The umbrella created only a weak dome of protection.  Rain blew across the lawn dampening clothes and bringing a chill to exposed skin.  Horus Benning's hand-tooled, Italian leather loafers sloshed in the waterlogged grass.

The six hundred dollar shoes were ruined.  Nothing would salvage them now.  He wondered if anyone would notice if he expensed new ones.  Would anyone care?  Was six hundred dollars enough for some besieged accountant going through the massive cost and expenditures of the household to notice?

The strange wrought iron structure drew close enough to make out details through the sheets of rain.  Horus peered between the twisted beams and the confusion of interlacing rods, but he was unable to see Kyle inside.

Set at the end of the long east lawn, the monstrosity was some sort of bandstand, seemingly designed for a public park in one of Hell's deeper circles.  It was entirely made from ugly, misshapen black iron, and it looked like the skeletal remains of some great, hideous beast.  Scrap metal gargoyles perched from each of the many points jutting off the roof, which itself was covered in some unnatural plastic crafted to look like black leather. 

Kyle would occasionally use it for jam sessions.  If he were in a good enough mood and the weather was warm and dry, he would go out there with a few other musicians picked from the sparse collection of people he tolerated as friends or the even more meager selection of artists he had respect for.  And day or night, the sound of tortured guitars and subjugated drums would blare across the estate.

But when the weather was as stormy as his frame of mind, Kyle Silver would go out to that nightmarish cage and sulk.

The bizarre pergola was featured on the album cover for The Princes of Darkness's One Last Nightmare.  A collection released shortly after the band's breakup, containing songs that weren't good enough to make the cut when they were together.  To Horus's knowledge, none of the recordings had been made on the bandstand.  The photo had been chosen because there was no way to get all five members together to sit for a new picture and because the late afternoon lighting gave the stage the ghoulish look that people had come to expect in their cover art.  It was the icing on the great cynical cake that was an album whose sole function was to milk a little more cash from fans and help extend the opulent lifestyles of The Princes for another year or two.

Horus climbed the stairs.  Each one creaked along their welds under his weight.  The vinyl roof flapped in the fierce storm like massive batwings and cast a wavering shadow making the gloom deeper.  When his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, his first thought was that Kyle had cut himself.  Something red splattered across the polished teak floorboards.

It took only a second to realize that there was far too much of it to be blood.  It was an elaborate design.  Kyle was stooped down in the middle of it with a large plastic jar of paint.

He worked on his hands and knees.  Stringy from the rain, his long hair drooped down and touched the floor in front of him.  The paint mixed with the water giving it a mercurial quality.  It hovered above the wood's weatherproofing, floating and changing at the whims of the wind.

"Kyle."  The name was lost under the sound of the tempest.  Horus closed the umbrella and held it down like a cane, before clearing his throat and saying with a forced volume, "Kyle, I see you took my suggestion for art therapy."

The princeling looked up at him.  His eyes were ragged from lack of sleep and filled with hate, but there was also a cloud of confusion.

He probably can't figure out if I'm joking or not, Horus thought.

Kyle turned his head and his scowl back to his work, apparently having decided that his doctor wasn't capable of humor.

"Fuck therapy."

Horus carefully strolled around the perimeter of the design trying to make sense of it, but not expecting to find anything resembling sanity.  There was a clear pattern of circles.  Circles within circles.  There was also writing of some kind.  Having studied Greek and Latin, Horus concluded that both the words and the alphabet were something Kyle was making up on the spot.

"What's wrong, Kyle?  What is all this?"  He waved the umbrella's tip at the intricate finger-painting.

"The world is going to end."  The young man growled the words while making a fierce slash with a handful of the crimson paint and adding a new circle to the arabesque.

Horus's face brightened in surprise, but Kyle didn't look up to see.  Horus didn't think he'd get to the bottom of this latest delusion so quickly.  He had expected to spend the next hour talking to a wall trying to wheedle something other than profanity out of his patient.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is.  Don't you read the papers?"  Kyle reached two fingers into the jar and pulled out another glob.  He splattered it down to make a symbol that resembled a semicolon topped with a sun. 

"All the time."  Horus started up his slow circuit around the bandstand again.  "Maybe I missed something.  Is it ending today?" 

"No.  Don't be stupid.  It'll end in 2012.  Everything ends then.  There's nothing after that."

"Ah, you're talking about the Mayans."  Horus vaguely remembered hearing some sensational nonsense about an ancient calendar with an end date.  It was something new for people to worry about after the new millennium had failed to bring civilization to its knees.

Kyle snorted and looked at Horus.  It was clear that he had nothing but scorn for the doctor's words.  "The Mayans knew exactly what was going on, but only because the aliens showed them."

Horus rubbed the pad of his thumb against the smooth wood of the umbrella handle.  Should he say something about this?  Usually, Kyle's fantasies had to do with demons or mythical creatures like vampires and werewolves.  He hadn't heard him bring up aliens before.

"The Elder Ones," Kyle continued.  "The Mayans unearthed the ancient alien gods from their eon long slumber and stole their knowledge from them.  It was these beings of untold power that knew when our world would end."

"I see."  Horus didn't even bother hiding the condescension he felt.

Two-hundred and forty thousand dollars a year plus expenses.  He repeated this mantra in his head.  This is why he did it.  This was why he was standing there in the middle of a monsoon, while Kyle Silver, the demented lovechild of Count Dracula and Eeyore, indulged every deluded notion that entered his head.

"And this?"  He pointed with his free hand.  "Is this to stop it?  Are you adding another millennium to their calendar?"

"Are you seriously that fucking dumb?"  Kyle's mouth was twisted into a bitter grimace.  His red rimmed eyes were full of loathing and they seemed to be trying to radiate death rays. 

Horus gave a pleasant smile as if he'd just been asked where he'd bought his exquisite shoes.  He was far too used to Kyle's venom to be shaken by it.

"Why don't you enlighten me," he said.

"This will make me immortal."  Kyle stayed on his knees but stretched up straightening his back.  His arms reached out into a Jesus pose, encompassing his masterpiece.  His hands opened wide and looked gore covered.  An expression of ecstasy broke over his face.  "I will live forever.  Even when the world ends, I will live on."

The words rang in Horus's ears.  So many years had passed but they were still clear.  The memory of that afternoon in the rain played out so vividly before him, he barely noticed the break room emptying out.

The technicians who had been sitting at the table across from him were gone, and all that was left was crumbs and a sticky ring of cola marking where a soda can had sat. 

The three men had fallen into a clique with each other.  A casual camaraderie based on mutual interests and similar positions inside the Music Box.  Brian Aikman had been sitting with his back to Horus.  His cleanly shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent tubes lighting the room.  Next to him had been O'Bree.  Almost as big as Horus, he sat too close to the table and it cut into his belly.  The man was always smiling but never said much.  Horus wasn't exactly sure what he did, but it had something to do with the equipment in the labs.

Both of them had spent their lunch hour listening to Kelman rattling on about the new air filters he just installed.  Unlike O'Bree, Kelman never seemed to stop talking.  His voice had been so constant Horus had stopped hearing it.  Now its absence marked a shift in the atmosphere of the room.

In the corner, Paulson was grabbing his puzzle book and rushing to leave.  His plate and uneaten pizza crusts left behind for someone else to clean up.

A glance at the vintage Omega on his wrist showed there were nearly ten minutes left in the lunch break.  Horus wasn't sure what the others had found so urgent.

Well, I'm not hurrying back.

"Dr. Benning."  A sharp voice spoke, clipping each syllable like a small hammer on tin.

   Horus's mood had been cheerless, but at the sound of his own name spoken in that voice, he could feel himself deflate.  It was as if he was exhaling out his very last remnants of joy.

"Dr. Gracie, won't you join me?"  He tried to sound cheerful while making a mental note to stop sitting with his back to the door.

Barbara Gracie stepped around the table and took her time sliding into the chair opposite.  Her crystalline blue eyes watched him.  There were almost no blinks to shield him from their glare, no matter how briefly.

"No, lunch today?  Or have you already eaten?"  He let a lazy smile play on his lips.  She stayed stone faced.  Was she trying to unnerve him?  Did she really think she could play any mind games on him that Kyle Silver hadn't given him infinite practice with? 

"My doctor has me on these grisly salads."  He poked the clear plastic takeout container with his fork.  "I'm not even sure what the hell quinoa is?"

Barbara spoke, overlapping his words.  "I don't believe your profession helps anyone."

Horus kept up his amiable act.  He wouldn't rise to her bait.  "Well, you're certainly entitled to—"

"But I've noticed that a lot of people talk to you.  And I would assume you are a decent observer of human behavior."

An insult followed by faint praise—what was she up to?  

An exhausted sigh escaped him.  "What is it that you want, Barbara?"  

None of the tension left her body, but her facial muscles relaxed.  It appeared as though she was relieved the conversation had been brought to the point.

"We are all here because of coercion.  The DTAA has threatened or blackmailed each of us.  Or they've offered us something we so desperately wanted that we jumped at the deal without looking."

Horus nodded sagely.  It was the same noncommittal nod he often employed when a patient decided to hypothesize about their own issues.

"Everyone knows why I'm here.  I haven't kept it any secret.  I can guess at some of the others.  A few people like that big mouth has actually told me."  A slight jerk in her neck indicated the empty table behind her.  

"Kelman?  He seems like a nice enough kid.  Surely they're not blackmailing him?"

"He's in trouble over something he shouldn't have seen.  The agency is providing a type of witness protection in exchange for his services."

"Huh."  It was the first he'd heard of that.  There was a very simple logic to it, like a jigsaw piece clicking into place.  Talking too much could be a severe liability if he'd been a witness to a crime.  Depending on the parties involved.

While Horus was still contemplating this, Barbara started talking again.  "So considering that most of the people on the team have something to hide or something that the DTAA has found to leverage, I was wondering if you had come to any opinions about anyone down here.  Specifically, do you think anyone might be dangerous?"

He scratched his beard, drawing his thumbnail from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his chin.  "Dangerous?  In what way?"

"I've killed.  And I'm pretty certain Wiley has.  Is there anyone else that you think would be capable of murder?"

The word seemed to worm into his weak heart. 

"And I don't mean a crime of passion.  I mean premeditated murder.  Someone who could kill and then cover it up.  Say, make it look like a drug overdose.  Hypothetically."

Pins and needles danced across his fingerprints.  His vision blurred just enough to give everything a soft glow.  Despite the weight that was sitting on his chest, he found himself standing.

"No.  No one would do that except maybe you."  He wagged a finger at her, feeling foolish.  He realized he must look like a scolding father.  "I don't know what awful insinuation you're trying to make, but I do not think this is at all appropriate.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed in the OC."

On the way out, he struggled to keep any sign of wobble out of his knees.  A fever of anger flushed his face.  It was directed at himself as much as it was at Gracie.  He had handled that badly.  He had behaved exactly as though he were guilty.  If he could wind back time, he would force himself to stay there and affably offer up some theories about human nature.

But when she dumped her thinly veiled accusation on him, he wasn't able to think.  He just knew he had to get away from there.  It was the same instinct he had at the hospital after he recovered himself.  That was why he refused further treatment, jumped in a cab, and headed for home.

One way or another, Kyle Silver was destined to haunt his every step.