Mark Howard was a hardworking and conscientious young man. His condition had to have worsened after Smith had left, necessitating the need to take a few days off. But he was obviously feeling better, for he had to have returned to work.

Smith shut the lights off and let himself out.

The older man didn't feel any guilt for breaking into Howard's apartment. Such things came with the job.

Outside, Smith climbed back behind the wheel of his car and headed off to work.

He found no traffic on the isolated road that ran beside Long Island Sound. A wall rose beside the car. Beyond it loomed the familiar ivy-covered building that had been Smith's true home for the past forty years.

As he turned into the drive of Folcroft Sanitarium, Smith noted that the bronze plaque on the main gate had begun to lose its luster. He was making a mental note to send someone from the custodial staff out to polish it when he spied the police cars parked in front of the building.

What little natural color Smith possessed drained from his ashen face. His thudding heart rose into his constricting throat.

With an outward calm that belied his inner panic, he pulled his station wagon onto the shoulder of the main drive. He retrieved his cell phone from his briefcase.

He dialed with shaking hands. It was his secretary, not Mark Howard, who answered the ringing phone. "Dr. Smith's office."

"Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said, trying to keep his voice even, "is there something wrong at Folcroft?"

"Oh, Dr. Smith. Thank goodness you finally called." Mrs. Mikulka sounded desperate. "I didn't know how to reach you. It's one of the patients. He went-I don't know what. Homicidal. He killed three people. The police are here."

Smith felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. It was a Folcroft matter. Nothing to do with CURE.