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his smile broadened even more. He closed the door, turned
off the porch light, and checked his watch. It was only ten minutes
after eight, but still he considered himself to be running behind
schedule. He had quite a few things to do and a limited amount of
time to do it in.
    First he went to the kitchen to clean up. The
Formica top of the kitchen counter was littered with paper and
plastic; rat poison boxes, Draino bottles, and blister packs that
had once held double-edged razor blades, thumb tacks, and sewing
needles. He got a trash bag out of a kitchen cabinet and swept the
litter into it, along with half a dozen empty Halloween candy
packages and apple bags. As he tidied up, he remembered the long
hours of preparation he had spent since awakening that morning. It
had been fun -- but meticulously maddening -- especially trying to
insert the razors into the apples without leaving a sign of
tampering, as well as filling the little candy bars and peanut
butter kisses with poison and pins.
    Zachary went outside and, in the darkness of
the back yard, dumped the contents of the garbage bag into the
fifty-five gallon barrel that he used for burning trash. He took a
can of lighter fluid from his coat pocket, squirted it liberally
over the refuse, and then struck a match. He stood in the cool
October night for a moment and watched it flare brightly. Zachary
nodded in approval, then went back inside and prepared to
leave.
    It wasn't the first time he had done this. He
had done it three times before, during the past twenty years. The
last place had been Seattle in 2004. Seven kids had ended up dying
and twenty-seven others had suffered painful -- some disfiguring --
injuries due to hidden razor blades, needles, and nails. He thought
of the multitude of children who had rang his doorbell this
Halloween night and wondered how many he would bag this time. He
had counted closely and there had been ninety-two children in all,
ranging from those barely out of infancy, to twelve and
thirteen-year-olds. Zachary's largest yield had been in 1991; a
grand total of sixteen dead and thirty-nine injured in Houston,
Texas.
    The thought brought back the smile full
force. Ah, those had been the glory days.
    Stephen Zachary didn't do it because he had
suffered a lousy childhood. He hadn't been the fat or ugly kid that
the other children had taunted and teased. He had no history of
mental instability or past emotional problems that motivated that
ugly hostility in him. He just hated kids, that was all... just like
some people hated cats or dogs. He saw them in the same way as he
saw insects; bothersome little organisms that provided only
irritation and needed to be exterminated.
    He had attempted to analyze his dislike for
children many times, but had given up trying to rationalize it
years ago. He simply derived pleasure from hurting children. Not
with torture or molestation like some sick bastards did. No, he did
it subtly with fruit and candy, passing out heaping handfuls of
death and misery to tiny ballerinas, pirates, and a legion of
superheroes.
    Zachary walked into the bathroom and ran hot
water into the sink. As he lathered his bearded face, he stared at
his reflection and thought of the many changes he had gone through
during a lifetime. Stephen Zachary wasn't even his real name, just
like Tom Haley and John Blanton had been well-planned aliases
before that. He already had his next identity all planned out. In a
few hours, Stephen Zachary would die and Roger Kirkwood would be
born. The underground boys already had him set up. When he got to
Baltimore, he would meet them in the backroom of a sleazy pool hall
and receive his new credentials; drivers license, social security
card, credit cards, the whole package. He had a new job lined up, a
rented house in the suburbs, and a car with legitimate tags and
registration parked in the driveway.
    It had cost him a bundle -- about twice as
much as last time. But still it was worth it. He didn't get