But if there were someone else inside him, it meant he was going crazy. He was losing his mind, and they'd lock him up. That's what they did with crazy people, he knew-at least if they got violent.

He crouched in the shadows for a moment, his eyes darting like those of a wild animal that knows it's being hunted. How long did he have before they would start looking for him, how long before they'd come for him? He had to get away, had to find someplace to hide.

He kept low to the ground, balanced on the balls of his feet, then darted across a backyard, vaulting over the low fence that separated one yard from the other. He crossed two more yards that way, then slipped once more between the houses, pausing to search the street for signs of life before dashing across its open expanse to the welcome darkness on the other side. He wasn't certain where he was going yet, but his instincts seemed to be leading him to the other side of town, out near the school.

And then he knew.

There was someone he could go to, someone he trusted, someone who would help him. His breathing eased slightly as his panic began to subside and his mind to clear. Even the terrible pain in his head was lessening, and he broke into a loping stride, slipping from one shadowed area to the next, carefully avoiding the bright pools of yellow light that illuminated the sidewalks. No more than ten minutes later he reached his destination.

He paused across the street from Phil Collins's house, huddling close to the trunk of a large cedar tree, watching not only the coach's house, but the houses on either side as well.

The buzzing of insects seemed amplified in his ears, and in his paranoia he couldn't imagine how anyone could sleep through the din. Yet all the houses on the block were dark, nor could he see signs of movement on the streets.

Perhaps, after all, they weren't looking for him yet.

He crouched for a moment, then darted across the street and around to the back of the coach's house. He tapped softly at the back door, then harder.

Instantly, the house came alive with the sound of a dog barking, and a second later lights came on. Then the door opened a crack and Jeff recognized the coach's familiar face peering out at him.

"It's me, Coach," he said, his voice trembling. "I-I'm in trouble. Can I come in?"

The door closed for a second, and Jeff heard Collins mumble something to the dog, then the door opened wide and Jeff stepped into the kitchen of Collins's little house. The big German shepherd crouched at its master's feet, its teeth bared, a low growl rattling in its throat.

"Easy, Sparks," Phil Collins said. "Take it easy." The dog visibly relaxed, then slunk forward to sniff atJeffs hand.

Jeff sank into the single battered chair that stood next to the kitchen table and held his head in his hands.

"I-I hit my mother," he said, his eyes avoiding the coach's. "I don't know what happened. But-Well, sometimes it's like I just go crazy." Finally he looked up, his expression beseeching. "What's wrong with me?" he asked. "I get so mad sometimes I just can't control myself. All I want to do is start hitting things. I just want to start hitting, and I don't care what happens."

Collins placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now, just take it easy," he said, unconsciously repeating the same words he'd used to the dog only a moment before. "There's nothing wrong with you, Jeff. You're just going through a tough time in your life, that's all. Now just try to tell me what happened."

Half sobbing, Jeff did his best to tell Collins what had happened that evening, from the time he'd started talking to Linda Harris until the moment hours later when he'd suddenly, without thinking about it, struck his mother. But in the end he knew the story didn't make much sense-there were a lot of blank spots, times when he couldn't remember where he'd been or what he'd been doing. To his relief, the coach didn't seem too upset by what he'd done.

"Sounds to me like you just had an overreaction to breaking up with your girlfriend," he said. "Happens all the time with kids your age-hormones are flying all over your body and you never know what they're going to do to you. Tell you what," he went on. "I'll call Marty Ames and we'll take you out there and have him look you over. Believe me," he added with a wink, "if you're cracking up, Marty will be able to spot it in a minute. But you're not," he added quickly, as Jeff paled. "I'll bet he says the same thing I just said."

"But what about my folks?" Jeff asked, his voice anxious. "After what I did to my mom, my dad's going to kill me!"

"No, he's not," Collins assured him. "If we need to, I'll talk to him, or Marty Ames will. But I'll bet we won't even have to do that. Your old man's pretty proud of you, Jeff. And he's sure not going to turn against you now. He's not, and your mom's not."

As Jeff seemed to calm down, the coach went to the phone and made a quick call. A quarter of an hour later, with Jeff sitting next to him, Collins pulled his car to a stop in front of the clinic gates and rolled the window down to speak to the guard who was waiting for them. The guard pressed a remote control and the front gates swung slowly inward to let Collins drive through.

Martin Ames was waiting for them in the lobby of the sprawling main building and immediately led Jeff back to the examination room. "Strip down to your shorts," he told the frightened boy, "and let's have a look at you." He turned to Collins. "Tell me what happened." While Jeff peeled off his clothes, Collins briefly repeated what Jeff had told him earlier. "Okay," Ames said when Collins was done. "Let's get started."

It was as Ames began checking the reflexes in his legs, tapping his knees with the small rubber mallet, that the rage suddenly began to build in Jeff again. He could feel it coming on but could do nothing about it. And yet there was no reason for it-he'd been through this procedure hundreds of times before and it had never bothered him. But not this time.

This time it infuriated him.

"Stop that, goddamn it!" he shouted. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Kicking the tiny mallet in Ames's hand aside, Jeff jumped off the examination table, his eyes blazing with fury, his hands clenching into fists.

Ames took a quick step backward and glanced at Collins, who instantly threw his arms around Jeff in a powerful bear hug. In the brief moment before Jeff could recover from the sudden action, Ames jabbed his arm with a hypodermic needle and pressed the plunger. Jeff froze in Collins's grasp, and as the drug began to take effect, felt his rage ease and his body relax. As Collins released him, Jeff sank back onto the treatment table.

The last thing he heard as he drifted into unconsciousness was the sound of Ames's voice telling Collins to call his parents and explain to them where he was. He was going to be all right, Ames said, but he would have to spend the rest of the night at the clinic.

But was he going to be all right?

Martin Ames didn't know.

He knew it was a nightmare, knew it had to be. Surely what was happening to him couldn't be real.

His entire body was racked with pain, blinding, searing-pain that tore at the depths of his soul.

He seemed to be surrounded by darkness, and yet, even in the pitch-black of the torture chamber, he could see perfectly.

He was not alone.

He could see the others, some of them chained to the walls, others strapped to the rack in the center of the floor. And he could hear their cries-agonized shrieks that bellowed from the depth of their souls, reverberating through the stone room but never fading away, only being built upon by more screams, more pitiful wails.

The chamber masters were there, too, oblivious to the keening pleas of their victims, each of them carrying a different tool of torture. One of them was approaching Jeff now, a red-hot branding iron balanced delicately in his hands. He seemed to smile at Jeff for a moment, and through the cacophony, Jeff almost imagined he could hear the man laugh before he pressed the glowing metal against his thigh.