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of evidence to support Loomis's contention that Michael was a homicidal psychopath, the new judge accepted Loomis's opinion that it was best to keep the boy behind institutional walls.
    And so it was that fifteen years passed . . .
     

5
     
    On the evening of October 30, 1978, a new Buick station wagon sliced through the blackness of a rainy night on State Highway 116, heading east toward the Smith's Grove state facility. On the front door of the sleek car was the institution's emblem. The only other thing that distinguished it from an ordinary car was the chickenwire grating that separated the front and back seats.
    Inside, her face illuminated by the eerie glow of the dashboard and the occasional orange light of her passenger's nervously puffed cigarettes, Marion Treadwell, R.N., peered into the jet night. She wore a crisply starched white nurse's uniform and hat, and a navy cape with red piping around her shoulders. Her knuckles on the steering wheel were white. As if she weren't nervous enough about tonight's assignment, the foul weather made her as uptight as a drug addict looking for a score.
    As her passenger smoked and talked, Marion resisted the temptation to look at him. She'd heard so much about Dr. Loomis, both good and bad, and after glimpsing him when she'd picked him up in front of his home she could see why he was spoken of with that mixture of reverence and dread that people reserved for a Rasputin. His head was shaved bald, but he wore a gray goatee, giving him a slightly diabolical appearance. He dressed in a limp, wrinkled brown suit and not-very-rain-proof trench coat, and apparently gave no heed whatever to the conventions of good dress. His crystal blue eyes were awesome in their intensity, and you knew at once that mundane matters like proper attire were beneath the interest of a man with such eyes.
    In his lap he held a manila folder whose notes he tried to follow With his index finger in the light emanating from the dashboard. ". . . Then he gets another physical examination by the state, followed by an appearance before the judge. Bear in mind that this is not the judge of the juvenile court, because the subject is no longer a minor. In any case, the procedure should take four hours if we're lucky. Then we're on our way. As before, he will be heavily sedated."
    "What did you use before?"
    "Thorazine."
    The driver frowned. "Why, he'll barely be able to sit up."
    Loomis smiled grimly. "That's the idea. Here we are." He gestured toward a large white sign fixed to a low brick wall on the left. It said:

    Smith's Grove

    Warren County Sanitarium
    Through the blackness and the downpour she could make out the shadowy mass of the institution looming up on the hillside surrounded by a sturdy steel fence above which ran three strips of no-nonsense barbed wire.
    "The driveway's up a few hundred yards on your right," Loomis indicating, gesturing with his cigarette.
    The nurse, an attractive redhead, was slightly disappointed that Loomis hadn't asked her anything about herself. She guided the station wagon around the approach road. Loomis's indication that he intended to keep their charge drugged was typical of the rumors she'd heard about this rugged-jawed, single-minded man. It was said that the patients he treated successfully returned to the world completely adjusted and capable of leading normal lives. It was also said that those he thought incapable of recovery, he sedated until they were no more dangerous than a row of stringbeans. "Are there any special instructions?" she asked.
    For the first time he looked at her directly.
    "Just try to understand what we're dealing with here. Don't underestimate it."
    Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you think we should refer to 'it' as 'him'?"
    Loomis shrugged. "If you say so," he said without conviction.
    "Your compassion is overwhelming, Doctor," she said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. She took one out and slipped it between her full lips. Then she groped for her