Chapter Fifteen-The Night of Deliverance
Time painfully went by. Seconds slowly ticked into minutes, and before Marguerite knew it, half an hour had passed since John, Veronica, and Ned had left to douse out the unexpected fire that had erupted in the middle of the night.
Challenger, sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, watched as Marguerite nervously paced up and down. "Marguerite, my dear," his voice began, "I think it's best that you come and sit down with me. You aren't looking very well."
"Looking well? Of course I'm not looking well!" Marguerite stopped her pacing to gaze out into the night sky. "How can I be? Not only am I eight- and-a-half months pregnant . . . John and the others have rushed out-in the middle of the night-to douse out a fire that was started by God knows what!" Marguerite sighed sullenly. "Damn it, George . . . I'm so afraid for them!"
"Afraid?" Challenger stood up from his chair and put a comforting hand on Marguerite's shoulder. "Why, Marguerite?"
Marguerite turned to look up worriedly at Challenger. "It's just . . . a feeling I have," she replied warily, "something tells me that this isn't right!"
"Oh, Marguerite. Please, just try not to worry. John and the others can take care of themselves. They'll be fine. Trust me, Marguerite; they'll be back safely and soundly before you know it."
"I hope so, Challenger," Marguerite said, and yawned tiredly. Challenger gently took her by the arm and led her to a lounging chair. "Sit down," he said, and helped her into the chair, "and try to get some rest."
Marguerite shivered and tightened her bed robe. "I won't be able to sleep until I know that the others' are back safely," she declared.
Challenger kneeled beside the worn-out heiress. "Seriously, Marguerite . . . you need your rest. You and your child." He smiled warmly. "I promise that I'll wake you up when they arrive-"
The sound of the ascending elevator suddenly interrupted Challenger. Immediately, Marguerite perked up. "That'll be them!" she exclaimed, and sat up as quick as she could. She sighed in relief, and made her way to the elevator to greet John and the others.
Challenger furrowed his brow. "They're back already?" he asked. "They . . . they've only been gone for half an hour. They couldn't have doused the fire that quickly!" He strode over to the balcony . . . where his heart skipped a beat.
There, in the distance, he could see the fire still raging. For the most part it had been doused, but many sections of burning embers still glowed brightly in the dark atmosphere. Those burning embers could easily relight themselves, as any sensible person knew. In fact, Challenger could still (barely) see the shadowy silhouettes of his friends in the distance, as they ran back and forth and tried to smother the remaining flames with wet towels. So if they were still outside . . . who was coming up in the elevator?
Something was very wrong indeed.
Then, the realization hit Challenger right in the face. Marguerite had been right after all! It was a trap! And the fire had only been a mere distraction to lure out the security, while the vulnerable Marguerite and a watcher stayed inside. . . .
"Marguerite!" cried Challenger as he turned away from the balcony and ran towards the elevator. "Don't go near the elevator! It's all a-"
Challenger gasped and stopped in his tracks . . . as he beheld Brett Jenkins, standing right in front of him with an evil grin spread across his face. In his grasp was a very terrified Marguerite. A gun was aimed directly at her throat. "Challenger. . . !" she voiced in a frightened whisper.
"Don't you even think about moving," Jenkins warned, his evil face filled with disdain, " because if you do, she dies!"
Challenger narrowed his eyebrows. "Jenkins," he said darkly, "I should have known all along!"
Jenkins sneered hellishly. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" He chuckled unkindly. "And I thought that you were supposed to be smart. What a waste of intelligence!" He paused to gesture at Challenger. "Hands in the air!" he ordered. When Challenger had done so, he turned his gaze towards Marguerite, and smiled sickly. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose again her hair. "Mmm, you smell so good, my lovely," he whispered into Marguerite's ear. Marguerite trembled, and Jenkins grinned. "It's too bad that you've already been spoiled by that bastard who calls himself a Lord."
As Marguerite whimpered in fright, Challenger's eyes turned dark. "Who the hell do you think you are, barging into our home like this in the middle of the night?" His voice lowered dangerously. "What are you doing here, Brett? What do you want?" Jenkins redirected his attention to Challenger. "The answer is quite simple," he began, "I'm here to kill John. But before I do so, I have a small . . . confession . . . to tell him." He sighed. "I knew that John would have me subdued if I just burst in here like I could have done. . . ." Brett sneered. "But now that I have you and his precious wench under my gunpoint, John might be in more of mood to talk. And you had better pray that he will be, because if he isn't-" Jenkins snarled with malice. "Both of you die."
A tear emerged from Marguerite's eye. "If you say or do anything more to hurt him," she began, her quivering voice becoming lower with warning, "I swear to God that I'll . . . I'll. . . ."
"You'll what?" asked a humoured Jenkins.
Marguerite closed her eyes and squeezed them shut. Her hands moved down to clutch her swollen abdomen. "Ohhh," she groaned, and began to breathe heavily. Sweat dripped down her forehead. She gasped in pain as she felt the muscles inside of her contract excruciatingly.
"Marguerite?" asked Challenger, suddenly becoming more alarmed. He stepped forwards to help her . . . but stopped when Jenkins pointed his revolver in his direction. "That's far enough!" He gestured to Marguerite. "What in hell's name is wrong with her?" he demanded.
Challenger slowly glared up at him. "You fool! She's about to give birth!"
For a brief moment, shock overtook the contempt look on his face. But soon enough, his evil grin returned to his face. "Excellent," he said, laughing immorally, "my timing couldn't have been better!" He turned to look at Challenger. "Can you deliver children?" he demanded.
Challenger gulped. "I've read about the birthing of children and have studied it many times, yes, but . . . I've never actually performed the procedure. . . ."
"That's good enough for me!" Jenkins cried as he grabbed Marguerite and shoved her into Challenger's arms. His revolver still hovered in the scientist's direction. "Do what you must. But don't even think of trying anything funny! Because if you do. . . ." he aimed the revolver at Marguerite. "You, my dear Challenger, will be responsible for two deaths at one time!"
Challenger still held his dark gaze at Jenkins. Finally, he turned to Marguerite, who was becoming worse with every second. "Challenger!" she cried in pain, as tears poured from her eyes. "It . . . it hurts!" She frantically gasped for air.
Challenger took Marguerite's hands in his. "Breathe, Marguerite!" he cried. "Remember the breathing patterns I taught you?"
Marguerite nodded silently. She began to take in the various breathing patterns she had learned during her early months of pregnancy.
Challenger nodded encouragingly. "That's it, Marguerite! Now come with me!" He led her to Veronica's room, where everything necessary for the delivery had already been set out; everyone in the treehouse had well known that the time was soon to come when Marguerite would birth her child. As extra caution, Veronica had given up her room and allowed it to be set up properly so that when the time did come, everything would be ready.
Jenkins followed closely as Challenger led Marguerite to Veronica's room, revolver still in hand. All the while, a wicked smile played across his features. He laughed sinisterly. 'This is perfect,' he thought silently, 'just perfect! Not only do I have Challenger and Marguerite . . . soon, I will have their child to play as well!"
Meanwhile, outside of the treehouse, the other members worked quickly to finish dousing out the remaining embers that blazed brightly in the darkness of the night.
Ned Malone grunted as he whipped a wet towel down to the ash-covered ground to smother a small pile of lit cinders. He coughed as he breathed in the smoke that abruptly rose into the air. "That's the last one!" he managed to cry in between fits of coughing.
Veronica came to Ned's side. "You okay, Ned?" she asked in concern.
Ned nodded silently. "Yeah, thanks," he said. "Where's Roxton?"
"Right here, Malone," came the reply. Roxton shook out his wet towel. Ashes flew into the air. He too coughed as the grey smoke hovered up into the night sky. He knelt down to breathe in the clearer air, when suddenly. . . .
Roxton squinted in the darkness. He fingers stroked a certain spot on the ground, where an indent had been made. "Malone!" he cried and gestured with his hand. "Bring the lantern over here, quickly! I've found something."
Immediately, Veronica and Malone knelt down beside him, Malone holding out the lit lantern above the ground before them. The lantern cast its small yet bright light downwards, creating a small spotlight that illuminated a certain section of the ground.
"What is it?" asked Veronica. She brushed away a few black ashes from the spot Roxton had pinpointed, and narrowed her eyes. "That looks like a boot print," she observed, and looked questioningly at Roxton, "but how could that be?"
"The fire came close to here," noted Roxton, "but it didn't make it here exactly. The only reason we can still see it is because the fire didn't consume this spot of ground before it was doused out."
"So?" asked Malone as he shrugged innocently. "It's a boot print. What's the big deal?"
"Look at it carefully, Malone," said Roxton as he stared down at it, as if he were in a trance, "the print obviously belongs to a male, with precisely a size eleven boot. No one here has boots that size."
Veronica stood up grimly, as she realized what Roxton was getting to. "Are there any more of these?" she asked. She took the lantern from Malone's hand and held it out before her. She keenly scanned the ground below her, and knelt down abruptly. "There are!" she exclaimed. "There's a whole trail right here!"
"Does it lead anywhere?" asked Malone, eyeing the trail intently.
Veronica gulped. "It leads to the treehouse," she correctly concluded. She slowly and dismally turned around to face Roxton . . . who was stricken with horror.
Malone shared Roxton's horrified glance. "The fire," he said in understanding, "it was deliberately set by someone! He did it so he could get us out. . . ."
"And get himself in . . . in the treehouse!" Veronica's eyes widened with terror.
Anger and fright swirled in Roxton's head, as his mind clouded with darkness. Suddenly, he turned towards the treehouse. "Brett Jenkins!!" he yelled in rage. "Damn you, Brett Jenkins!"
"This was all a trap!" exclaimed Malone. "We've got to get back to the treehouse now! Challenger and Marguerite could be in serious danger!"
Roxton furiously clutched his rifle. "Come on!" he cried. He, Malone, and Veronica bolted towards the treehouse as fast as they could, completely unaware that they were already too late.
In the time being, Marguerite laid on top of Veronica's bed. She screamed loudly as the agonizing and writhing pain of birth erupted in her lower abdomen with every contraction. She felt freezing cold, yet she also felt boiling hot at the same time. Her body was covered in goosebumps, while beads of dribbling sweat rolled off her forehead.
"CHALLEN-GER!!!!" she screeched as tears poured out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She had never felt so weak in her entire life.
"That's it, Marguerite!" cried Challenger encouragingly. "Push, Marguerite! I can see the head already! Keep pushing!"
Marguerite panted for air, and screamed once again. Her scream echoed throughout the entire treehouse. The pain seemed to rip through her like no pain ever could. "JOHN!" she bellowed, and squeezed her eyes shut.
That was when the memory of Marguerite's nightmare that she had almost nine months ago entered her mind. Marguerite realized that she had not had a nightmare, but an extremely similar vision. Only this time, there was no village, and there was no army. There was only herself, and Challenger.
But the enemy was still there. From the corner of the room, Brett Jenkins watched and waited eagerly, fingering his revolver. Anger and hate immediately filled Marguerite's head. Mustering up all of her hidden strength, Marguerite sat up determinedly. She was going to do this! She was going to bring her and John's child safely into the world! And no one- NO ONE-was going to stop her.
"JOHN!" she screamed again as she pushed as hard as she could. The pain once again tore through her, but Marguerite didn't let that stop her. "JOHHHHNNN!"
Challenger smiled. "That's it!" he shouted in joy as he held Marguerite's screeching child in his hands. "You did it, Marguerite, you did it!" He grabbed a scalpel and was just about to cut the umbilical cord, when suddenly . . . he paused and frowned.
"What is it?" asked an eager Jenkins, who perked up from his position against the wall. "What's going on?" He clutched his revolver. Challenger was speechless, as he gazed down. "I cannot believe it. . . ." From her position on the bed, Marguerite whimpered weakly. "Challenger . . . what is it . . . what about my child. . . ."
". . . .Your son," Challenger interjected, "is perfectly fine, Marguerite." He cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the tiny child in a soft towel. He rested Marguerite's son into a wooden cradle by the bedside. "And you shall see him soon. But first, Marguerite, you must get back up! You're not quite finished yet!"
"Wh-what?" Marguerite gasped weakly. "What are you . . . saying?"
"I'm saying that you have another child on the way!" cried Challenger, as his gaze came upon Marguerite's surprised face. "You have twins, Marguerite!"
At hearing this unexpected news, the surprised look on Jenkins' face turned to sheer, evil pleasure. 'This is better than I anticipated,' he thought grimly. Oh, he couldn't wait to see the look on John's face when he . . . Jenkins threw back his head and roared with immoral laughter.
Time painfully went by. Seconds slowly ticked into minutes, and before Marguerite knew it, half an hour had passed since John, Veronica, and Ned had left to douse out the unexpected fire that had erupted in the middle of the night.
Challenger, sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, watched as Marguerite nervously paced up and down. "Marguerite, my dear," his voice began, "I think it's best that you come and sit down with me. You aren't looking very well."
"Looking well? Of course I'm not looking well!" Marguerite stopped her pacing to gaze out into the night sky. "How can I be? Not only am I eight- and-a-half months pregnant . . . John and the others have rushed out-in the middle of the night-to douse out a fire that was started by God knows what!" Marguerite sighed sullenly. "Damn it, George . . . I'm so afraid for them!"
"Afraid?" Challenger stood up from his chair and put a comforting hand on Marguerite's shoulder. "Why, Marguerite?"
Marguerite turned to look up worriedly at Challenger. "It's just . . . a feeling I have," she replied warily, "something tells me that this isn't right!"
"Oh, Marguerite. Please, just try not to worry. John and the others can take care of themselves. They'll be fine. Trust me, Marguerite; they'll be back safely and soundly before you know it."
"I hope so, Challenger," Marguerite said, and yawned tiredly. Challenger gently took her by the arm and led her to a lounging chair. "Sit down," he said, and helped her into the chair, "and try to get some rest."
Marguerite shivered and tightened her bed robe. "I won't be able to sleep until I know that the others' are back safely," she declared.
Challenger kneeled beside the worn-out heiress. "Seriously, Marguerite . . . you need your rest. You and your child." He smiled warmly. "I promise that I'll wake you up when they arrive-"
The sound of the ascending elevator suddenly interrupted Challenger. Immediately, Marguerite perked up. "That'll be them!" she exclaimed, and sat up as quick as she could. She sighed in relief, and made her way to the elevator to greet John and the others.
Challenger furrowed his brow. "They're back already?" he asked. "They . . . they've only been gone for half an hour. They couldn't have doused the fire that quickly!" He strode over to the balcony . . . where his heart skipped a beat.
There, in the distance, he could see the fire still raging. For the most part it had been doused, but many sections of burning embers still glowed brightly in the dark atmosphere. Those burning embers could easily relight themselves, as any sensible person knew. In fact, Challenger could still (barely) see the shadowy silhouettes of his friends in the distance, as they ran back and forth and tried to smother the remaining flames with wet towels. So if they were still outside . . . who was coming up in the elevator?
Something was very wrong indeed.
Then, the realization hit Challenger right in the face. Marguerite had been right after all! It was a trap! And the fire had only been a mere distraction to lure out the security, while the vulnerable Marguerite and a watcher stayed inside. . . .
"Marguerite!" cried Challenger as he turned away from the balcony and ran towards the elevator. "Don't go near the elevator! It's all a-"
Challenger gasped and stopped in his tracks . . . as he beheld Brett Jenkins, standing right in front of him with an evil grin spread across his face. In his grasp was a very terrified Marguerite. A gun was aimed directly at her throat. "Challenger. . . !" she voiced in a frightened whisper.
"Don't you even think about moving," Jenkins warned, his evil face filled with disdain, " because if you do, she dies!"
Challenger narrowed his eyebrows. "Jenkins," he said darkly, "I should have known all along!"
Jenkins sneered hellishly. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" He chuckled unkindly. "And I thought that you were supposed to be smart. What a waste of intelligence!" He paused to gesture at Challenger. "Hands in the air!" he ordered. When Challenger had done so, he turned his gaze towards Marguerite, and smiled sickly. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose again her hair. "Mmm, you smell so good, my lovely," he whispered into Marguerite's ear. Marguerite trembled, and Jenkins grinned. "It's too bad that you've already been spoiled by that bastard who calls himself a Lord."
As Marguerite whimpered in fright, Challenger's eyes turned dark. "Who the hell do you think you are, barging into our home like this in the middle of the night?" His voice lowered dangerously. "What are you doing here, Brett? What do you want?" Jenkins redirected his attention to Challenger. "The answer is quite simple," he began, "I'm here to kill John. But before I do so, I have a small . . . confession . . . to tell him." He sighed. "I knew that John would have me subdued if I just burst in here like I could have done. . . ." Brett sneered. "But now that I have you and his precious wench under my gunpoint, John might be in more of mood to talk. And you had better pray that he will be, because if he isn't-" Jenkins snarled with malice. "Both of you die."
A tear emerged from Marguerite's eye. "If you say or do anything more to hurt him," she began, her quivering voice becoming lower with warning, "I swear to God that I'll . . . I'll. . . ."
"You'll what?" asked a humoured Jenkins.
Marguerite closed her eyes and squeezed them shut. Her hands moved down to clutch her swollen abdomen. "Ohhh," she groaned, and began to breathe heavily. Sweat dripped down her forehead. She gasped in pain as she felt the muscles inside of her contract excruciatingly.
"Marguerite?" asked Challenger, suddenly becoming more alarmed. He stepped forwards to help her . . . but stopped when Jenkins pointed his revolver in his direction. "That's far enough!" He gestured to Marguerite. "What in hell's name is wrong with her?" he demanded.
Challenger slowly glared up at him. "You fool! She's about to give birth!"
For a brief moment, shock overtook the contempt look on his face. But soon enough, his evil grin returned to his face. "Excellent," he said, laughing immorally, "my timing couldn't have been better!" He turned to look at Challenger. "Can you deliver children?" he demanded.
Challenger gulped. "I've read about the birthing of children and have studied it many times, yes, but . . . I've never actually performed the procedure. . . ."
"That's good enough for me!" Jenkins cried as he grabbed Marguerite and shoved her into Challenger's arms. His revolver still hovered in the scientist's direction. "Do what you must. But don't even think of trying anything funny! Because if you do. . . ." he aimed the revolver at Marguerite. "You, my dear Challenger, will be responsible for two deaths at one time!"
Challenger still held his dark gaze at Jenkins. Finally, he turned to Marguerite, who was becoming worse with every second. "Challenger!" she cried in pain, as tears poured from her eyes. "It . . . it hurts!" She frantically gasped for air.
Challenger took Marguerite's hands in his. "Breathe, Marguerite!" he cried. "Remember the breathing patterns I taught you?"
Marguerite nodded silently. She began to take in the various breathing patterns she had learned during her early months of pregnancy.
Challenger nodded encouragingly. "That's it, Marguerite! Now come with me!" He led her to Veronica's room, where everything necessary for the delivery had already been set out; everyone in the treehouse had well known that the time was soon to come when Marguerite would birth her child. As extra caution, Veronica had given up her room and allowed it to be set up properly so that when the time did come, everything would be ready.
Jenkins followed closely as Challenger led Marguerite to Veronica's room, revolver still in hand. All the while, a wicked smile played across his features. He laughed sinisterly. 'This is perfect,' he thought silently, 'just perfect! Not only do I have Challenger and Marguerite . . . soon, I will have their child to play as well!"
Meanwhile, outside of the treehouse, the other members worked quickly to finish dousing out the remaining embers that blazed brightly in the darkness of the night.
Ned Malone grunted as he whipped a wet towel down to the ash-covered ground to smother a small pile of lit cinders. He coughed as he breathed in the smoke that abruptly rose into the air. "That's the last one!" he managed to cry in between fits of coughing.
Veronica came to Ned's side. "You okay, Ned?" she asked in concern.
Ned nodded silently. "Yeah, thanks," he said. "Where's Roxton?"
"Right here, Malone," came the reply. Roxton shook out his wet towel. Ashes flew into the air. He too coughed as the grey smoke hovered up into the night sky. He knelt down to breathe in the clearer air, when suddenly. . . .
Roxton squinted in the darkness. He fingers stroked a certain spot on the ground, where an indent had been made. "Malone!" he cried and gestured with his hand. "Bring the lantern over here, quickly! I've found something."
Immediately, Veronica and Malone knelt down beside him, Malone holding out the lit lantern above the ground before them. The lantern cast its small yet bright light downwards, creating a small spotlight that illuminated a certain section of the ground.
"What is it?" asked Veronica. She brushed away a few black ashes from the spot Roxton had pinpointed, and narrowed her eyes. "That looks like a boot print," she observed, and looked questioningly at Roxton, "but how could that be?"
"The fire came close to here," noted Roxton, "but it didn't make it here exactly. The only reason we can still see it is because the fire didn't consume this spot of ground before it was doused out."
"So?" asked Malone as he shrugged innocently. "It's a boot print. What's the big deal?"
"Look at it carefully, Malone," said Roxton as he stared down at it, as if he were in a trance, "the print obviously belongs to a male, with precisely a size eleven boot. No one here has boots that size."
Veronica stood up grimly, as she realized what Roxton was getting to. "Are there any more of these?" she asked. She took the lantern from Malone's hand and held it out before her. She keenly scanned the ground below her, and knelt down abruptly. "There are!" she exclaimed. "There's a whole trail right here!"
"Does it lead anywhere?" asked Malone, eyeing the trail intently.
Veronica gulped. "It leads to the treehouse," she correctly concluded. She slowly and dismally turned around to face Roxton . . . who was stricken with horror.
Malone shared Roxton's horrified glance. "The fire," he said in understanding, "it was deliberately set by someone! He did it so he could get us out. . . ."
"And get himself in . . . in the treehouse!" Veronica's eyes widened with terror.
Anger and fright swirled in Roxton's head, as his mind clouded with darkness. Suddenly, he turned towards the treehouse. "Brett Jenkins!!" he yelled in rage. "Damn you, Brett Jenkins!"
"This was all a trap!" exclaimed Malone. "We've got to get back to the treehouse now! Challenger and Marguerite could be in serious danger!"
Roxton furiously clutched his rifle. "Come on!" he cried. He, Malone, and Veronica bolted towards the treehouse as fast as they could, completely unaware that they were already too late.
In the time being, Marguerite laid on top of Veronica's bed. She screamed loudly as the agonizing and writhing pain of birth erupted in her lower abdomen with every contraction. She felt freezing cold, yet she also felt boiling hot at the same time. Her body was covered in goosebumps, while beads of dribbling sweat rolled off her forehead.
"CHALLEN-GER!!!!" she screeched as tears poured out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She had never felt so weak in her entire life.
"That's it, Marguerite!" cried Challenger encouragingly. "Push, Marguerite! I can see the head already! Keep pushing!"
Marguerite panted for air, and screamed once again. Her scream echoed throughout the entire treehouse. The pain seemed to rip through her like no pain ever could. "JOHN!" she bellowed, and squeezed her eyes shut.
That was when the memory of Marguerite's nightmare that she had almost nine months ago entered her mind. Marguerite realized that she had not had a nightmare, but an extremely similar vision. Only this time, there was no village, and there was no army. There was only herself, and Challenger.
But the enemy was still there. From the corner of the room, Brett Jenkins watched and waited eagerly, fingering his revolver. Anger and hate immediately filled Marguerite's head. Mustering up all of her hidden strength, Marguerite sat up determinedly. She was going to do this! She was going to bring her and John's child safely into the world! And no one- NO ONE-was going to stop her.
"JOHN!" she screamed again as she pushed as hard as she could. The pain once again tore through her, but Marguerite didn't let that stop her. "JOHHHHNNN!"
Challenger smiled. "That's it!" he shouted in joy as he held Marguerite's screeching child in his hands. "You did it, Marguerite, you did it!" He grabbed a scalpel and was just about to cut the umbilical cord, when suddenly . . . he paused and frowned.
"What is it?" asked an eager Jenkins, who perked up from his position against the wall. "What's going on?" He clutched his revolver. Challenger was speechless, as he gazed down. "I cannot believe it. . . ." From her position on the bed, Marguerite whimpered weakly. "Challenger . . . what is it . . . what about my child. . . ."
". . . .Your son," Challenger interjected, "is perfectly fine, Marguerite." He cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the tiny child in a soft towel. He rested Marguerite's son into a wooden cradle by the bedside. "And you shall see him soon. But first, Marguerite, you must get back up! You're not quite finished yet!"
"Wh-what?" Marguerite gasped weakly. "What are you . . . saying?"
"I'm saying that you have another child on the way!" cried Challenger, as his gaze came upon Marguerite's surprised face. "You have twins, Marguerite!"
At hearing this unexpected news, the surprised look on Jenkins' face turned to sheer, evil pleasure. 'This is better than I anticipated,' he thought grimly. Oh, he couldn't wait to see the look on John's face when he . . . Jenkins threw back his head and roared with immoral laughter.