“You mean an alarm?”

“Kind of. Several years ago, a young boy climbed a substation fence and was badly burned when he brushed against one of the transformers. Since then any place that constitutes a danger zone has been fenced off and wired with a pressure-sensitive switch. If something pushes against the fence, a mild electrical shock is given. If it continues, the shock steadily increases until it is a pretty stiff jolt. That’s what we call a three sixty-six. It rarely happens, because the system works so well.”

“So what could this be?” Eric asked. “An animal?”

“Not likely, unless it’s stuck somehow. The first charge would drive it away. No, I’m afraid it’s an MC.”

“A what?”

“A masochist. We call them MCs.” He swung around another corner. “Okay, here’s Pepper Street. Less than a minute now.”

“A masochist?”

“Yes. You know, the opposite of a sadist. A sadist likes to inflict pain on others. A masochist likes to have pain inflicted on him.”

“I know what the word means. I just don’t understand what—”

“Occasionally we find people who deliberately seek to create pain for themselves. They get some kind of sick satisfaction out of it. I haven’t seen one for several years now.” He flicked the lights on bright. “There’s the substation, coming up.”

He braked down hard, and the car slid a few feet on the wet pavement. The headlights illuminated a small fenced area and a heavy-set figure with his back to the light, arms outstretched and fingers interlocked into the fence. As Clayne flipped on the spotlight, the figure whirled around.

“Well, I’ll be—” Clayne breathed. “It’s Charlie Bird. I thought he was still in the psycho ward of the hospital.”

He swung open the door. “Bring the stun gun,” he commanded, “but don’t use it unless I say.”

Eric got out of the car, taking the long pistol off its rack underneath the dashboard.

The man was peering at them, blinded by the lights. He was young, probably less than twenty-five. His hair was wildly tousled, his eyes wide and glassy.

“All right, Charlie,” Clayne called easily. “The fun’s over. Come away from the fence.”

The hands snaked backward and grasped the chain links. Eric saw the man’s arms stiffen slightly and his eyes widen.

“Who is it?” the man cried. “Who knows Charlie Bird?”

“It’s Clayne Robertson, Charlie.” Then to Eric, more softly, he said, “Call Central Control. Tell them to cut the juice here.”

As Eric obeyed, he saw Clayne move forward, talking softly. Eric called in quickly, then got out of the car and moved forward, the stun gun ready.

“Come on, Charlie,” Clayne soothed, approaching slowly.