I point at his syringe.

--Why don't you put a little more in there?

He looks at it.

--Oh no, man. You don't mess with this shit. Too much and you are fucked for life in the worst way.

--Yeah, that's what Vandewater said.

He grins.

--Hey, is it true what Terry told me?

--What's that?

--Said you dosed her. Gave her a hot shot. Said she's hooked on the bad dose now.

--Got me. I didn't even know she lived through it.

--That's what he said.

--Must be true.

--Oh, man, that is the worst. She is so messed up! Bitch's gonna be jonesin' for the bad dose the rest of her life. That's sooo F-ed in the A.

--That Spaz at Doc Holiday's. That was you hooked him up, right?

He's swabbing his arm.

--Yeah. Had to get the ball rolling. He was just a fish lost in the woods. Needed friends. Gave him a little of the needle and he was gone. I'd been haunting your background a little, looking for a good spot to open your eyes. Terry said he needed an inciting, like, agent. Whatever. I met The Spaz out back, by that take-out window they got. Gave him the needle good to go. Not a heavy dose, just enough to push him over the side. Told him to hit it in the can. Pow! That was that. I watched some of that through the window. Man, he was all over the place. Thought for a second I overdid it. But you, man, you handled that shit.

He has the tube around his arm.

I point at the syringe again.

--Yeah, so, like I said, why don't you put a little more in there.

He's focused on slapping a vein up.

--No joke, man, can't mess with that. Take no chances on getting a hot shot.

I take out my piece, cock it. He looks up.

--Count, why don't you put a little more in there.

He looks at the gun.

--Maaaan. Man, I thought you were taking all this a little too cool. I knew you were playing possum on me.

I point the gun at him.

--Yeah, surprise.

He smiles.

--Joe. I know you're pissed right now, but what are you gonna do? Really. I'm Terry's. I'm his guy now. You can't fuck with me. You think you can intimidate me into taking a hot shot? How? You can't lay a hand on me. Terry will freak. Kill me, you kill the golden goose. I mean, fuck all that spy shit, kill me, I won't be opening my bank account to the Society. Period.

--Uh-huh. Thing is, I just bought myself a license to fuck people up. It's gonna cost me plenty. So I need to start getting my money's worth.

He squints.

--I don't follow.

I shoot him in the foot. Blood sprays.

He stares at it, stares at the place his toes used to be.

--What the fuck?

I stand up.

--Amazing, isn't it, that moment when you don't feel any pain?

He drops the syringe, howls.

--And then it hits.

He grabs a pillow from the couch, crams it over the end of his foot.

I pick up the syringe.

--Jesus, Count, how long you been around? Give it a minute, that thing'll stop bleeding on its own. And the pain?

I slip the needle into the bag of anathema.

--That goes away, too. Stick around long enough, you're gonna have to live through no end of pain.

I draw some more of the shit into the syringe, remembering Vandewater's lesson on how much does what.

--What you should be doing is ignoring the blood and the pain. You should be trying to get away from me.

I pull the syringe free.

--That or trying to kill me.

I hold the syringe like a dagger.

--But then again, you're spoiled rotten.

I stab him in the neck.

--And you wouldn't know where to start.

For a few minutes, it's like with The Spaz at Doc Holiday's. He spins and shakes and foams a little. Finally he falls on the floor, jerking and twitching in time to the spasms in his muscles and the visions flashing through his brain. Addicted at a deeper level now. Addicted to this experience. Helpless in it. The bad dose, he said.

I hope it sucks as bad as the old lady said it does.

I find a little picnic cooler under the sink and fill it with the blood from the fridge. I close the valve on the bag of anathema and toss that in. In a shoe box in the bathroom, just sitting there on the back of the toilet, I find over ten grand in rubber-banded rolls. Cash from the anathema he's been dealing.

On my way to the door, I stop, look down at the girls. Generally, you don't want to fuck a guy up like this and leave him with a devoted harem that might come looking for you. Hell, this isn't their fault. None of it is their fault. But there's smart, and then there's dumb.

I put a bullet in each one, up close, in the heart.

I go out the door, a cooler of blood in my hand, a box of money under my arm. I leave The Count behind me, plagued with nightmares, surrounded by his dead brides.

Having done the job. Having started to make the world a better place.

He knew. Fucking Terry knew.

And he was right about knowing me. I don't like it at all, but he was right. Knowing me well enough to send me over there. Knowing I'd ask a few questions. Knowing what I'd do when I heard some answers. And knowing damn well I'd be ready to take his goddamn job if it meant getting away with it. And, fuck all, knowing it had to be done. The brat needed to be taught a lesson.

You don't fuck around like that and come out on top. If he hadn't been put in his place, he would have just done it again. Spoiled kids are like that.

--So what is it?

The fingers of Daniel's right hand run over the half-empty bag. He rubs a fingertip through a drop of blood that has congealed at the valve opening.

--As Maureen told you, it's anathema.

--Maureen?

He smears the drop of blood between his thumb and forefinger.

--Sorry. Mrs. Vandewater to you.

I shift my ass on the floor, stiff from sitting here while I've been telling him the story.

--OK, it's anathema. But the other thing, was she right about that? The visions.

--Well, visions.

He brings the fingers to his face and sniffs, grimaces, wipes them on the floor.

--In this batch, no. But in fresh anathema?

He shrugs.

--Certainly there are visions.

I look at the bag on the floor.

--Are they real?

--Simon, of course they're real, they're visions.

--But. Do they mean anything?

He scratches his head.

--You're making it very difficult for me to answer you. Are they real? Do they mean anything? A vision is a personal thing. What can I tell you about what one might mean or not mean?

--Fucking hell, man, do they have anything to do with the Vyrus? Can you learn anything aboutÉabout?

--Yes?

--About us? About all this shit? I.

He smiles.

--Simon, I do believe you're looking for a little wisdom this evening. How refreshing that is, coming from you. How hopeful.

I get up.

--Fuck you.

His smile gets bigger.

--Oh well, back to square one.

He holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls himself up, not needing my help at all.

He takes my arm, walks with me out of his cubicle and toward the stairs.

--I know what you're asking. I do. But I want you to know, as well. I want you to know that for each of these questions you ask me, there are any number of ways the answer might be approached. Any number of lessons to be learned. That said.

He stops us at the top of the stairs.

--I personally did not find the anathema visions to be either illuminating or useful. Entertaining. Pleasant. A distraction. But empty.