Six gun shots went off in rapid succession as Ed Moores' revolver was consumed in the fire. Neighbors began pouring out their front doors to see the bungalow rapidly dissolve into ash and char. They stood there and gawked, as the blaze took over the building, and flames shot up into the twilight, like a ceremonial bonfire.

One heroic man jogged out into the street in his socks and snapped a picture of the license plate as Denton drove off.

In the rearview mirror, the figure stood in stark relief holding up his phone, one side of his face was brightly lit by the Moores' house, the other was in deep shadow.

The Buick made the first turn it came to and started weaving its way through the side streets heading back to the center of town.

That had not gone as planned. That had been a disaster. Denton drummed the steering-wheel with his fingertips, tapping out a staccato rhythm that formed a soundtrack to his shock.

From a cold, rational corner of his brain a voice whispered: only four left.

The thought hit him with such repellent force Denton came close to slamming on the break. How can I think that? Two people are dead back there.

Shouldn't that have more of an effect on him? But at the same time, he couldn't just curl up in a ball and weep. He needed to hold it together. He needed to hold on for just a little longer. Besides they had been infected. Even if they hadn't attacked him, and the house hadn't caught fire, their end was never going to be pretty. He needed to find a hard emotionless place deep inside of himself and move on. The plan was to visit Jessica Knowles next. Hers was the last name on Kaling's list, but she lived the closest to the Moores. She had an apartment not far from Grimshaw Street.

Time was draining away. If he wanted to put his plan into action, he had to act quickly. But he had to be more careful with the others. It was clear the Moores had been expecting him, from the way they behaved. They knew who I was from the moment I walked in there. Kaling must have warned them about me. Had he already gotten the message? Or had he put his troops on alert last night after Denton escaped from the hospital?

He pulled up in front of Knowles' building. Unlike the converted homes the Milton students lived in, this was a featureless brick tenement built shortly after the war. Except for a few minor details, it was identical to the one that Meyers had lived in.

Her address placed her on the second floor. He scanned across the building, hoping to detect some clue—some sign of her presence. But he had no idea if her unit faced the front or not.

Only two windows had lights on. The others were either dark or had the blinds drawn making it impossible to tell. At least they had electricity. Denton wouldn't have to face another candlelit room.

The stairs leading up to her unit were a cheap, gray marble, and the air smelt like boiled cabbage and kitty litter.

Denton steadied himself at her door. His strategy was simple: when she answered, he'd tell her to check on the Moores, and then get out of there as fast as possible. There was something evil about using the tragedy of the old couple to strike fear into her. But it should push her towards Kaling and that's what he needed.

Before his knuckles could finish rapping against the door, it

started to creak open.

"Hello," he called. "Is anyone there?"

The only noise coming from the apartment was the distant hum of a refrigerator. Was she out? How would he find her if she wasn't at home? He could wait, but what if she wasn't back for days? What if Jessica Knowles had set off to another town like a modern day Typhoid Mary spreading madness in her wake?

Then the humming changed. There was a shift in notes: a pause, a breath, and then a higher octave before launching back into the drone. It was a person, not an appliance, making the sound.

Denton pushed the door all the way open. In front of him was a dark kitchen. He walked passed it and followed a short hall into the dim light of the living room. A woman sat on a sofa staring at the wall. As she hummed, she rocked from side to side. Only her head stuck up above the back of the couch. It looked like a cobra from an old cartoon about a snake charmer.

On the wall, directly in front of her, was an eight. A desk lamp had been placed to illuminate the floor to ceiling monstrosity. After everything he'd seen, Denton would have been more surprised if there hadn't been one on the wall, but he was taken aback by the thousands of photos and snippets of colors that composed the numeral. Unlike a simple spray painted eight, this vast collage must have taken hours, if not days, to put together. The amount of care and effort made it even eerier than Radnor's crazed scribbles and etchings. This wasn't simply done in a fever of compulsion; this was the product of passion and precision.

Denton stood behind Jessica Knowles, examining the multitude of fragmented pictures taken from magazines, newspapers, and books. As he studied the woman's master work, the sky outside darkened, until the only light was from the small lamp on the floor.

Cautiously, he walked around the sofa and had a look at her. Jessica Knowles was in her late forties. She had short, black hair,

and her face was deeply lined from age and a hard life. It was easy to imagine her in a waitress uniform at one of the old, shabby diners around town.

She didn't seem to notice Denton. She just kept watching the eight. Off to the side, a small stand with a TV on top had been moved out of the way. One of the legs had caught the area rug and dragged it along with it. The small flat screen was tipped over and leaning against the wall. It sat tilted, facing up toward one of the dark corners of the room.

But was she really even looking at the number? Knowles seemed completely oblivious to her surroundings. Could she be catatonic? Denton stepped in front of her and leaned in to get a better look at her eyes. The humming stopped. Her whole body drooped to one side, like a puppet with the strings cut. Her head rose up an inch to keep her eyes facing forward. She was looking around Denton to keep the eight in sight.

He grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her back up. Knowles began slapping at him, trying to swat him away, growing more frantic every second the eight was out of her view. A sound came out of her, more animal than human—a desperate mewing of distress. He released her and stepped away, letting her fall back into her macabre trance.

Denton drifted over to the window, rubbing his forehead. The stitches pricked at his palm like thorns. The plan wasn't going to work. Jessica Knowles was completely mesmerized by that eight.

Was that what the boys in the lodge were doing with the painting? Their test? Were they checking to see if he would become enthralled by it? Did it have this effect on all of the infected?

He couldn't imagine Kaling sitting around fixated on a number on the wall. But there were none in his apartment. Did he purposely get rid of them to avoid that problem? Or perhaps there were stages to the obsession? Kaling and the Moores seemed to have it much more together than Radnor or this woman on the sofa. Her name was the last one on the list. Was she in an early pupate stage of the disease. Would she soon become manic and violent like Radnor, before settling into the calculating behavior of someone like Kaling? On the table by the window, a hodgepodge of scrapbooking material was scattered: markers, scissors, tape, glue. On the floor next to it were the woman's creations. The scrapbooks were thrown aside with their covers bent and pages creased. Discarded just like her former life.

Denton couldn't just leave her there. He needed her to put a stop to this. If he didn't get them altogether—if there was even one loose end—then the whole thing would be pointless.

What if he used her? In her current state she wouldn't be hard to manipulate. If he took her, perhaps Kaling and the others would attempt to rescue her. She could be bait. She could draw the others directly to him.

Knowles had gone back to swaying her head and making that

same monotone sound.

Was he really thinking of kidnapping some mentally ill woman?

A vision of the Moores' house engulfed in flames flashed into his head.

I've come this far. In for a penny, he said to himself. A bitter taste cloyed at his tongue.

He just needed to figure out a way to get her out of this apartment. An idea began to form and he hunted through the jumble on the craft table. He picked up a Sharpie and drew an eight on the palm of his left hand.

Denton went back to the spot in front of the couch, and held it out to Jessica Knowles, like a cop stopping traffic.

She didn't move her head away. She just stared at it. Denton positioned his body to block the collage and Knowles didn't react. He moved his hand slowly, first left then right. Her eyes followed, drawn to it like a magnet.

This might just work.

Rushing to the open bedroom door, he started formulating a list of the things he was going to need. Rummaging through her closet, he grabbed two leather belts and a silk scarf. A flashlight proved harder to find, but after a hasty search, he came across one in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

Back at the desk, Denton quickly drew a large eight on a blank sheet of scrapbook paper and another on his right palm. He looked down at his chest and frowned. The marker wasn't going to work on wool.

He stripped off his coat and sweater and began to carefully make two circles on the front of his shirt. The black ink soaked into the fabric, bleeding beyond the boundary of its path. It obliterated the white and the burgundy pinstripes. When he reached the thicker placket running down the center, the marker snagged on the seam, and he had to run it over the section again to smooth out the line.

With some regret, Denton left his V-neck on the table and put his coat back on, stuffing his scarf into one of the pockets.

So long as he stayed out of her field of vision, Knowles didn't seem to mind as he tied up her hands with one of the belts. She fussed a little when he gagged her with the scarf, but she was too docile to fight it. Denton probably didn't need to restrain her, but he thought it best to take precautions in case something went wrong. Who knew how long this stupor would last? How much time did he have before she became violent?

Once she was secured, he got her to focus on the eight on his chest and got her to her feet. He then led her out using a combination of the eight on his shirt and the ones on his hands. With a little effort Denton got her down to the landing. He found that if he kept an eight about fourteen inches from her face, she would be drawn to it and move toward it. His biggest concern through the whole enterprise was making sure she didn't trip and fall down the stairs. Out on the street, Denton kept Knowles moving. She lurched like something out of an old zombie movie, as he walked backwards to the car.

He opened the trunk with the fob on the keychain, and as soon as it was in reach, Denton switched on the flashlight and threw it in.

The next part was the challenge. Gingerly, he kept his left hand in her face, while he lifted her with his other arm and used his body to support her. Putting her in the trunk, Denton pressed against her getting her into place. He realized he hadn't been that close to another woman since meeting Linda. He smelt her skin and her breath. His face was so near to hers, he could have kissed her if he wanted to. Looking into her pitiful eyes, Denton couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

Very delicately, he let her go and settled her into a spot with her head next to the flashlight. He put the paper with the eight on it in front of her, so it was easy for her to see. The last thing he did before shutting her in was to lash her ankles together with the second belt. The lock clicked shut and Denton hesitate. Would she really be okay knocking about in there? Wouldn't it have been better to put her in the back seat?

He was just about to get his keys out and open it up again when there was a squeal of brakes behind him. A big, gray sedan stopped in front the Buick, parking diagonally to block it off from the street.

It was just beginning to dawn on him why the car looked familiar when Bill leapt out.

"Dent," he said, drawing his service weapon from his shoulder holster. "Don't move."

Denton raised his hands as the gun was aimed toward him, and said, "This isn't what it looks like."

"Did you just put someone in your trunk?"

"Yes, but there's a good reason."

"What possible reason could you have?" Bill looked weary. Each word knotted the wrinkles in his forehead a little more, until he wore an expression that could be read as skepticism or exasperation. "I'm trying to stop this madness, Bill." Denton tried to keep his voice even—to not let the words spill out in a torrent of excuses and justifications. "I have a plan to stop it from spreading." "What the hell are you talking about? Are you still going on about that idiotic virus thing? Christ, I'd hoped you were just drunk." "It's true, Bill."

"Look, I know being tortured and held prisoner messed with your head, but you're wrong on this. Believe me." He spoke with both his words and his free hand. It made calming motions, keeping the beat of the syllables.

"Let me show you this. It will convince you." Denton reached for his pocket.

Bill put both his hands on the gun's grip, as though preparing to fire.

Does he really think I'll try and hurt him, or is it just his training?

"I'm not armed," Denton said slowly. "I just want to show you the list."

"What list?"

"The list of the infected, but they're not just infected, they're involved in some sort of conspiracy. Can I get it?"

Bill gave a curt nod. "Just move slowly." Denton reached into his pocket and handed it over to Bill, stretching his arm out to him. Bill snatched it when it was at his fingertips. He glanced down trying to read and keep an eye on Denton at the same time.

"The names that are crossed off are already dead," Denton explained. "But they've been coordinating. I think one of my students, Stephen Kaling, is the ring leader. I don't know what they're planning exactly, but I'm sure it has something to do with infecting more people."

"This is gibberish," Bill said, as he let the paper fall. It floated down onto the street, where it rapidly soaked up a puddle and turned dark and transparent.

"Trouble seems to be following you, Dent. I have four officers in the hospital—the same hospital that you are supposed to be in right now, if you recall. And I just received a report that you fled the scene of a fire. Now, I hope to hell these are just coincidences, and you're not involved. But until we can straighten this out, you're under arrest."

"Bill, the eights, it's a virus."

"No, Dent. There's no virus. No infection. No alien conspiracy." Bill clicked tongue, as if trying to moisten his dry mouth. "We have the answer. We know why there's been a rise in the town's crazy meter. Some brainiacs at the EPA's regional office informed us yesterday."

It had to be another tenuous explanation—some pathetic attempt to rationalize the cause, just like the FBI's drug theory. Still, Denton could help asking, "What is it?"

"They found an unusually high mercury level coming from the water treatment plant."

"That doesn't make sense." Denton spit the words with indignation. "It would make people sick, not draw eights."

"You mean like the eights all over you?"

Embarrassment filled him as he realized what he must look like, especially with his hands in the air.

"It all makes perfect sense. Remember that bum that lived under the bridge? He got his water from a tap just outside the plant. It was the most direct source. That's why he was the first to go all nutty. The others became affected depending on tolerances and consumption."

"The drinking water?" Denton still wasn't buying it. "The problem is already fixed. So you see, Radcliff and his friends were wrong, there is no infection. There are no secret plots. You and the others are suffering from heavy metal poisoning." Bill paused. Then in a friendlier tone said, "I have to arrest you. I have no choice. But I'm not going to take you to the station. We'll go to the hospital. We'll get you help. Do you understand?"

This was ridiculous. If he had mercury poisoning, he'd have a rash. Denton was about to point this out, when Bill added, "Linda has been absolutely beside herself. You should be ashamed to have put her through this."

It felt as if all the air were sucked out of him. "She's here? She's in town?"

"Where else would she be. Now, am I going to have to cuff you or will you cooperate?"

Denton shook his head. Linda was still here, she never left. She didn't trust him or believe his warning. The weight of despondency threatened to pull him to the ground. While he was running around breaking into houses and fighting monsters, she was pacing the floors and wondering what had become of him—thinking he had gone completely insane.

"I'll do what you ask." He would go quietly. All of his fight had deserted him.

"Good," Bill said. "Stay right there and keep your hands up.

Who's in the trunk?"

"Jessica Knowles. She was on the list," Denton said staring at his feet.

"Is she hurt?"

"No. She's just out of it. It's like she's in a trance or something. I found her that way."

"I'm going to need your keys."

Denton handed them over. He didn't do it slow or carefully, but Bill didn't seem to mind. The worry had ebbed from his eyes. Perhaps he was a little more certain that he wouldn't have to put a bullet in his old friend.

Completely defeated, Denton put his hands back up and waited. Bill got his cell phone out and speed dialed. "This is Stahl, I'm on Waverly near the corner of Oxford. I need backup and an ambulance here, pronto."

Two young men in their early twenties walked down the street fascinated by the scene in front of them.

One of them pointed at Denton. "Hey, it's Mister Eight."

The other pulled his phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and started snapping pictures.

Being careful to keep his gun pointed at the street, Bill Stahl waved his cell phone at the young men, and yelled, "Get the hell out of here, or I'll haul you in for obstructing justice."

Taking a tough tone, the man with the leather jacket said, "I'm not doing nothing wrong." But his friend had hastened his steps and was leaving him there alone to face the cop, who in his heavy winter jacket looked as burly as a black bear and twice as ferocious.

He heroically took one last photo of Bill. Although in his haste to chase after his companion, he missed the capture button with his thumb.

Bill dropped his phone into the front pocket of his coat and then fumbled with Denton's keys, trying to locate the trunk's release switch.

"What are you doing?" Denton asked.

"Have you forgotten about the woman in your trunk? You think I'm just going to leave her in there?"

"She's not in her right mind. You should wait for your backup. Or let me help," Denton said. Knowles was lost in the mysterious world of double loops, but he knew how to handle her now.

"I think you've done enough. Don't you? Besides, I've been getting lots of practice with people not in their right mind lately." Bill's words were so laced with sarcasm they practically performed an eye roll as they hit the air.

"Besides," he continued. "Didn't you say she was in some kind of trance?"

"She is. But—" "Just stay put." Bill pointed to him and to the place he was to stay.

He took a step, stopped and wagged his finger at Denton again, like a dog that he suspected was about to disobey him. "I swear, if you try to run, I don't care what Linda does to me, I'm putting a bullet in your leg. Got that?"

Bill walked over to the trunk and hit the switch on the fob. An audible click could be heard, but the lid didn't open. Cold and ice kept it from popping up on its own. Eyeing Denton over the roof of the car, Bill moved closer to the back to push it open.

In a few minutes Denton would be on his way to the station house to face a litany of charges: kidnapping, arson, murder. He'd find himself in that same interrogation room again. Only this time it would be with some lawyer, who would be telling him how he had a strong chance of getting him off, if he offered an insanity plea. Just tell them it was mercury poisoning, he would advise. Admit you were delusional and not responsible for your actions. Even though, throughout the trial, the judge would be sitting on the bench scribbling eights onto his note pad. That was his future, unless he ran. Bill was preoccupied and his eyes were down. If Denton was going to try and escape, now would be the time.

His feet wouldn't move.

He was slowly filling up with guilt, a thick paste of remorse that oozed down his bones and filled his skin, turning him to stone inch by inch.

Linda. He had let her down on more levels than she even knew. His first priority should have been to keep her safe. He should have done whatever it took to get her far from Bexhill. At the very least, he should have talked to her—not in person or he might have infected her—but on the phone. She would have seen reason if he had explained it to her, instead of cowardly leaving it up to a few words in an email. She probably didn't even believe him. She probably thought he was crazy, just like Bill did. And if she didn't, then it was worse. Linda had stayed, risking her own life and sanity, because she thought he needed her there. She stayed because of him.

And could he betray Bill? There had been a haze of fatigue over his expression and his voice. Dark circles formed under his eyes like rain clouds looming on the horizon. How many hours had he been out looking for Denton? How long has he been driving around Bexhill, while Denton was off on Mt. Nazareth setting up his little trap? A trap that had so many variables and risks, it was doomed from the start.

The truth was, he was beaten. His crazy, desperate plan was just that. The odds had been against him all along. He just hadn't wanted to admit it.

The trunk swung open. An animal howl shrieked out and Jessica Knowles followed, springing like a coiled snake. She hit Bill in the chest and sent him reeling backward. They landed in the street with a splash of slush, Knowles on top writhing, struggling against the restraints lashing her limbs together. Her hair whipped back and forth across Bill's face, while her head frantically thrashed around as she chewed her way through the scarf.

Bill fought to push her off, but the woman seemed to have gained mass while in the trunk. It was as though she had emerged from a cocoon as some new being, terrible and fierce.

Denton hesitated only a second and then ran to Bill's aid. The ambulance had turned the corner, four blocks down the street, lights on, siren off. It formed a backdrop of angry red flares reflecting off of the puddles and the snow of the dark street. Denton reached them and hauled Knowles away, as though heaving a heavy sack. He flung her onto her back.

Still dazed, Bill swung his pistol at the body next to him, trying to aim past her convulsing legs. She kicked out, sending the gun flying across the street.

"What the hell is the matter with her," Bill said, still on his back and scurrying out of her reach.

"It's the infection," Denton yelled. Although there was very little noise, he had the sense there was a thunderous roaring all about him. Panic had thrown off his equilibrium. He could have been standing on the deck of a ship surrounded by a violent, churning sea.

Bill ignored his answer but didn't argue with it. "Grab her shoulders. I'll get her feet. We'll hold her down until the paramedics can sedate her."

The ambulance was still a block away. Denton did as instructed. Knowles twisted around gnashing at his hands, bits of the scarf fluttered in the air like dead leaves. Tiny chewed flakes of silk, orange and yellow, floated to the ground around her.

Denton slid his hands down her arms away from her shoulders and her mouth and pressed her wrists against her stomach. As he leaned over her, Knowles went limp. The demon possessing her departed back to its mystical abyss.

"What the...?" Bill said.

My shirt, Denton thought. Of course, she sees the eight.

Her outburst of violence must have been from not being able to see one. Perhaps when the trunk was opened, a draft blew the paper away from her.

"Carter, glad you're here," Bill said to the EMT, who jumped out of the passenger side of the ambulance.

"What's going on, Stahl?"

"This woman is having some kind of fit. Get a sedative," Bill said. "She seems pretty sedate to me," the second paramedic said, walking up behind Carter.

"You weren't here a second ago, Mills. Give her something before she attacks again."

"I'm going to need to examine her before giving her anything." Carter started to kneel next to Knowles.

"I don't think you want to get any closer, until you put her out," Bill warned.

"Unless you're a doctor, I can't just take your word for it." "I'm a doctor." Denton looked up at the EMT. His face was young

and the whites of his eyes were clear and bright. "A psychologist." "You are?" From the way he asked, it was apparent he probably had thought Denton to be some vagrant who had been wandering by. "Please step back so I can examine her."

"You don't understand. She needs to be able to see my shirt."

The paramedic squinted at Denton. It didn't take a clairvoyant to see what he was thinking: Denton looked more like an escapee from an asylum than a psychologist.

"Denton, let her go and step back, now. Let him do his job." Bill had decided to hand authority over to the paramedic. He had gotten to his feet and his tone bordered on anger. Instinctively, Denton withdrew and moved back.

Jessica Knowles screamed in anguish and resumed her thrashing.

Carter attempted to ignore her behavior and check her vitals. "Miss?" he said. "Do you understand me? Can you speak?"

The noise that came out of her was like no speech Denton had ever heard. It was half growl and half screech, an ethereal pulse from some language never spoken before on Earth. She shoved it out of her lungs like venom and ripped the belt around her wrists in two. Her chipped, red polished nails immediately dug into Carter's throat.

Her legs bucked, rolling the EMT around on the street, while rivulets of blood ran down her murderous fingers. Denton leaped for them, trying to get the palm of his hand in front of Knowles' face, but she sloshed through the gray muck on the pavement with such frenetic jerks it was impossible. Seeing the man desperately grasping for air, he gave up and grabbed her hands to try and break the stranglehold.

Carter's fingers were already holding onto her wrists and together they gradually began to pull the claws away from his tender flesh. The second he was free of her, his partner grabbed him and dragged him away from the savage woman.

When her quarry had escaped, Knowles slammed her head back into Denton's face. The world turned to blackness and flashing lights, as he went sprawling back onto the pavement. He cupped his forehead at the bridge of his nose, as if trying to expel the pain by capturing it.

Confusion filed the street like a barrage of artillery. People were shouting, Knowles was shrieking, someone was giving orders, nothing made sense.

When Denton looked up again, the woman had gained her feet. They were still tied firmly together, but she moved them like a thick tail. Knowles was evolving, shifting from serpent to reptile, as she pressed her attack on Carter.

The other paramedic, Mills, was unconscious on the ground with blood flowing from his head. There was a gash where his hairline touched the asphalt. Somehow she must have knocked him down, while Denton was recovering.

Carter retreated, with his bare hands on his neck trying to stop the flow of blood.

There was a deafening blast and Knowles shuddered. The fury of noise in Denton's ears disappeared and was replaced by ringing. He looked over and saw that Bill had retrieved his gun. A whiff of smoke escaping the barrel was caught in the chill winter air. Blood was blossoming on the woman's sweater. The bullet had caught her on her left breast. She fell back like a toddler losing her balance and sat down with an oomph sound.

There was a moment when no one moved and then Carter went to her. Whether out of compassion or professionalism, he wouldn't leave her there to bleed out on the street, no matter what she had done.

He got her on her back and began applying pressure to the wound. Little, bloody bubbles frothed at her mouth.

"Get my kit," he ordered. Bill didn't move.

Feeling the gritty water under his hands, Denton began to stand. The ambulances lights still bathed the scene in red, but it was no longer an angry tone. In the quiet following the battle, it was the color of somber fatigue. Each bright rotation glinted off of metal six inches from Denton's fingers. His car keys lay in an icy tire tread. Bill must have dropped them when Knowles hit him. He looped a finger around the ring and pulled himself up using the car's bumper for support.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" a man's voice screamed.

Denton turned and saw Carter pulling away from the woman, blood flowing freely from his nose. Blindingly fast, Knowles curled herself into a crouching position. She sprang, launching herself at the hapless paramedic. Another shot echoed out.

Denton had to turn away, bile rising in his throat. Gore sprayed the side of the ambulance behind her.

"Holy shit," Carter said. "Did you have to aim for the head?"

"I..." Bill stopped himself and started over, clearly shaken by what had just occurred. "I wasn't, she was just moving too fast." He walked over to the body and got his phone out. "This is Stahl. Where the hell is that backup? Shots fired. Suspect down. Ambulance is on the scene, but we need additional medical services. EMTs injured. Repeat, I have two injured EMTs."

Eddie Radcliff had said that the only way to kill them was to burn them. Jessica Knowles wasn't moving. She was never going to get up again. It looked like a bullet to the head worked just as well.

Three left.

Denton couldn't bring himself to be anything less than appalled at the woman's grisly death. Yet in a sense she was already dead. Whoever Jessica Knowles had been, it wasn't the thing that was killed out there that night.

And now there were only three more of them left. The plan might have little to no chance of succeeding, but the odds had just improved by twenty-five percent. Could he really give up now, when he was so close?

Bill and Carter were helping the other EMT. Mills had regained consciousness. Carter was checking his pulse and Bill was putting his folded jacket under the man's head.

Leaving the trunk open, Denton slipped into the car and drove off as fast as he could. Long after his friend was out of sight, Denton could still hear him yelling his name.