He saw visions of Tobu, the African boy, pleading with him, begging him for help. And he saw the skinless form of a man, eye sockets gaping above peeled ligament and muscle, a mouth without lips crying out for mercy. Tassone saw himself as a boy, waiting on the beach for the return of his father, and then he saw his mother on her deathbed, begging for forgiveness for dying, for deserting him so young and abandoning him to fate. He awoke that night crying out, as though he were his own mother, pleading to be forgiven. And when he lapsed again into slumber, the figure of Christ appeared beside him, assuring him that he would be forgiven. Christ in all his boyish beauty, his slim body still bearing scars, knelt by Tassone and told him he was still welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven. All he had to do was repent.

The nightmares had shaken Tassone, and Spilletto sensed the tension, summoning him to his quarters to find the reason for it. But Tassone was in too deeply now, knowing his life would be in danger if he betrayed any doubt, and he assured Spilletto he was eager still to do what had to be done. It was the pain in his back that was bothering him, he said, and Spilletto offered him a vial of pills to bring relief. From then on, until the act was at hand, Tassone rested in a state of drugged tranquility, and the disquieting visions of Christ ceased to haunt him.

The night of June sixth. The sixth month, the sixth day, the sixth hour. Events occurred that would follow Tassone to the end of his days. In the midst of labor the surrogate mother had begun to wail, Sister Maria Teresa silencing it with ether as its giant progeny tore through the womb. Tassone finished the job for her with the stone given to him by Spilletto. He crushed the animal's head to a pulp, and it prepared him for what had to be done to the human child. But when the newborn human child was brought down to him, he hesitated, for it was a child of uncommon beauty. He gazed at them both, the two infants side by side: the blood-covered one, thick with hair; and the soft, white, beautiful one, its eyes gazing upward in absolute trust. He knew what had to be done, and he did it, but he did not do it well. It had to be redone, and he sobbed as he tore open the crate to hit the Thorn child once again. For an instant he was gripped by the impulse to grab the child up in his arms, to run with it and keep running, to find a place of safety. But he saw the infant was already damaged, irreparably so, and the stone came down hard again. And again. And again. Until the sound had stopped and the body lay still.