~*Chapter 5*~

            A few days had passed without incident or mouth from Mueller; and Quatre took this with slight worry. If he were holding anything back; it would soon explode into a rage of pain and blood. He had come in from the Quarantine after an exceedingly long and harrowing day, and found it peculiar that Mueller wasn't busying himself around the poorhouse as he had done for the past week and a half since Alex's repugnant demise. As he stepped in; Wufei walked up to him with a strange and suspicious gleam in his eyes.

                "Something's amiss, Doctor," the Chinese man began, his gaze glancing around for something. "Mueller has been in the asylum all day; and there have been some strange sounds coming from within there. I suggest you look inside; I fear for your friend."

                Quatre nodded, looking slight troubled yet chary. "Thanks, Wufei. I'll go look now." The doctor stepped forward and vigilantly opened the door, cringing as the door creaked loudly, victim to years without proper oil and care. He stepped hesitantly through the dark room, ignoring the heavy reeking air, and turned the corner, expecting to find the bane of the poorhouse looming swaggeringly over Duo's usually candlelit cell. But strangely, there was only candlelight and the occasional turn of a page. Not wanting to disturb his friend, Quatre turned on his heel and made his way back out, a bit apprehensive.

                "Was he in there, doctor?" Wufei asked, Merian right behind him, a hand on his slender shoulder. The doctor looked at the Chinese couple and shook his head slightly to deter their qualms. 

                "No, it was silent; I saw nothing out of the ordinary…if you see anything, make note of it and tell me in the morning; I'll make sure to check up on it."

                "Are you bedding down, Doctor?"

                Quatre nodded. "I'm afraid so; I've had a rather trying day. But not to worry, I shall be up quite early tomorrow. Now you all get some rest, all right? It'll do you all some good."

                "Thank ye for yer caring, Doctor. We all greatly appreciate the trouble ye've gone though fer us," Dorothy said calmly, smiling at him with warmth. Quatre nodded.

                "It's no trouble at all, Miss Catalonia. Good night now." Quatre nodded to the Irishwoman, then turned, making his way up the deteriorating stone steps. Mice squealed as they ran under his feet, but, being used to the repulsing spectacle, he walked right on past. When he came to his room, he found the door strangely ajar. Apprehensively, he stepped inside; and as soon as he was in, he felt a sharp whistle of wind fly dangerously close to his ear. He jumped and turned to face the one who had thrown the projectile. Sitting on his bed was none other…than Mueller, looking smug and cocky. Quatre narrowed his eyes, not showing the adrenaline that was filling his veins. He turned curtly and pulled the projectile, his finely sharpened scalpel, from the rotting doorframe and turned back, wondering if this man could've been the one who had killed Alex. He kept his safe distance from the man, but went over to his dresser and grabbed a cloth and a small vial of ether to cleanse his tools.

                "Why did you come in here; no medical school would see you fit to hold a scalpel, so why in Hell would you think that I would? Now, please state your business and be out of my sight; I have no wish to toil with the bloody likes of you." Quatre's voice was full of disdainful venom; he would not disguise his hatred of this man. Mueller merely chuckled and stood, making his way over to the doctor until he was looking straight down at him, his eyes also full of disparagement.

                "You'd better watch yourself, Queer Ass Pretty Boy," Mueller said silkily, watching the rage in Quatre's eyes deepen, "I'm watching you…and I don't want to see you, or that fucked up bitch of yours doing anything that I consider…" He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Unsaintly."

                Quatre's fist came up and smashed into the taller man's face, splattering his nose across his features. The larger man reeled back, and Quatre began to shout at him, ignoring that dull pain in his knuckles.  Mueller, surprised by this, reeled back on his heels, seeing black and blue until his wobbly gaze came back to focus somewhat on the enraged doctor.

                "UNSAINTLY?!" Quatre screamed, stomping towards him in a furious wrath, "Who are you to talk about being "Unsaintly"?! Go look down at your charges and tell me about being saintly!?" He threw open his trunk and held an old bible in his hand. "I know what He said in this Book…now, go show me your version of "saintly"…let's see how you measure up with God himself…" His eyes narrowed again, determined to win this argument.

                Mueller said nothing, only continued with his smug smirk. "Have a good night's sleep, Dr. Winner…Let's hope that the murderer who got Alex doesn't get you…" And he left, the smug look still playing on his face as he closed the door. Quatre stared at the door with tapering eyes, his mind whirling with thoughts. He slid into the his bed after changing and stared up at the ceiling, the sounds of the city falling like rain into his room. As he drifted into an uneasy slumber, he couldn't shake the feeling that the murderer was near…so very near to him...

                All was dark; the poorhouse had been asleep for many hours now; and silently, his feet, the murderer's feet, silently began to step lithely across the cold stone floor through the gloom, a sharpened instrument of death in his hand. He passed by the slumbering Chinese couple; they would live through the night…they were not his principle targets. Catherine slept soundly a few feet from him as he passed, her head resting on a ratty but soft pillow upon the floor. She was also not to fall into the eternal slumber; not tonight.             

                A small stirring caught this man's keen ears, and he whirled around just in time to see Dorothy open her eyes and inhale sharply, ready to scream out in terror. But she never got the chance. He was on her as soon as her mouth had opened, and he pressed his hand roughly over her mouth.

                "Perhaps if you had not awakened, you might have lived to see tomorrow…" he said to her smoothly and calmly. Then, without pretense, he violently raked the weapon across her throat, silencing her as her own blood leaked into her lungs and dripped from the long, ragged gash in her neck. Blood spattered onto the assassin's hands, though they were gloved, and he watched as Dorothy Catalonia fell back to her bed, which was now soaked in crimson. He regarded the spectacle of her gory death with silent satisfaction, then continued on his way, letting the loose drops of blood fall into the floor. His true victim lay ahead…behind the barred door.

                Slowly, he opened the door, making sure to slip a few globules of oil into the rusty hinges beforehand. He would go unseen and unheard this night of red. He slipped like a cat into the asylum, his footsteps lightly stepping through the small puddles; puddles that would soon run scarlet with the river of life. He could hear his victim's voice, brash and cruel as he spoke to his least favorite inmate; the one that lay just around the corner in the very last cell. A dim flicker of candlelight gave the slayer a good glimpse of what he was here to accomplish; he knew none of the insane persons here would be able to describe the killer to the police. He was safe from their clutches.

                He turned the last corner and faced his prey with an arrogant smile, his eyes gleamed with lethal fires. The lumbering man turned from his verbal tormenting to face his visitor and paled visibly in the dim light; taking a step back. His fear kept him silent; unable to speak.

                "Good evening, Mueller…" the murderer said morbidly, raising the blood covered dagger to glance at him. "After I killed your associate, Alex…I wondered if…you'd care to join him."

                A weakened gasp escaped from Mueller's throat; which only made the kill even more pleasant. The assassin stepped forward toward the keeper purposely, watching the man's horrified reactions with gruesome glee. "I shall be glad to silence your mouth for the Good Doctor!" The murderer shouted with anger, then leapt at the helpless man, ramming the weapon deep into his neck. Blood spurted out from the the death wound, and Mueller could only mumble wordlessly as his slaughterer twisted the dagger deeper into his gullet, then ripped it out suddenly, the strings of his blood drenched vocal cords hanging limply upon the jagged blade. The murderer regarded his handiwork for a moment, and flung the severed entrails into a nearby cell, nearly knocking over a lit candle in the process.

                "Hmm…" he contemplated, watching as Mueller grew paler and paler with each splash of blood at the killer's feet. "I think I can do better than this." He launched an attack again, slashing the serrated weapon across his victim's chest and groin. Blood flew from every wound onto the wall and the murderer's clothing; he would have to burn it as soon as his grisly job was done. With a final stab, he drove the wicked blade home; deep into his chest cavity. The lumbering man, silenced for eternity, slowly slid to the floor against the wall; the look of deathly horror ever imprinted upon his features.

                With a smug look of fulfillment, the slayer turned from his latest job and quickly escaped from the asylum into the night. He did not know that one Irish inmate had seen the whole spectacle…