Rambo and Driver were in the pit, facing each other, each one held by his owner, who knelt outside the ring and reached through the railing. They were not roosters. They were dogs.

One animal was a pit bull. The other one, larger, looked like a mastiff, a crossbreed engineered for power and viciousness. Both were scarred from other battles. They were suited up for combat, wearing studded chest protectors and leather collars. Their tails and ears had been cropped so an opponent would have nothing to grab hold of. They glared at each other with programmed malice, every muscle stiff with tension.

"Let 'em go," boomed the voice of whoever ran this show, and instantly the two owners released their grips on the dogs.

The mastiff struck first, lunging at the pit bull and seeking to lock its large jaws over the smaller dog's throat. The pit bull dodged the attack and barreled into the mastiff, slashing a deep gash in its foreleg. Then the two animals were all over each other in a fury of snarls and bites and kicking legs.

There was new blood on the sawdust, and more blood painting the walls of the arena in a spatter pattern. Robin looked down and saw flecks of red on her blouse.

She wanted to turn away, but the press of men against her back pinned her to the railing. She shut her eyes. Everyone was screaming now, even the other women in the room. The voices blended into a chaos of curses and exhortations to kill: "Go for the neck," "Get his eyes," "Cut him again," "Cripple him," "Maim him," "Maim the fucker."

Her head hurt. Bright lights flashed behind her closed eyelids. As an undertone to the shrieks and howls of the crowd, she heard the savage struggling of the dogs. No barks, no whimpers, only the tearing of flesh and the awful, relentless gnarling and the snapping of jaws.

"Get him, Rambo; kill that cocksucker! Kill him!"

"Fight back, God damn it! Driver, you dumb piece of shit, you're only good for bait!"

Rambo was winning, it seemed. Despite herself, she opened her eyes and saw the pit bull's teeth buried in the mastiff's neck, below its collar. The mastiff, unable to defend itself with its jaws, was slashing and scrabbling at the pit bull with both forelegs, fighting to tear itself loose, inflicting deep cuts across the pit bull's back, but the smaller dog hung on, blindly tenacious, smelling blood.

"God, somebody stop this," Robin whispered, her voice lost in the uproar.

The mastiff dropped to its knees. It shook its head feebly, delivered a few more perfunctory cuts to the pit bull's side, then slumped on the floor of the arena, its limbs shivering in a lake of maroon blood. The pit bull, Rambo, held on to the mastiff's neck until the twitching had stopped and the bleeding ebbed. By then there was space around the railing, as the winners collected money from the house and from the various side bets that had sprung up.

Rambo's owner, or handler, or trainerwhatever he was calledstepped into the pit and tended to his dog. The man responsible for Driver stripped the collar and chest protector from the carcass, leaving the dog where it lay, a torn and wasted thing, its throat open, limbs askew, fur stiff with drying blood.

Robin finally had the space behind her to turn aside. She stood drawing deep breaths and fighting the pull of nausea. And then she saw him.

Brand.

Across the room, near the cellar stairs, wearing a black button-down shirt and black pants.

And laughing as he collected a wad of cash. He'd backed the right combatant, evidently. The mastiff's death had paid off for him.

"You son of a bitch," Robin said aloud, startling a man next to her, who thought the comment was directed at him.

She slipped through the dispersing crowd and closed in on Brand as he pocketed his winnings.

"Alan Brand," she said, getting in his face.

"Who the hell amp;?" But then he knew. Somehow he knew, though they had never been introduced.

"Oh, shit," Brand said.

"Sorry to spoil your fun."

"Shit," he repeated. He seemed slow to react, less intelligent than she'd expected. Maybe it was more than a love of the streets that had kept him from advancing higher in the ranks.

"You forgot your appointment," she said.

He presented a stupid smile apparently intended to charm her. "I didn't forget. Had more important things to do."

"So I see."

"Hey, sorry about that. We'll reschedule."

"That's not necessary."

"You mean you're giving up on me?"

"I mean you're doing your session today."

He blinked, processing this statement and finally producing a startled response. "Now?"

"Yes. Now."

"I don't think so."

"I do. Or we'll see how your superiors feel about the kind of entertainment you enjoy."

He puffed up, a man defending his rights. "What I do in my off time"

"Watching dog fights is a misdemeanor, Sergeant."

"You gonna arrest me?" He said it with a sneer.

"I'm going to report you."

"Go ahead."

"But not to Wolper or anyone at Newton. I'll go over their heads. I'll bring it up with Deputy Chief Wagner."

"Your fucking angel in the department. The dickwad that approved this half-assed psychiatric bullshit."

"I doubt he'd appreciate being characterized that way."

"How'd you get him on your side? A little mouth action? Oral report? You give his baton a few good licks?"

"Stop being an asshole."

His flippancy abruptly vanished. "You're fucking serious, aren't you? You'd rat me out to the D-chief?"

"I'm calling him right nowunless you follow me back to my office for our first session."

"You're a regular ball buster, aren't you?"

"Is that a yes?"

"God damn it," Brand said, and he headed up the stairs.

She watched Brand's eyes tick nervously as his gaze shifted around the office. Possibly he'd been expecting a mad scientist's laboratory or a chamber of horrors, but all he saw was a large room furnished with the plush sofa he was sitting on, and an assortment of thickly cushioned chairs. A desk and a file cabinet occupied one corner of the room. Framed diplomas and other credentials hung on the walls. Sunlight trickled through curtains rustling in the breeze of the central air-conditioning. The floor was carpeted. A potted fern stood near the doorway to the kitchenette.

All very normal. She hoped Brand took some reassurance from that fact.

He didn't seem tomaybe because of one other chair in the room. It had metal arms and a straight back. Wires ran from it to a bank of computer consoles and heart and brain monitors. Nestled among this gear was the MBI appliance, a metallic cap sprouting wires.

Brand's gaze kept coming back to the appliance. His hands twitched in his lap.

She had produced waivers for him to sign. So far he had merely stared at them, his face grim.

"Before we get started," Robin said, "I want to explain a little about the theory behind my work." She tapped an illustration on the wall. "As they say in those public service spots, this is your brain."

Sometimes she got a smile out of a patient with that line, but not this time.

"See this almond-shaped structure just above the brain stem? It's called the amygdala. A primitive part of the brain, responsible for tying together the data that come in from your sense organs. Sight, sound, smellthey all meet here. The amygdala not only puts all this incoming information together, it also instantly applies a kind of nonverbal value judgment. Dangerous or safethose are the two main judgments it hands down. And it does all this before your conscious mind, operating in the neocortex, has even received the data. Do you see the implications?"

"The only implication I see is that I'm stuck in this office when I've got a hundred better things to do."