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Officer Corey’s voice had been taken from him, hallowed out to nothing more than a heavy hiss.
    Walter, keeping deeper in the living room, out of the light, now made it far enough around to see into the lit room for himself.
    He didn’t scream, not this time, but all feeling fled his body, and he cupped his gaping mouth with both hands.
    The room was a kitchen, and at the far end of the kitchen there was a closed door, and in front of the door there was a man, slumped to the floor, sitting in a pool of mud, water, and blood.
    The man looked as though he had just dived through a wood-chipper, yet was profoundly happy about it. Every inch of his exposed flesh was horrifically gouged, including his lips, which, in spite of the maiming, were twisted into an uneven, fleshy grin.
    No, it wasn’t braces causing the man to spit and slur his words . . . it was the blood leaking in through a deformed mouth.
    Isolated from that night’s prior events, Walter might’ve guessed that the man had just come through a wood-chipper, if not for two things: one, that he was grasping a short, blood-stained knife, and two, that he was using this knife to carefully detach the fingertips on his idle hand.
    He worked the knife a little, and then it clapped to the floor, and the end of his middle-finger tumbled into a nearby clump of mud, next to three others. A noise that reminded Walter sickeningly of a sexual climax escaped the man’s mouth, and then he looked up, “What am I doing ? I am cutting myself loose from this delusion . . . this prison . I am savoring my journey to the true freedom, however, unlike some of the others . . .”
    “You did this to others?” croaked Officer Corey, the gun in his hands trembling visibly.
    The disfigured man appeared confused for a moment—if any expression really could be discerned from his red and pink striped face.
    “I . . . I have to tell you, it has taken more willpower than I ever knew I had to make it all the way here. It would’ve been so easy —so wonderful —to just stick the knife in a little deeper,” now, to illustrate, the man slid the knife into his forearm. “But I wanted to share my enlightenment.”
    Walter thought about the bloodied man in the Jeep far below. So much for the idea that he had done that to himself: here was their psycho-killer.
    “I found the old lady living here. I wanted to show her something special ,” he frowned, and fresh slits opened up along his eyebrows. “But, when she saw me, she wouldn’t listen at all, just screamed and screamed, and locked herself in this basement behind me.”
    “Is she alive?” whispered Officer Corey.
    “Yes, I assume. Poor girl . . .”
    Officer Corey stepped into the kitchen, still pointing his gun.
    “Okay. Set down the knife and move away from the door.”
    The mutilated man seemed to have just now noticed the gun . . . and he noticed it in the manner of a greedy child spotting a bag of candy.
    He didn’t drop the knife. He set half of a hand on the floor and began to hoist himself up, fighting to maintain balance as his body convulsed involuntarily.
    “Drop the knife!” commanded Officer Corey.
    The man staggered upright, cradling the knife to his chest like a mother would a newborn baby. All the hundreds of slices in the man’s skin seemed to open a little wider as he stretched to his full height. Blood oozed from all over his body. It was a ghastly sight, seeing him standing there; it was surreal that anyone could remain alive looking as he did.
    “Do you . . . do you want to do it?” asked the man, his voice quieting in awe.
    “Do what? Put down your knife!”
    “Do you want to . . . send a bullet through my brain?”
    Triggered by the man’s revolting speech impediment, a sudden image of a shy, adolescent boy with a mouthful of shining metal flashed through Walter’s numb mind.
    “ No . . . but . . .” Officer Corey tripped over his own tongue, “but, just put down the knife right now . . .”
    The