Christian picked up a copy of the Star and Tribune, dropped some coins on the counter, and stuffed it under his arm. He didn't usually read the "Strib," but his job search was getting desperate. His landlord had promised him an eviction notice if he didn't pay rent by the fourteenth.

After he had ensconced himself into a seat near the front of the bus, he perused the headlines before diving into the want ads. The lead headline read, "Churches Unveil Plans for Ecumenical, City-Wide All Souls Eve Celebration." Ugh, Christian rolled his eyes. God damn faith-based initiatives. His eyes meandered down the page a bit further. "Fourth Mysterious Riverfront Murder Plagues Police." Intrigued, he read further:

At first police investigators believed this death, like the three preceding, was caused by trauma induced by a long fall. Autopsies, however, revealed a more sinister likely cause of death. "We found most of the internal organs removed," said investigator O'Sullivan, "and there was significant blood loss. So we've definitively ruled out a fall as the cause of death. The bodies may have been thrown out of a high window after being mutilated and exsanguinated." Police had already ruled out the possibility that the deaths occurred on the river flats where the bodies had been found. "The victims were murdered somewhere else, and then the corpses were dumped near the river," said O'Sullivan.

Creepy, thought Christian. Not that Minneapolis didn't have its fair share of murders. In the wake of the serial killings of the late 1980s, its nickname had been "Murderapolis." But certainly these murders were bizarre and disturbing. The whole damn city had gone to Hell, ever since the arrival of Magnus.

Irenaeus M. Magnus had been unknown until a dozen or so years ago. He was a New Mexico entrepreneur who apparently struck it rich in the oil business in Texas in the 1970s. Then he went into computers in the 1980s, and big pharmaceuticals in the 1990s. What brought him to the Twin Cities in the new millennium was bio-engineering. He bought three genetic engineering companies based in Minneapolis, and then merged them with an even larger concern on the east coast. By this time, he had become a force in finance and venture capital. He bought all the best downtown Minneapolis real estate and moved his headquarters there. Then he wowed the city council with big bucks and big promises, and a plan to build the Magnus Tower, a 100 story behemoth skyscraper, twice as tall as the IDS Center, the tallest building in town until then. It was time for Minneapolis to stop playing second fiddle, time for it to become a world class city like Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles, Magnus said. And he would be the one to bring it there. After taking one big gulp, the city granted him all the building permits, tax breaks and zoning variances he needed to make his dream a reality.

There were a handful of naysayers, of course. Christian had been one of them. He had attended anti-Magnus protest rallies and put up a sign in his apartment window saying, "Just Say No to Magnus-apolis!" He'd signed petitions calling for a referendum on the development initiatives. But unlike other recent developments, the tax-payers weren't being asked to pay a cent. Respected statisticians and economists from venerable institutions gave public testimony unanimously endorsing the plans as the biggest boon to the city since the flour mills of the 1870s. It would bring jobs and money and growth, and nobody, absolutely nobody could argue with it. So Magnus Tower and "Magnus-apolis" became a reality.

Christian remained bitter and skeptical. The development boom caused real estate prices and then rents and property taxes to jump. Year by year, as more and more neighborhoods throughout the city became gentrified, more and more poor people, working people, and elderly people were losing their homes. And downtown was changing, subtly but perceptibly. Christian's favorite cafes, bars and diners closed one by one, to be replaced with slick, expensive restaurants where you couldn't get in without a tie and where the tips weren't less than what he was used to spending for a whole meal. His favorite used bookstore closed and in came a Magnus Books chain that had nothing but Oprah-endorsed bestsellers and mindless glossy magazines with pictures of super models on the covers. And then there was just the kinds of people he saw downtown: blond, beautiful, perfect people with plastic hair and plastic grins and Versace suits and briefcases stuffed with important things. It made him sick to walk past them on the sidewalk.

Then the last straw was when the small but respectable law firm where he had worked as a paralegal for the last ten years went out of business after all their clients were sucked up by VanBrandt, Avery, McMillan, and Peters, LLP, a law firm that had made its reputation representing Magnus Corp in a recent, sleazy case involving toxic waste spillage in New Jersey. Christian hated what his city had become, and most of all he hated Magnus.

As he perused the want ads section in the paper, Christian saw only the usual offerings. Wait staff. Sales person. Driver. Telemarketer. There seemed to be more ads lately looking for maids, au-pairs and gardeners. Christian folded the newspaper in disgust, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window of the bus. What was he going to do?

Suddenly he was startled by a vehement tapping on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and was about to shout angrily when he saw the familiar face of his friend Cooper grinning at him from the seat next to him.

"Geez, Cooper! You scared the shit out of me!" gasped Christian.

"How ya doin', pal?" Cooper bellowed.

"The same," sighed Christian.

"Sorry to hear that," said Cooper, lowering his voice sympathetically. "So I take it that means the job search ain't goin' so good."

"You may take it," said Christian, storm clouds forming above his brow.

"Good!" said Cooper.

"Good? Whadya mean good?" Christian moaned gloomily.

"Today is your lucky day. I have a lead for you. A really good lead. I promise you'll love this." Cooper's befreckled face and bright blue eyes were beaming with satisfaction.

Christian frowned. He and Cooper had been friends all their lives. Cooper was well-meaning, but it seemed like ever since high school, he was constantly jumping from job to job, and every year or two he had tried to recruit Christian into some crazy pyramid scheme, or dubious stock sale, or far-fetched land speculation. Christian had always said no, and Cooper had always eventually come back at him with something new and equally suspicious. Of course, for the last three years, Cooper had been gainfully employed in the Special Client Services Division of Avigo, a consulting firm that was a wholly owned subsidiary of Magnus Corp. It was the longest Cooper had ever held a single job in his life. And since working for Avigo, Christian thought Cooper had lost interest in the cockamamie schemes. But now, Christian thought, maybe he was back to his old ways.

"What is it?" asked Christian suspiciously.

"A job!" exclaimed Cooper, "A paralegal job, just like the one you used to have. At a great law firm."

For a moment, Christian felt a flutter of hope. "Really? What law firm?"

Cooper's grin spread from ear to ear, and he seemed awfully proud of himself as he declared, "VanBrandt, Avery, McMillan and Peters."

"NO!" said Christian, "And that is final. There is no way in hell I'm working for them, or any company that has anything to do with Magnus. I'd rather live on the streets and starve to death."

"Well, you might just do that," said Cooper, "Because all the best jobs in town these days are working for Magnus. That's just a fact, whether you like it or not."

"Well, the thought of that just makes me sick," replied Christian.

"Well, then don't think about it," replied Cooper, "Look, it's a job. It puts bread on the table, keeps a roof over your head."

"Magnus is the opposite of everything I believe in," growled Christian.

"Since when has a job been about what you believe in?" sighed Cooper, "You're in trouble, aren't you? You're gonna be evicted from your apartment if you don't come up with a pay check fast. Don't think about it. Just do it."

Christian sighed. "How are you so sure it's going to work out anyway? How many times have you tried recruiting me into something that ended up being a pile of bullshit. I don't wanna get my hopes up, if it's gonna turn out to be some big bust."

Cooper shook his head. "That was then. This is now. I have a contact over there, one of our clients. He promised me they would give you a fair shake. All you need to do is show up for the interview on time and wear a suit that is actually ironed, and I promise you it will work out beyond your wildest dreams."

The job interview at VanBrandt et al. was more or less as Cooper had promised. Christian ironed his suit and showed up to the interview on time. The matronly Human Resources Director, Ms. Gallagher, arrived in an impeccable black dress suit, and frowned and sneered coldly at him through the whole interview. Before he thought they had finished, she left the room abruptly. Christian waited ten minutes before a mousy looking secretary with thinning hair and dark rings under her eyes showed up to tell him he could leave. He went home thinking he would never in a million years get that job. But at precisely 5:30 that evening, the phone rang. On the other end of the phone, a taciturn male voice instructed him to report at the firm at eight A.M. the next day. Christian figured Cooper must have given some lawyer there some million-dollar insider trading tip or something.

The male voice had belonged to Mazer Cook, the Human Resources Specialist, who reported directly to Ms. Gallagher. Christian arrived ten minutes early, but after the receptionist called Mazer, he arrived looking rather miffed and said, "What took you so long?" Christian started to protest but Mazer waved him off with a distracted, "Never mind!" He directed Christian to his cubicle and handed him a thick sheaf of forms that all needed to be filled out before ten o'clock, at which time, he was informed, he would receive his first work assignment from the attorney he'd been assigned to, a Marcus Bennington, esquire.

"Is there an employee manual? Or something?" Christian asked.

Mazer turned his head and stared at Christian with a wry smile spreading across his face. "Yes," he said drolly, "Let me quote it to you: Do whatever your attorney tells you to do, including lie, cheat, steal, and kill, or you will regret it." Then he was gone.

It was only then Christian noticed two doors down the hall from where his cubicle was located, a pair of dark, narrow-set eyes in a pale face peering at him from over the wall of the next cubicle. It was the mousy secretary who had shooed him out of the interview room the previous day, and she looked terrified. As soon as she noticed him looking at her, she vanished behind the wall, and he heard an impossibly rapid keyboard tip-a-tapping start up from within the cubicle.

Marcus Bennington, Esquire was tall, blond, and handsome. One would call him "big-boned" rather than fat. He had a youthful face, with features that were neither too square nor too round, and a full head of wavy, golden blond hair, which he obviously groomed carefully. When he smiled, which he did often, he showed two rows of alabaster, perfectly even teeth, and boyish dimples on both cheeks. He had a big, bellowing laugh which it was possible to hear coming all the way from the other side of the office.

Mr. Bennington never looked Christian directly in the eyes, never used his name, and seemed incapable of speaking to him in anything more than simple commands. "Type this!" or "File these!" or "Prepare a draft brief!" When he was in his office, which was not often, he was speaking on the phone or entertaining a visitor. Christian would watch him sweep up the hall arm in arm with a client, perfectly delivering the punch-line of a story in time to thrust a stack of documents at Christian and command, before vanishing into his office, "Clean these up and then send them in triplicate to Dorian!"

It wasn't until Christian had been working at VanBrandt, Avery, McMillan and Peters for two full weeks that the mousy secretary in the next cubicle down from his actually introduced herself. He noticed her peeking at him over the cubicle wall, and then ducking as soon as he turned to look. A few minutes later, when he was engrossed in proof-reading a document plagued by excessive punctuation, he turned to find her peering intently down at him. It startled him and he gasped, and his gasp startled her, and she jumped back behind the wall of his cubicle.

"Oh!" said Christian, "Hello!"

"Hello," she said, keeping her distance behind his cubicle wall, "I'm Samantha."

"I'm Christian," he said.

"I know," she replied.

"How is it going?" he asked kindly.

"I actually came to ask you," she said skittishly, "What's it like working for Mr. Bennington?"

"Not too bad," said Christian, "It's taking me extra time to get into the swing of things. I've had to work a couple hours late almost every night. At least it's a paycheck."

"You're lucky," she said.

"You guys don't seem to take many breaks around here," said Christian, awkwardly trying to make conversation.

Samantha smiled oddly. "We're entitled to them," she said, "We just don't take them."

Christian opened his mouth and started to ask why not, when they both heard Mr. Bennington's booming laugh echoing from down the hall. Samantha's eyes opened wide, like a startled animal's, and they both turned in the direction of the voice. When Christian looked back, she had already scurried back to her desk and was well hidden behind the walls of her cubicle.

Mr. Bennington, instead of sweeping past Christian's desk in the usual manner, walked directly up to him, looked him in the eye, and said, "Christian, could you come speak with me for a moment in my office?"

Christian's heart was pounding as he entered the office.

"Close the door behind you," said Mr. Bennington cordially, "And sit down." He gestured to a large, comfortable-looking leather-upholstered arm chair arranged in front of the desk.

Christian had never been inside Mr. Bennington's office. It was impeccably neat. The walls were covered with rows of handsome, leather-bound books, mostly law books, journals, and encyclopedias. The venetian blinds covering the windows were slanted open, and Christian could see he had a spectacular view from his thirty-third-floor window. Mr. Bennington eased himself into his own equally comfortable chair with a gentle sigh.

"I'm impressed by your work ethic," said Mr. Bennington.

"Thank you," said Christian, feeling a bit more relaxed.

"I'm going to ask you to run some special errands for me," he said,

"I need you to deliver documents to and from a very special client."

"Aren't there courier services for that?" asked Christian.

"I don't trust my documents with some courier I don't know," replied Bennington, coolly, a flash of impatience in his eyes. "I trust you so I'm asking you to deliver them."

"OK," said Christian. He suddenly regreted his words. He had been working too hard to lose his employer's confidence now. "Who's the client?" he asked.

"Magnus," said Mr. Bennington.

Christian poured himself another mug of beer from the half-empty pitcher in front of him and took a sip. He stared at the empty chair in front of him. Where the hell was Cooper? They were supposed to be sharing this mug of beer, but Cooper was already fifteen minutes late.

Christian picked up an abandoned copy of the Star Tribune that had been left scattered on a table still waiting to be cleaned up by the waitress. He checked the headlines. "Six More Corpses On River Flats." He read on. These corpses, like all the others, were mostly exsanguinated, had no internal organs, and had all, according to the investigators, been subjected to severe blunt trauma only after they were apparently already dead. Bones were shattered, limbs were torn, as if someone had thrown their corpses in front of a speeding truck just for good measure. "Investigators received a lead from a homeless man regarding a partially buried corpse. Investigators found five other corpses buried in the same area. Analysis of the corpses revealed that two of the victims had likely been murdered earlier than any of the other apparently related cases currently under investigation. One of the corpses, the one first brought to the attention of investigators appears to be the most recently dead. This brings the total of similar cases to fifteen. Police are now speculating that a number of individuals reported 'missing' in the past three months may also be victims who just haven't been discovered yet." Gruesome, thought Christian.

"Boy, the media sure loves to sensationalize that crap. Bread and circuses for the masses." The voice startled Christian, who turned around to see Cooper's befreckled face grinning down at him.

"Geez, it took you long enough to get here," sighed Christian.

Cooper sat down across from Christian and eyed the dwindling beer. "Well, I see you found a way to entertain yourself while you were waiting." He emptied the pitcher into the mug in front of him, leaned back and took a long swig. "Sorry I'm late. Had a big client meeting that went over. Couldn't be avoided."

"This is enough to make you wonder if anybody's safe," spat Christian, jabbing his index finger at the headline, "Six More Corpses." "It makes me think twice about going out at night."

"Oh, come on!" said Cooper, "Half a million people die every year of heart attacks. Tens of thousands of people die in car crashes. Thirty thousand people commit suicide. Geez, you're a thousand times more likely to kill yourself than you are to get offed by some psychopath. But do you see headlines that say, 'Ooh! Suicide Claims Three More Victims'? No, because it's not sensational."

Christian giggled. "Cooper, you have a unique way of looking at things."

Encouraged, Cooper continued, "Sure. Murder is just a cost of doing business for this thing we call Civilization. You put a million people together in a city, and some of them are bound to get a little crazy. Can't be helped. Just call in the cops to try to keep it to a minimum and hope you catch the bastards."

"The police don't seem to have a clue who's doing this," said Christian gloomily. "The police never caught Jack the Ripper, for that matter."

"Well, then. If you're really worried about it, you can always commit suicide." Cooper leaned back, sucked down some more beer, and grinned from ear to ear, obviously proud of his reasoning. He waved at a waitress and signalled for a new pitcher. "So, not that I'm eager to change this lovely topic of conversaton... But how's the new job going?"

Christian scowled. "I'm gonna quit."

"What? Why? Aren't they paying you enough?" asked Cooper.

"No, the pay's just fine. They're paying me more than I ever made at any other job before, and they've got benefits like you can't believe," replied Christian grimly.

"Well then what could possibly be the matter?" asked Cooper incredulously.

"Because it makes me sick having to suck up to some asshole lawyer all the time. Because something about that whole job stinks. Something's wrong with that place," said Christian.

"What's wrong? What are you talking about?" asked Cooper.

"I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I can feel it."

Cooper stared at Christian, puzzled. "You're gonna quit over a feeling you can't quite put your finger on?"

"The big wig lawyer I work for, this guy named Bennington, called me into his office this morning and told me he wants to turn me into his personal courier boy, between him and his number one client. There's something's wrong with this. Why not just hire a courier service?"

"If he wants to pay you to run papers for him, run papers. Why ask questions? Who's the client?"

"Magnus," spat Christian, disgusted.

"Oh, I get it," said Cooper, a grin of enlightenment suddenly brightening his face, "You've always had this stick up your butt about Magnus, and now you get to be his personal courier boy. Oh, the irony! The Magnus protester working for Magnus! That's actually funny!" Cooper roared with laughter.

"Yeah, if you saw what it's like working for these assholes, you'd laugh all right," mumbled Christian.

"Look," said Cooper, getting serious all of a sudden, "One. You might not like Magnus, but he's done a lot for this city, OK? Ask anybody. And two. Remember what it was like almost being evicted from your apartment? That was just a couple of weeks ago, in case you've forgotten. You wanna go back to that? I don't have any more magic jobs I can pull out of my ass for you. This is it, buster."

"Yeah," said Christian, staring down into his mug. The foam in his beer was starting to dissolve, but there was a clump floating in his glass with two big bubbles in the middle and a row of smaller bubbles on the bottom that made it look kind of like a skull.

As Christian rode his bike up the hill, he looked upward and caught his first close glance of "Magnusburg." That was how folks in the neighborhood referred to Magnus' sprawling Kenwood mansion. It actually had its own, more pretentious name, "The Heights." Magnus had purchased four multi-million-dollar homes at the summit of the tallest hill in Kenwood neighborhood, only to tear them all down to make way for the construction of the biggest and most elaborate private residence in Minnesota history.

Christian saw it as proof that the rich have no taste. The architecture was a bizarre mixture of styles: romanesque, byzantine, gothic and bauhaus. Flying buttresses and onion-domed minarets with spiked steeples adorned the outer edges of the structure, which rose pyramid-like toward the center. The entire mansion was dominated by a single, enormous, castle-like tower jutting up from the mansion's center perhaps one hundred and fifty feet into the air. Magnus could probably see the entire city from the top of that tower. On a clear day, it was certainly possible to see the tower from almost anywhere else in the city. The mansion looked almost like a mausoleum, with the odd bas-reliefs and statues that decorated it. They seemed to be telling a story, though Christian could only guess at what. Not a very nice one. The expressions and postures of the statutes were disturbing: mouths agape, arms outstretched, eyes rolled up, heavenward, as if praying for relief. The bas reliefs showed lines of people chained together, watched by soldiers, scenes of battle and bloodshed, a funeral procession behind a grand sarcophagus. Surrounding the mansion, landscapers had created a seeming maze of hedges, at the center of which was another fortress-like tower seemingly set apart from the main body of the mansion, but connected to it by a long, brickwork arch. The entire property was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall, black, wrought-iron fence, surmounted by dagger-like, iron pickets.

Magnus was clearly a boor, with a taste for the gothic. Money can't help the likes of him, thought Christian. No matter how much he makes, he'll find new, tasteless ways to waste it. Christian found his way to the entrance, where he found a buzzer. He pressed the button.

"Who is it?" a staticky voice buzzed at him from the speaker.

"Document delivery from VanBrandt, Avery," Christian muttered.

"Come around the back entrance," the voice rattled back at him. A harsh "beeeep" vibrated the lock on the gate, which Christian pushed open after he heard the telltale "click." After entering, the gate swung shut behind him with an ominous clang.

He wasn't sure which way was "back," as this mansion seemed hydra-like, with multiple heads. A narrow sidewalk led to the right toward the maze of hedges and the solitary tower, so Christian ventured that way. After wandering past a row of intricately carved and wicked-looking stone garden gnomes, Christian saw another path leading to a carriage way under the arch. There he saw a small gray door and a red doorbell. He pushed the button.

As he waited, he looked around. Here one had the impression of having entered a different world, defined by the odd angles of the mansion masonry and the exotic plant-life of the meticulously tended gardens and hedges. There was a path leading from the carriage way to a broad stone courtyard surrounding the lonely tower. It was impossible to see the courtyard from the street, but from here it was in plain view. Directly in front of the tower and under the archway connecting the tower to the mansion was a noisy, gurgling fountain in the form of a gargoyle, wings outspread, sitting on its rump and wrapping its claw-like hands around its knees while it spouted water out of its mouth upward in a sharp arc. Charming, thought Christian. The cost of building and maintaining all of this must have equaled the gross national product of several western European nations.

Just when Christian thought he must be at the wrong entrance, the door slid open. An impeccably dressed man in a black suit peered out. He looked like a southwestern Indian or a Mexican, with shiny black hair and round features.

"Delivery from VanBrandt?" he asked with a slight hispanic accent.

"Yes," replied Christian, thrusting forward the sealed, legal-sized manilla envelope, along with a signature pad and pen.

The impeccably dressed man took the envelope, signed his name, and then handed Christian a white sealed envelope. "Make sure this is delivered directly to Mr. Bennington."

Christian nodded, but before he could say a word, the man vanished and the door shut behind him without a sound. Christian sighed. The whole thing seemed so very odd he thought. Never in all his years as a paralegal. He turned to leave, when something caught his eye.

There was a dark patch in the courtyard next to the fountain. Earlier it had looked like a shadow. But now the sun had ventured out from behind the clouds and was shining directly down, and Christian saw that it was not a shadow at all. It looked brownish red and wet, like blood.

Christian gradually convinced himself that he could not actually have seen what he thought he saw behind Magnusburg. He often worried that he should call the police. Just tell them what he saw, and let them sort it out. But Mr. Bennington had told him matter-of-factly after the first delivery that anything he saw or was told while delivering documents to and from Mr. Magnus was protected by attorney-client privilege, and that he was legally obligated not to speak of these transactions, or anything associated with them to anybody. If he did, he would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. So Christian continued his deliveries, making a point to keep his eyes focussed on the tips of his shoes whenever he was on Magnus' property.

One day he arrived at work to find Samantha weeping at her desk. It hadn't been easy tell at first. He thought he heard a sniffle or two emanating from her cubicle. When other lawyers or staff people walked past, the only noise coming from her desk was the tip-a-tap of the computer keyboard. But when they were alone again, he would hear an occasional deep sigh or a sob. Finally he got up and walked over to her desk and saw her sitting there, red-eyed, face smeared, nose running, and her expression an agony.

"What's the matter, Samantha?" he asked gently. He shifted awkwardly, not knowing if it was OK to put his hand on her shoulder.

Samantha looked warily around. She stood up for a second to peer over her cubicle walls, and when she was sure the coast was clear, she slumped back into her chair and started to sob again, tears streaming down her cheeks and shoulders heaving.

"It's OK," Christian tried to reassure her. He cast his eyes around her desk, and saw her kleenex box empty and her waste basket full of crumpled tissues. He calmly but expeditiously retrieved a box of kleenex from his own desk and returned. By then, she had regained some composure, but she gratefully took a tissue and dabbed her eyes.

"What's the matter?" Christian asked again, kneeling so he could speak to her at eye-level.

"Anna," she replied, in a quavery voice, "She's missing. Nobody knows where she is."

"Since when?" asked Christian.

"Since three days ago."

Anna Garcia worked in the accounting department, one of the few employees left from the days when the firm was just "McMillan and Peters," before a controlling interest had been acquired by Magnus Corp. She was plump, kindly and talkative, with a smooth olive complexion, hair that was mostly gray except for a few black streaks near the temples, and big brown eyes that were magnified by thick rimless glasses. Samantha and Anna were close. They often took lunch and rode the bus home together. When Christian saw Anna toward the end of the work day, at Samantha's desk, it was one of the few times Christian saw Samantha smile.

"You're sure she's not sick? Or on vacation?" Christian asked.

"She always tells me when she's going on vacation. And she's never sick. She hasn't missed a single day in over twenty years," Samantha sniffed.

"There must be some explanation. Does she have family?"

"She lives all by herself. I've tried calling her, but she never answers. Normally she always answers the phone, even for telemarketers." Samantha looked desperate.

"Have you called the police?" Christian asked.

"Yes," she said.

"What did they say?"

"They were no help."

"Did they take a report? Are they looking into it?"

"They took a report. I don't know what they're doing. Nothing. They wouldn't tell me anything." Samantha's voice grew more and more anguished as they spoke.

At that point, the squeal of delivery cart wheels announced the arrival of the interoffice mail courrier, a known snitch. Samantha turned to Christian with a look of panic. As Christian returned to his desk, he caught Samantha following him with her eyes and smiling gratefully at him through a teary haze. But the rest of the afternoon, he found himself distracted by the thought of Anna Garcia missing.

Anna Garcia's disappearance eventually made it into the news, marking her as another potential victim of the "Eviscerator," as the media had dubbed the perpetrator. Samantha started arriving at work more harried and pale than ever. Christian did not see her cry any more though. She just went through each day deathly quiet, in an ever deepening fog.

The victim body count was still rising, though the police claimed to have no leads. The Federal Government elevated the terror threat level in Minnesota, and sent Homeland Security agents to assist local law enforcement. As those who vanished were typically last seen going outdoors at night alone, the best the police could advise was not to go anywhere at night unaccompanied, and, if one absolutely had to go out, to keep friends and loved ones informed about where they were going and when.

Paradoxically, the murders did not seem to detract from a growing enthusiasm about the first annual city-wide ecumenical All Soul's Eve Festival, now officially dubbed, Night of Souls. If anything, the celebration gave people something to take their minds off of the spectacle unfolding every night in the evening news. "These murders demonstrate how badly our social fabric has deteriorated," lamented Father Andrew Mulcahy on KARE 11 News, "We need a celebration that can bring us together as a city and that reminds us of our higher values." Pastor Elijah Pierce Jamison held a press conference with a coalition of African American ministers, and was quoted in the Star and Tribune declaring: "For too long Halloween has been a night for hoodlums and miscreants, full of permissiveness and excess. It is time we reclaimed it as a Christian holiday." Reverend Tor Macklethorpe commented in a Minnesota Public Radio interview, "Political correctness has kept us from celebrating the common spiritual values that bind us together. Night of Souls will be about remembering the values of those who have gone before us, and laying a moral foundation for those who come after."

"Are you going to Night of Souls?" Cooper asked Christian over a mug of fine, locally brewed, but expensive beer.

Christian slurped the head off his own beer, while glowering silently back at Cooper. "Hell no," he grunted.

"Oh, come on!" Cooper grinned. "Don't be such a party pooper. It's basically just a pious version of Halloween. They're still selling costumes and candy in all the stores. They're selling little chocolate crosses! Even the Christian book stores are getting in on making a buck by selling masks of the Saints, and at St. Olaf's you can buy special black Night of Souls vestments."

"That's the point," said Christian. "Halloween was fun when it was a bunch of kids messing around and scaring each other, and begging their neighbors for candy, and egging old man Smith's house because he didn't give out candy. Now it's supposed to be morally uplifting, and there's some goofy parade..."

"Procession," corrected Cooper.

"Procession. Whatever. Some big procession downtown, and everywhere else a curfew unless you go to Night of Souls. Halloween was make-believe creepy, but this is just plain creepy creepy," snarled Christian.

"If you could just get over your sanctimonious attitude and relax a bit, you'd realize that this is going to be huge fun. There are going to be recitals, contests, art shows, you name it. St. Mark's is putting on a morality play. Can you imagine that? Have you ever seen a morality play? The characters are the Seven Deadly Sins, and the star of the show is none other than Old Scratch! Have you ever seen someone wearing a Devil costume in church, hissing and snarling and waving a pitchfork at the parishioners? Come on, how Halloween is that? It'll be a blast," Cooper looked at Christian like a kid looks at his parents in a toy store.

Christian wished he could claim that work was an excuse not to go, but VanBrandt, Avery, McMillan and Peters were actually closing their offices early on October the thirty-first in honor of the festival. Apparently the senior partners had actually donated a substantial amount of money to the Night of Souls organizing committee, and were sponsoring a costume contest.

"Come on," insisted Cooper, "for old time's sake. Ever since we were kids going out trick-or-treating, we've spent every Halloween every year together. You're not gonna spoil that now, are you? Come on! Let the good times continue!" Cooper punched Christian good naturedly on the arm, and put on his most irresistible smile.

Christian finally broke down. "All right. All right. For you and me. And for old times."

"I'll drink to that," said Cooper, raising his mug.

On October thirty-first, and there was unusual excitement building at the firm of VanBrandt, Avery, McMillan and Peters, LLP. The senior partners had issued a memo the week before confirming that the offices would be closed early in order to permit employees to attend the city-wide Night of Souls celebration. The memo also invited employees to wear appropriate costumes to work if they wished. When Christian arrived at the office, he found the hallways decorated with strings of white and orange lights, black streamers, and the strange Night of Souls dolls Christian had seen on sale all over the city in the weeks before the celebration.

The dolls were meant to be likenesses of dead people, including deceased saints, historical figures or celebrities. Certain dolls became popular, some for obvious reasons and some quite mysteriously. Pope John Paul was a popular choice in Nordeast, Martin Luther King, Jr. on the north side, and Oscar Wilde around Loring Park. Joan of Arc in her suit of armor was a hit, as was Galileo with his telescope. Some came in sets that people made a point of collecting: the twelve apostles, the Popes, the presidents of the United States, the Kings of France, Great Scientists. By far the most popular dolls, however, were the generic "death" dolls: skeletons dressed in black. People hung the dolls in their windows or doorways and from car mirrors. The dolls hanging from the cielings at the firm appeared to be Supreme Court justices and famous lawyers. The fact that the dolls seemed ubiquitous and that nobody seemed not to have bought at least a few was reason enough for Christian to refuse to buy any.

As Christian walked past the reception desk, he saw the receptionist in an aviator outfit. Amelia Earhart, he figured. Ms. Gallagher wore an elaborate, flowing black dress and a small, white hat, with long white veils flowing down her back. Queen Victoria was appropriate for her, he thought. Attorneys had arrived in costume too. Christian saw a George Washington, a Christopher Columbus, and even a Montezuma, complete with a colorful and authentic looking feathered headress. No one seemed to be working. There were groups of people both in costume and out of costume gathered and chatting in the lunch room and certain corners of the hallway. Attractively arranged plates full of cookies frosted to look like skulls, bats and jack-o-lanterns were placed on tables in the small reception areas throughout the office. Christian arrived at his desk and noticed that Samantha was not in. She seemed to be sick more often since the disappearance of Anna Garcia.

The office was supposed to close at two o'clock. At one-fifty-five, just as Christian was getting ready to shut down his computer and pack his things, Marcus Bennington, Esquire arrived with the usual fanfare, wearing a meticulously embroidered, blue, white and gold eighteenth-century outfit. He wore white make-up and a powdered wig. Clinging to his arm was a woman wearing an enormous pink silk hoop skirt from the same era. She dripped with sparkling jewelry and wore a tall blond wig. The two of them appeared to be in a foul mood, as though they had just finished a bitter argument. Christian figured the woman was his boss's wife.

"Go sit in my office," he commanded. The woman sneered at Christian and then went in, her dress crinkling and rustling as she squeezed it through the door.

I have something I need you to deliver to Magnus, said Bennington nonchalantly.

The item Bennington had for Christian to deliver was not an envelope or a file, but a black, metal box. It was about eighteen by eighteen by eighteen inches, had a metal handle on top, and was sealed shut with three padlocks. It was heavy. Christian stared uncertainly at it. This had crossed the line. Surely he could not reasonably be expected to deliver something like this. Surely this was a job for a courier service! He opened his mouth to protest to Bennington. But Bennington glared hotly at him, pre-empting the slightest whisper. Christian took the box and placed it on his desk.

Once Bennington and his wife had swooshed out of the office, Christian tried tipping it and then shaking it to see if he could tell what kind of contents it had. There was no shifting of weight, no noise of any kind. Christian knew that if he did not deliver this package, there would be no job for him to come back to the next day. Something was fishy about this. Legitimate errands wouldn't be run this way. And some jobs just aren't worth keeping. Christian debated with himself right up until he had completed the additional stack of filings Bennington had given him, that also needed to be finished "today." When he finally finished, close to five o'clock, he studied the detestable package, and decided that he simply didn't know enough to be accountable for what was really going on here. He picked up the box and left. He was the last to leave the office.

He tried fitting the box into the basket of his bicycle, but it was big and too heavy to allow him to ride safely. Christian headed for the nearest bus stop. Due to the city's promotion of Night of Souls, there were no bus fares. The buses were already crowded with costume-wearing festivities goers. Many of them wore masks, making the bus ride surreal. He saw Princess Di, Abraham Lincoln, Julius Caesar, and John Dillinger. Christian recognized Gandhi sharing a seat with Adolf Hitler. The bus only took Christian to within eight blocks of Magnusburg, so he was left to lug the box half a mile up hill.

Magnusburg was visible from quite a distance, festooned all about with amber and purple lights. Reddish light shone through most of the windows. It looked as though some kind of open house were in progress. As Christian approached the gate, he saw that life-size dolls had been fastened at regular intervals to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the mansion. They hung there like heretics waiting to be burned at the stake. Christian saw the gate wide open, and from within the mansion emanated a cacophony of talk, high-pitched laughter, the tinkle of glass, and live music, a string quartet playing some somber melody by Barṭk. A limousine pulled up in front of the gate, disgorging a half dozen revelers dressed as cowled monks, who silently scurried through the gate and around toward the front of the mansion.

Christian pressed the button at the gate, but there was no sound. It seemed to be turned off. He proceeded hesitantly through the open gate, toward the back door. The garden gnomes looked like baleful little goblins in the light of the red Japanese garden lanterns strung out along the path just above them. Christian rang the doorbell at the back, but there was no answer. He might have dropped his burden and left, but he knew Bennington would ask him for the signed receipt. If he had come this far, he had better get a signature. He rang again, and then pounded on the door with his fist.

The door swung suddenly open, and three monks emerged. They were each clutching half-empty wine glasses, and from their glazed expressions, these were obviously not the first drinks they had imbibed.

"Where is...?" Christian paused, trying to remember the name of the doorman from previous visits. He had never had more than two words with the man, but there were the signatures from past receipts. "Where's Romero?" he asked.

The monks stared blankly at him, and then shrugged their shoulders and brushed past.

"Did you see the look on McMillan's face?" one of the monks exploded into laughter.

"Feh," said another, "How about the mayor?"

They marched down the trail leading toward the tower in the middle of the hedge maze, leaving the back door wide open. Soon they were gone, leaving Christian completely alone. Christian peered through the open door. The lighting inside was dim. In the distance, down the hall, Christian could hear the muffled clatter of pots and pans, and voices shouting. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold.

"Romero," Christian said half aloud to himself, "I'm looking for Romero." Then he stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him with a click.

The mansion looked as gothic on the inside as it did on the outside. The walls were made of stone. The muffled voices he had heard earlier continued to echoe down the hall. Christian walked slowly toward them. He turned a corner. The corridor was lit by a single, dim red light bulb. He saw a single white door that looked garrishly pink in this light, with an oval window set in it at about eye-level and a push-panel rather than a doorknob. He could hear the voices quite clearly now, coming from just beyond the door. Someone was shouting in a foreign language.

Suddenly the door swung open, and several men dressed in white, wearing white aprons hurried out. Christian tried stopping one of them to ask about Romero, but they rushed past him as if they did not even see them. Christian stood in front of one of them, blocking his escape, determined to get an answer.

"I'm looking for Romero. I have to make sure this gets to him," he said, holding up the black box.

It was only then Christian noticed the look of abject terror in the man's face. Even in the reddish glare of the hallway he looked deathly pale. Tears streamed down his cheeks. When he saw the box, his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed frozen in his throat. His lips just trembled. He shook his head. He pointed at the door he had just exited, still swinging back and forth on its spring hinges. Then he fled down the hall after the others.

Christian hesitated for a moment. The shouting had stopped. He peered through the window, and saw a tall man, silver hair with streaks of black, wearing a white kerchief, a white shirt, and a chef's hat. "Come in!" the man roared.

Christian pushed the door open and entered the room. He saw a large, white kitchen, with rows of shiny ovens, refrigerators, dishwashers, sinks, a half-open, thick steel door that opened on a meat locker. Enormous pots steamed and bubbled over gas-heated stoves. Directly in front of him, Christian saw a long, stainless steel counter loaded with cuts of meat. Blood was dripping over the edge of the counter and onto the floor. There was a big bloody pot so close to the edge of the counter it might easily tip and fall. The chef held a large butcher's knife in his right hand. Bright, red blood stained his hands and the edges of his white sleeves, and was smeared in great swaths on the lower half of his shirt and all over his perfectly pressed, nice, white apron.

"What is it?" he growled.

"Romero," squeaked Christian. He cleared his throat, and, holding up the black box, said more loudly, "I need to deliver this to Romero."

The chef smirked. Then he let out a guffaw. Then a big, wicked, bellowing laugh. "I'll deliver it to him," he said, flashing an eerie smile. "Give it to me." He slammed the butcher knife down on the steel counter with a clang, and reached out for the black box.

Christian noticed movement on the floor, near the man's feet, behind the counter. It looked like some kind of strange, black animal squirming on the floor, like a dog or a cat. Then it flipped over and Christian saw a face covered in blood. It was a man. Then it dawned on Christian that he recognized the man's features. It was Romero. Christian suddenly felt cold and nauseous. His gaze shot back up at the chef, who was no longer smiling. He had not moved from where he stood, and continued to motion with his outstretched hand, while repeating sternly, "Give it to me."

Christian looked at the meat on the counter and recognized something like a hand, something like a foot, something like an ear.

A million thoughts surged through Christian's brain. Could Romero still be saved? No wonder those men were in such a hurry to leave. Had this man murdered Romero right in front of them? What if the chef noticed him looking down at the body on the floor? The body parts on the counter? Could he just act as if everything was normal and then quietly leave?

"Come here!" the chef growled, his eyes narrowing into slits.

Christian inched forward, holding the black box out in front of him. In a lightning-like movement, the chef snatched the butcher knife off the counter, lunged forward and instead of taking the box, seized Christian by the wrist, and swung the butcher knife down toward Christian's arm, half-way between his wrist and his elbow. As soon as he grabbed Christian by the wrist, Christian tried pulling away. His feet slipped, and he began to fall backwards. He had been standing in a slick puddle of blood. He reached out with his left hand to steady himself on the counter and knocked the pot over. Gallons of blood gushed out, along with a mess of organs, a heart, liver, intestines. Christian felt a cold sting shoot all the way up his arm. He fell flat on his haunches, as the blood from the pot splattered all over him. Christian tried to get up, but flopped over oddly as he tried to push himself up with his right hand. There was nothing there but a stub, gushing blood. The chef laughed hysterically and Christian looked up to see him holding the black box in his left hand. Christian's hand was also still holding the handle of the box.

Christian clutched his stub arm tightly to his chest and got up and staggered out the door. His eyes were clouded by tears, and when he tried wiping them, he only smeared blood into his eyes, blinding himself. He did not think where he fled, he just fled, stumbling, half-feeling his way down the hallway. There was an open doorway.

He stumbled through. It was dark. He thought he saw shelves and stacks of boxes. Good, thought Christian. Need to hide. There was a door. Better, thought Christian. He shoved at it with his shoulder. It was jammed. There was a doorstop. He kicked at the doorstop until it flipped up and the door swung shut. The room went pitch dark. Christian was dizzy. He tried to ease himself down, but lost his balance and fell on his rear again. He managed to find a wall to lean against. Need to stop the bleeding, he thought.

He undid his tie and pulled it off. He clenched one end of the tie in his teeth, and then with his good hand wrapped the tie around his other arm, weaving it into a knot. He pulled it just tight enough to hold while he fished a pen out of his pocket. This was the pen he would have given Romero to sign for his package with. Neither of them needed that now, thought Christian. He poked the pen through the middle of the knot, and then tied two more knots around it. Then he started to twist the pen. He twisted it until he thought he might pass out from the pain jolting up his arm. He managed to curl his stub arm up enough to hold the make-shift tourniquet in place, while he tied one last knot around it to hold it in place.

In all this time, Christian heard no noise, no voices, no indication that anyone knew where he was or was even looking for him. He huddled there in the dark, his knees pulled up against his chest, shivering. He felt terribly cold. He told himself he would rest a bit, and then he would try to find a way out.

The meaning of this horrid situation slowly dawned on Christian. Magnus was some kind of monster. Some kind of blood-drinking, flesh-eating monster. No one knew what he was, and the whole city was in his thrall. And Christian had stumbled into his nest, and realized he might not make out out again alive.

In the dark, Christian noticed a small green light glowing on the far side of the room where he was hiding, and a dull metallic reflection of the light just next to it. As he studied it and tried to guess what it might be, he heard a sudden, muffled, mechanical whoosh, and then a soft rumble coming from the same general area. It was an elevator, he realized.

At that moment, Christian heard voices outside in the hallway. Someone was speaking in a foreign tongue; Christian recognized the voice of the chef. The voices were getting closer. There was no time to think. Christian forced himself to his feet. Then he began to feel his way to the other side of the room, until he was close enough to the little green light to punch it.

He heard the elevator begin grinding again. When it stopped, steel doors slid open, and a dim red light from beyond the doors revealed a service elevator. Just as Christian ducked in, he heard someone out in the hall say, "The blood ends here!" The knob on the hall door clicked, the door opened, and Christian saw three men in silhouette peering through. He panicked. There were a number of buttons in the elevator with strange characters on them. He punched one at random, and the elevator doors slid shut.

As the elevator carried him up, he noticed the same strange characters he had seen on the buttons illuminated above on a floor indicator. He watched the elevator go up one, two, three, four floors. He held himself flat against the wall of the elevator and peered out as the doors slid open and then remained open. He saw a darkened hallway, a series of doors, a solitary dim cieling lamp. There was no one there. This was the place to get out, Christian decided. He was not sure randomly wandering about was the best way to escape, but for the time being anyplace where there was no one looking for him was good.

He didn't feel quite so dizzy, though he was still freezing cold and shivering, and felt horribly weak and nauseous. The stub arm was starting to hurt less, but it was still an agony. He couldn't bear to look at it. He still couldn't believe this whole thing had happened. He wondered if he was able to escape soon enough and could call the police, if it would still be possible to save his hand. Assuming that butcher didn't grind it up or do something else unspeakable with it. He started to feel rage about the thought of that. This was good, he thought. Rage could keep him going.

He wandered down the hall a ways, until he started to hear noise. That stopped him dead in his tracks. Then he realized it was the same noise he had heard when he was first approaching the mansion: party noise. The hall turned abruptly to the right, and just at the turn was a door. The noise was coming from beyond the door. Very slowly, as noiselessly as possible, he opened the door a crack and peeked through. The door led into an empty, darkened room. At the opposite side of the room from the door, there was a kind of balcony. Christian crept into the room, and saw large picture windows to his right. Windows! he thought. Perhaps this was his way out.

The party noise was louder but still distant. His heart beating in his throat was almost louder. He saw flickering lights beyond the balcony railing, and slowly and carefully crept toward it. He realized that the balcony looked down on a lavishly decorated and equipped ballroom that was several floors down. Several hundred costumed party-goers were loudly socializing and drinking. Some, it appeared had been drinking too much, on the edges of the party where order and decorum were starting to fray. He wondered what might happen if he called for help. Probably nothing good or useful, he decided.

He moved over to the other side of the room. Through the picture windows he saw a courtyard, like one would find at the heart of a medieval villa. The main tower of Magnusburg rose up from the center of the courtyard, and was connected to the rest of the mansion by a series of skyway arches. In the moonlight, Christian studied the courtyard, looking for any hint of an escape.

As he gazed upward at the tower, he noticed movement. It was difficult to see, as it was a long way up, at the pinnacle, and the only light was the half moon shining behind the tower to the south. There was a small balcony, and Christian was certain he saw somebody on it. Then suddenly, something was plummeting from the tower. To his horror, he realized the thing plummeting was a person. He did not notice any movement apart from the ragdoll like flailing of the limbs as it tumbled head over heels downward. As suddenly as Christian had seen it, the fall was over. He stared downward into the courtyard where it had hit the pavement, he noticed other bodies, at least two or three others, limbs splayed at odd angles. And he saw other movement. He saw people standing and watching, or walking. There were actually people down there who had witnessed this, at least half a dozen!

They moved with purpose. A couple were staring up at the tower, studying it. The others were going in pairs, picking up the fallen bodies by the arms and the legs and carrying them away toward an archway. Most of those clearing away the bodies were wearing the long, monkish robes Christian had seen earlier. But to his horror, Christian saw clearly in the moonlight, on at least two of the men, the glint of police badges and the outline of police caps.

There had to be a way out, Christian told himself. The only thing he could imagine to do was to double back; take the elevator back down, go back past the kitchen and out the back exit. If he was lucky, his pursuers might not have left anyone behind to guard the exit. Or maybe they only left one or two behind, and he could find some way to outsmart or overpower them. It was a long shot, but he had no choice. He would have to make this up as he went along.

Christian crept back out into the hallway. To his horror, he heard voices speaking a foreign language coming from down the hall, from the direction of the elevator. Had anyone seen him? He had no choice. He could not risk opening the door to the balcony room and going back in, where he would be trapped. So he slipped down the other corridor leading away from it. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could away from the footsteps and voices. The hallway ahead curved gently to the left. Christian continued quickly down it until he arrived at a four way intersection.

"Which way to go?" he wondered, "Left, right, or straight?"

Christian believed that deep down inside of him must be a guiding light that could not lead him astray. All he had to do was listen to it. "One of these hallways leads to freedom. Listen, listen," Christian thought. "What does the light say? Which way?"

"Left," thought Christian, "That is the way out."

The hallway to the left was the darkest of the three choices. "It doesn't matter," thought Christian. He forged ahead.

Far away, he saw a glowing red light. He kept moving, feeling his way along the wall. The hallway let onto a sumptuous, round room. The room was lit by oil lamps in intricate bronze mounts on the wall. An elaborate, red, black and gold Persian carpet covered the floor. The mahogany walls were hand-carved, with elaborate floral patterns, curving, interweaving vines, leaves and flowers. There was a life-sized picture on the wall. It was Magnus, fat, pale, wearing a black Armani suit, smiling smugly. The glowing red light Christian had seen from down the hall was another elevator button, on an elevator directly in front of him at the center of the round room.

Christian pressed the button and the doors slid soundlessly open.

Christian stepped inside. The elevator was perfectly round on the inside, as on the outside. Inside, the elevator was upholstered like the room outside, Persian carpet, mahogany woodwork. On a dias at the center of the elevator was a panel with dozens of buttons. All of them bore the strange characters Christian had seen on the first elevator. No numbers.

"Which button?" Christian wondered. "One of these buttons will take me to the ground floor." He listened to his inner light, and then pressed...

Select an elevator button for an ending: