door for me； if you would。〃 Breer went to the back door and punched out the glass； then reached through and unlocked it； letting Mamoulian into the kitchen。
〃Thank you。 Wait here for me。〃 The European disappeared into the blue gloom of the interior。 Breer watched him go； and once his master was out of sight； entered the Sanctuary after him； blood and smiles wreathing his face。
Though the pall of steam muffled the sound； Whitehead had the impression that somebody was moving around in the house。 Strauss； probably： the man had bee restless recently。 Whitehead let his eyes drift closed again。
Somewhere close by； he heard a door opening and closing； the door of the antechamber beyond the steam room。 He stood up； and quizzed the gloom。
〃Marty？〃 There was no answer from Marty or anybody else。 The certainty of having heard a door at all faltered。 It wasn't always easy to judge sound here。 Nor vision。 The steam had thickened considerably； he could no longer see across to the other side of the room。
〃Is there somebody there？〃 he asked。
The steam was a dead； gray wall in front of his eyes。 He cursed himself for letting it get so heavy。
〃Martin？〃 he said again。 Though there was neither sight nor sound to confirm his suspicions； he knew he wasn't alone。 Somebody was very close； and yet not answering。 When he spoke he reached； inch by tremulous inch； across the tiles to the towel folded at his side。 His fingers investigated the fold while his eyes stayed fixed on the steam…wall； in the towel was a gun。 His grateful fingers located it。
This time more quietly； he addressed the invisible visitor。 The gun gave him confidence。
〃I know you're there。 Show yourself； you bastard。 I won't be terrorized。〃 Something moved in the steam。 Eddies began； and multiplied。 Whitehead could hear the double thump of his heart in his ears。 Whoever it was （let it not be him； oh； Christ； let it not be him） he was ready。 And then； without warning； the steam divided； killed by a sudden cold。 The old man raised the gun。 If it was Marty out there； and he was playing some sick joke； he was going to regret it。 The hand that held the gun had begun to tremble。
And now； finally； there was a figure in front of him。 It was still indecipherable in the mist。 At least it was until a voice he'd heard a hundred times in his vodka…sodden dreams said： 〃Pilgrim。 〃 The steam shrank back。 The European was there； standing in front of him。 His face had scarcely conceded the seventeen years since last they'd met。 The domed brow； the eyes set so deep in their orbits they glinted like water at the bottom of a well。 He had changed so little； as though time…in awe of him…had passed him by。
〃Sit down；〃 he said。
Whitehead didn't move； the gun was still pointed directly at the European。
〃Please； Joseph。 Sit down。〃 Might it be better if he sat？ Might the death blows be avoided by a feigned meekness？ Or was it melodrama to think that this man would stoop to blows？ What kind of dream have I been living in； Whitehead chided himself； to think he'd e here to bruise me； to bleed me？ Such eyes have more than bruising on their mind。
He sat down。 He was aware of his nakedness； but he didn't much care。 Mamoulian wasn't seeing his flesh； he looked deeper than fat and bone。
Whitehead could feel the stare in him now； it stroked his heart。 How else was he to explain the relief he felt； seeing the European at last？
〃It's so long 。 。 。〃 was all he could say： a limping banality。 Did he sound like a hopeful lover； longing for a reconciliation？ Perhaps that wasn't so far from the truth。 The singularity of their mutual hatred had the purity of love。
The European studied him。
〃Pilgrim；〃 he murmured reproachfully； glancing at the gun； 〃there's no need。 Or use。〃 Whitehead smiled and laid the gun down on the towel beside him。
〃I was afraid of you ing；〃 he said； by way of explanation。 〃That's why I bought the dogs。 You know how I loathe dogs。 But I knew you loathed them more。〃 Mamoulian put his finger to his lips to hush Whitehead's talk。
〃I forgive the dogs；〃 he said。 Whom was he forgiving： the animals or the man who'd used them against him？
〃Why did you have to e back？〃 Whitehead said。 〃You must have known I wouldn't wele you。〃 〃You know why I came。〃 〃No I don't。 Really。 I don't。〃 〃Joseph；〃 Mamoulian sighed。 〃Don't treat me like one of your politicians。 I'm not to be paid off i