Dorothy J. Heydt

He never remembered afterward what had happened, though sometimes there would be clues left behind: a line or two of newspaper story, a sheep or deer or dog lying half-eaten at his feet. Never a human being, not yet; thank God.

Once he had gone to the Newman Hall just before moonrise, hoping---he didn't know what. Maybe that the holy influence would subdue him, or that some traditionalist priest would have the presence of mind to read an exorcism? In any event, he'd wound up in Tilden anyway---apparently the holy influence had been enough to send him running like hell into the hills. Occasionally he still toyed with the idea of telling one of the chaplains what was going on. They might even believe him---the Paulist Fathers were pretty practical types, and this was Berkeley, after all. Or he could go join a peace march and get himself arrested---but they might not put him in solitary, and God help anybody they gave him for a cellmate.

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