He was going to die the kind of magnificently horrible, gloriously painful death he’d often wished for himself, a death to rival that of his daughter’s, filled with a suffering that dwarfed—and maybe, if there was a Divine God, canceled—her own.

For you, honey, this is for you, he thought as his body, independent from his mind, began to thrash in the thing’s powerful grip.

His bowels emptied themselves of their contents, squittering liquid shit down the backs of his legs, fouling him as he wished to be fouled, a final humiliation in this life to prepare him for those awaiting him in the next.

The creature eased Timothy closer to its face.

He saw himself reflected in the obsidian pits of its eyes.

He looked so pathetic.

And that made him happy.

Then the creature, the Miracle, the Impossible Thing stretched out its arms, holding Timothy at a distance, and as he looked down at his executioner’s body Carol Beals’ father saw Retribution’s torso begin to move, to ripple, its crypt-gray pallor seeming to be lit brightly from within, the blue veins underneath becoming fragments of a broken rainbow as its center became alive with shapes that appeared in bas-relief; faces, all of them, dozens, hundreds, thousands of faces, all belonging to children, all of them screaming in agony.

No! Timothy thought with what little consciousness remained. They shouldn’t be screaming, they should rejoice! Another monster is dead and can’t hurt them anymore!

And, indeed, the children’s expressions changed from the pain of the abused to the ecstasy of the avenged as he heard, clearly, beautifully, their cries and shrieks become Handel’s majestic, angelic chorus.

The creature began to pull Timothy back, closer, closer—almost there, yes, that’s right, shh, be patient, I’ll make it last—and Timothy once again, with his last burst of energy, opened wide his arms to embrace this most splendid of deaths as the creature opened the gaping maw of its mouth and the lightning crackled above and the thunder roared with the sound of cheering multitudes and then, at the moment before the creature’s rot-scented mouth closed around Timothy’s neck, all the sounds coalesced into one; simple, pure, untainted:

“I sick, Daddy.”

Daddy’s coming, thought Timothy in the last five seconds of his life. Daddy’s coming. He’ll make things right again, he’ll repair the damage done...

Daddy’ll fix it.

* * *

No one was there at the park to see Mr. Hands’ triumphant return.

He didn’t mind.

Within him, children sang happy tunes, filled with love and devotion.

He was more than happy to let them sing their praises.

The storm was beginning to die down. Soon there would be light and people and too many eyes to see him.

So Mr. Hands gripped the sides of the sculpture at the entrance to Moundbuilders Park, gracefully swung his mighty body upward in a smooth arc, and slid back down inside the pit, making himself smaller—but not too much smaller—so as to fit inside and not be seen.