By James Heneghan

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She laughed. ” “Three,” he repeated stupidly. She laughed again. ” Her eyes unmade him. She was a witch. She was laughing at him. He tried to think of something intelligent to say. ” He nodded down at his StairMaster. Brilliant! he told himself. “Me neither. ” He tried to think of something interesting to say. “Park trails,” he said. If he had a gun, he would shoot himself. “The great outdoors,” he continued, hoping his brain would kick in soon or this woman would never speak to him again. An echo of this thought in the deeper recesses of his paralyzed mind made him realize that he very much wanted her to speak to him again.

Fifty to seventy bodies? Come off it, Deb! ” Percy stared at her. ” “Them’s the numbers,” said Ozeroff. ” asked Percy. ” “Keep the material,” Percy said. ” Wexler appeared to be asleep. Casey crept out the door. Nobody noticed him leave. He had felt stiff all weekend. His arms, shoulders and legs felt like they’d been beaten with a shillelagh. But his new diet of fruit and rabbit food seemed bearable. For now anyway. By Monday evening the aches and pains had subsided. He was determined get himself in better shape.

Lighted by the fluorescent tube over the mirror, the thick hair on his head glowed a brick red. The eyebrows were less red—more of a burnt orange—while the hair on the rest of his body was the yellow color of turnip. As though the quality of redness in him diminished the closer it grew to the ground. He was a big man, just starting to go to fat. He rinsed off his jaw and stepped back from the mirror, regarding his white flaccid chest and the unsightly bulge about his middle. This morning he felt older than his forty years.

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