Charles V. De Vet

“ The woman stopped and blew her nose. "That's all, except that the boy was gone when I came back—and George was dead."
Derwin looked down at the hat on his lap and searched for a way to express what he wanted to say. At last he looked up. "Some people believe the mutants killed only people who were very sick—people who had no chance to live anyway, and probably wanted to die quickly?" ”

“ Blood flowed from the cut down the end of the shoe and dripped sluggishly to the ground.
Irritably the old man tossed the shoe aside and took a handkerchief from a rear pocket of his trousers and wrapped it around the injured thumb. "I was glad she died," he said half-defiantly.
Derwin's eyebrows raised questioningly.
"That may sound heartless." The old man's voice was mild now. "But it isn't. My sister had cancer—had it bad. She was dying from it. And she was suffering horribly. Even drugs gave her no relief toward the last. ”

“ The boy made no answer except for his continued expectant gaze.
Derwin shrugged. "O.K. If you can't, you can't. The profs had a theory that you couldn't understand what they said, but that you got some of the meaning of the words from the sound and the inflections."
Still there was no response.
"Maybe you can read my mind?" Derwin waited a moment. "You're a strange one, whatever the answers might be. When you eight mutants were found in the lost islands area of the Lake of the Woods the doctor who had brought you there—evidently when you were very young—had been dead for years. ”

“ The next morning Derwin stopped in at a store on Mahtomedi Avenue and bought a pair of trousers, a shirt, a set of underwear, and a pair of socks. Two doors down he stopped in at another store and bought a pair of shoes.
He drove to the jail and shoved the clothing through the bars to the boy. "Here's something better for you to wear," he said and walked on to his office.
The boy carried his bundle to the rear of the cell and began changing. He was buttoning his shirt when he glanced through the small barred window in the wall and saw Derwin crossing the street toward a corner lunch room. ”

“ Derwin...." The old man brought his face closer to Derwin's. "Every human being should have the right to die. When the time comes that medicine can't help them any more, and they have nothing to look forward to, except suffering, they should be allowed to die if they want to." Abruptly he turned his back and walked into the house.
Dusk was edging into darkness when Derwin reached the home of the boy's third victim. The family lived in an upper duplex apartment. ”

“ He holstered his own gun and moved unwillingly closer to the boy. "Raise your hands." The boy did as he was told; Derwin patted him quickly about the chest and hips.
The examination was only barely adequate. "When we take him in," Derwin said, "careful not to get too near him. He can kill you, just with his hands. Stay out of reach."
Derwin put his prisoner in one of the three cells in White Bear Lake's jail. The boy offered no resistance. He stood with his head resting wearily against one of the steel bars and watched without apparent interest as his cell door was locked. ”

“ That's what he died from—the tumor in his head—and not the wild boy killing him."
"The doctors said it shouldn't have killed him—yet," Derwin demurred.
"I know. But the doctors were wrong." The young man began shoveling dirt into the hole again.
The sun was directly overhead when Derwin climbed out of his car, pushing his game leg stiffly ahead of him. He went up the flight of steps at the front of a large, white house and pressed the button beside the door. He rang three times without an answer. ”

“ The profs even believe he must have influenced your development before birth. Anyway, there was no doubt that you were all geniuses of a high order. But there was a screw loose somewhere. When you were brought to the University of Minnesota you soon turned into a pack of murderers. ”