Returning to the house, Victor enjoyed his sense of accomplishment, and he thought he had the luxury of time to think of the next step. But as he came through the door, the phone rang. Its ringing scared him into wondering if someone were calling Jorge or if Jorge was supposed to check in now and then. Victor didn’t answer the phone. Instead, he put on his coat and went out to the car. Without coming up with another idea, he decided to go to the police.

The police station was in the corner of the municipal green. It was a two-story brick structure with a pair of ornate brass post lamps topped with blue glass spheres. Victor pulled up to the front and parked in the visitor parking area. When he’d left the house, he’d felt good about having finally made a decision. He was looking forward to dumping the whole mess into somebody else’s lap. But as he climbed the front steps between the two spheres, he became less certain about going to the police.

Victor hesitated just outside the front door. His biggest worry was Marsha, but there were other worries as well. Just as VJ had said, the police probably couldn’t do a whole lot, and VJ would be out on the street. The legal system couldn’t even handle simple punks, what would it do with a ten-year-old with the intelligence of two Einsteins put together?

Victor was still debating with himself whether to go in or not when the door to the police station opened and Sergeant Cerullo came barging out, bumping into Victor.

Cerullo juggled his hat, which had been jarred from his head, then excused himself vehemently before he recognized Victor. “Dr. Frank!” he said. He apologized again, then asked, “What brings you into town?”

Victor tried to think of something that sounded reasonable but he couldn’t. The truth was too much in his mind. “I have a problem. Can I talk to you?”

“Geez, I’m sorry,” Cerullo said. “I’m on dinner break. We gotta eat when we can. But Murphy is in at the desk. He’ll help you. When I get back from supper, I’ll make sure they treated you right. Take care.”

Cerullo gave Victor’s arm a friendly punch, then pulled the door open for him. Whether he wanted to or not, Victor found himself inside.

“Hey, Murphy!” Cerullo called. His foot held the door open. “This here is Dr. Frank. He’s a friend of mine. You treat him good, understand?”

Murphy was a beefy, red-faced, freckled Irish cop whose father had been a cop and whose father’s father had been a cop. He squinted at Victor through heavy bifocals. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said. “Take a seat.” He pointed with his pencil to a stained and scarred oak bench, then went back to a form he was laboriously filling out.

Sitting where he was advised, Victor’s mind went over the conversation he was about to have with Officer Murphy. He could see himself telling the policeman that he has a son who is an utter genius and who is growing a race of retarded workers in glass jars and who has killed people to protect a secret lab he built by blackmailing embezzlers in his father’s company. The mere fact of putting the situation into words convinced Victor that no one would believe him. And even if someone did, what would happen? There would be no way to associate VJ with any of the deaths. It was all circumstantial. As far as the lab equipment was concerned, it wasn’t stolen, at least not by VJ. As far as the cocaine was concerned, the poor kid was coerced by a foreign drug lord.

Victor bit his lower lip. Murphy was still struggling with the form, holding the pencil in his meaty hand, his tongue slightly protruding from his mouth. He didn’t look up so Victor continued his daydream. He could see VJ shuffled through the legal system and out the back door. He’d have his fully modern lab up and running with a capability of almost anything. And VJ had already proven his willingness to eliminate those who dared to stand in his way. Victor wondered how long he and Marsha would live under those circumstances.

With a sense of depression that bordered on tears, Victor had to admit to himself that his experiment had been too successful. As Marsha had said, he hadn’t considered the ramifications of success. He’d been too overwhelmed with the excitement of doing it to think of the result. VJ was more than he’d bargained for, and with the constitutional constraints of law enforcement, the social system was ill-equipped to deal with an alien like VJ. It was as if he were from another planet.

“Okay,” Murphy said as he tossed his form into a wire mesh basket on the corner of his desk. “What can we do for you, Dr. Frank?” He cracked his knuckles after the strain of holding the pencil.

Without much confidence, Victor got up and walked over to the duty desk. Murphy regarded him with his blue eyes. His shirt collar appeared too tight and the skin of his neck hung over it.

“Well, watcha got, Doc?” Murphy asked, leaning back in his chair. He had large heavy arms, and he looked like just the kind of guy you’d like to have arrive if kids were stealing your hubcaps or removing your tape deck.

“I have a problem with my son,” Victor began. “We found out that he’d been skipping school to—”

“Excuse me, Doc,” Murphy said. “Shouldn’t you be talking to a social worker, somebody like that?”

“I’m afraid the situation is beyond the ken of a social worker,” Victor said. “My son has decided to associate with criminal elements and—”

“Excuse me for interrupting again, Doc,” Murphy said. “Maybe I should have said psychologist. How old is your boy?”

“He’s ten,” Victor said. “But he is—”

“I have to tell you that we have never gotten a call about him. What’s his name?”

“VJ,” Victor said. “I know that—”

“Before you go any further,” Murphy said, “I have to tell you that we have a lot of trouble dealing with juveniles. I’m trying to be helpful. If your son had done something really bad, like expose himself in the park or break into one of the widows’ houses, maybe it would be worth involving us. Otherwise I think a psychologist and maybe some old-fashioned discipline would be best. You get my drift?”

“Yeah,” Victor said. “I think you are entirely right. Thanks for your time.”

“Not at all, Doc,” Murphy said. “I’m being straight with you since you’re a friend of Cerullo’s.”

“I appreciate it,” Victor said as he backed away from the desk. Then he turned and fled to his car. Once inside his car, Victor felt a tremendous panic. All of a sudden he realized that he alone had to deal with VJ. It was to be father against son, creator against creature. The comprehension brought forth a feeling of nausea that rose up into Victor’s throat. He opened the car door, but by shuddering he was able to dispel the nausea without vomiting. He closed the car door and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. He was drenched in sudden sweat.

From Old Testament studies as a child, the plight of Abraham came to Victor. But he knew there were two huge differences. God wasn’t about to intervene in this instance, and Victor knew that he could not kill his son with his hands. But it was becoming progressively clear that it would be VJ or Victor.

Then, of course, there was the problem of Marsha. How was he to get her out of the lab? Another wave of panic settled over Victor. He knew that he had to act quickly before VJ’s intelligence could become a factor. Besides, Victor knew that if he didn’t act quickly, he might lose his nerve and commitment.

Victor started the car and drove home by reflex as his mind struggled with coming up with some kind of plan. When he arrived at home, he first went to the root cellar and checked Jorge. He was sleeping like a baby, comfy and cozy beneath his mound of blankets and rags. Victor filled an empty wine bottle with water and left it by the man’s head.

Coming into the house, the phone again frightened Victor. Victor looked at it and debated. What if it were Marsha? As it started its fourth ring, Victor snatched up the receiver. He said hello timidly, and for good reason. The voice on the other end was a man’s voice with a heavy Spanish accent. He asked for Jorge.