(Be forewarned: Though I don't go into details, this chapter implies animal abuse. Please skip if this bothers you. Thanks to my beta reader, demonchilde!)

LITTLE PUNKS

September 24, 1963

"Yeah, you'd better run!"

"We own this town!"

"Beat it, dog-faced boy!"

The taunts echoed in the forest, not drowned out by the stomping of Jerry's feet and his ragged breathing.

"Doggy Jerry!" Bert Wilkins shouted out in derision. Jerry heard a gaggle of laughter from the boys pursuing him.

Jerry knew the forest by heart. He was near Campbell Mansions, his family's estate. The bullies wouldn't dare to follow him for much longer.

Just a little further, he rallied his spirits. If there had been only one or two boys following him, he would have turned around and taken his chances. Maybe risked a beating to land a couple of blows on the bullies. But there were five boys. Two classmates, three boys that were one year older. He'd learned the hard way that there was strength in numbers.

Sprinting along the path, he could hear the pursuers starting to trail back, losing their mean-spirited interest. He didn't slow down until he was a hundred feet away from the edge of the forest. Then, he looked back and saw the boys giving up the chase and turning around, starting the long way back to the road where they'd been waiting for him.

Little punks, Jerry cursed in his mind and kicked a loose rock twenty feet ahead on the path. Someday someone would bring them down. He drew comfort from that thought.

He continued on his way, not really keen on arriving home, even after the moments of terror he'd just experienced. So he took his time, and slowed down his walk when the imposing back facade of the mansion started to loom between the trees of the thick forest.

Jerry arrived at the edge of the woods and stepped behind a fir tree, remaining in the shadows. He looked across the vast back yard and observed the large windows. At the right of the mansion were his father's offices. Virgil Campbell had taken to working from home as the end of his wife Gertrude's pregnancy neared.

Jerry spied movement in the main office. The curtains fluttered, and the tall and bulky build of his father could be seen in between the curtains. His father was on the lookout for him. He hugged the tree closer in the shadows of the branches, wanting to go undetected. Virgil watched the expanse for a moment, and then he was gone.

The bullies had, without intending to, bought him some time to wander in the woods by himself. He waited a while, just to be safe. Then, sensing that the coast was clear, he withdrew into the gloomy forest and headed to his left.

Jerry glanced at the second floor window in the left corner of the mansion. His mother, Gertrude Campbell, was probably sleeping, confined to her bedroom on bedrest. The doctor had seen her multiple times during the pregnancy. Jerry didn't know what had caused his mother to be bedridden for weeks. He knew better than to ask. He'd already had that invaluable life lesson ingrained in his skin.

He waded deeper into the forest, spurred on by a faint sound. A muted wail emanated from straight ahead. He wanted to see what it was. He had to walk only fifteen yards before he stumbled upon the creature.

A baby squirrel was gently whimpering at the foot of a fir tree. It had fallen off the nest up the tree. It wasn't a newborn, but it wasn't a kit that could climb up the tree to safety without help, either.

Jerry approached the tree and knelt down beside the kit slowly. He watched it for a long time. It was so small and helpless. If the mother didn't get there soon, a snake or maybe ants would find the kit and end its short life.

After a while, he grew bored. He would have to head home soon. He picked up his school bag and froze when he noticed a stain of resin on his sleeve. He rubbed at it furiously, hoping to make it fade away. He only succeeded in making the stain larger. He would pay for his messiness.

He shot an annoyed glance at the kit. What a pitiful little creature.

Present day

Jerry kicked the cage that housed a small dog that was barking at him. "Shut the hell up!" he barked back.

He had no patience for animals, but for the time being, they were a necessity. So he went to dog pounds around the city and rescued dogs that were a day from the gas chamber. The pathetic people who ran the pounds would almost snivel with gratitude at the thought of someone coming in and saving their precious strays. Little did they know that the mutts were only getting a stay of execution.

He decided to feed the annoying mongrel last. He walked over to the whining labrador, scooted down and pushed the food into the cage. Then, he feeded the other two canines, finally reaching the French bulldog. "Lap it up," he gritted and kicked the cage again for good measure. Then, he reached his arm chair and lit up a cigarrette. He had to keep an eye on the curs, to judge the effect of the drug.

Jerry let his mind wander for a while. As always, thoughts of Sam flooded his brain. The hurt of the Chicago episode had lessened by a smidge. He'd come up with several satisfying plans of how to dispose of Malone, when the time arrived. Alas, first he had to silence Sharon for good. Then, maybe, he could have his way with the male agent.

He would have to do it in a way that would push Sam more towards him. That required some thought. He'd misfired twice on this very same score. Tom's death hadn't affected Sam in the way Jerry had intended. She'd resigned, causing him to seriously re-evaluate his plan. After Cooper's death, Sam had stayed in the investigation, but he now wondered if it had pushed her to become more... enmeshed with Malone. If true, that would be most distasteful.

He snapped to when the French bulldog started barking again. Damn mongrel.

September 24, 1963

"Jerome!" Virgil's demanding voice boomed through the home office door. Jerry drooped his head, resigning to his fate. It wouldn't do to try to pretend he hadn't heard his father's call or that he hadn't sullied his school uniform. "Be a man," Virgil would often say, disappointment ringing in his tone.

Jerry entered the vast office and made a beeline to the comfortable leather chair tucked into the corner by the windows. He was only surmising that the chair was comfortable; not once had he actually sut in it. In doing so, he would be assuming more of himself that he ought to, and his punishment would be severe. Virgil had long since instilled in Jerry an understanding of his place in the Campbell household.

His father was tapping his fountain pen on a folder, and he cast a cold, measuring look at him. "What did you learn at school today?" Virgil kept a close eye on his son's education, believing that school was a place for education and advancement. He placed no importance on social circles, sports or the arts, declaring those subjects to be inconsequential to the future leader of Campbell Industries, the family business he'd fortified by his marriage to Gertrude Pabe.

Jerry rattled off all the facts he could remember. The bullies had disturbed his recollection of useful lessons that he usually engaged in on his way home. Luckily, what he told seemed to appease his father.

"Very good. What is this?" Virgil pointed to the specks of resin on the sleeve.

"I fell down on the path through the woods. I'm sorry." Jerry never told his father of the abuse his classmates heaped on him. He knew that Virgil Campbell would not be sympathetic to the plight of his son.

"Mm. Keep your eyes on the path in front of you. Don't amuse yourself with gazing at woodland creatures. In order to get anywhere in life, you need to be aware of the path there. Do you understand?"

Jerry nodded silently.

"No dessert for you tonight. That will be your punishment. Now, go greet your mother, and then do your homework."

Virgil was reading the documents on his lap even before Jerry could say his goodbyes. "Yes, father," Jerry uttered in a clear voice, knowing that his father hated it when he mumbled anything.

He walked swiftly out of the office, passed through the spacious hall and lobby to the grand staircase. He ran up the stairs and took a right turn, heading to the bedroom where his mother was bedridden.

His father and his mother scared Jerry for very different reasons. Virgil was cruel, that was undeniable, but Jerry had already learnt how to not incur his father's wrath. Gertrude, on the other hand, was unpredictable, off in her own private world. Sometimes figuring out the degree of her lucidity was an impossible task.

He arrived at the door to his mother's bedroom and shuffled his feet, fighting the urge to bolt to his own room down the hall. But he knew better. He knocked on the door, waiting. A languid "Enter" reached his ears, and he opened the door carefully, peeking inside before walking in.

His mother Gertrude was lying on the big bed, a fluffy blanket keeping her warm. The room was dim, the air stuffy. Obediently, Jerry strode silently to the side of the bed to greet his mother.

"Good day, mother."

"Jerome," his mother greeted in return. Both of his parents called him Jerome. He himself preferred Jerry.

"Fetch me my reading glasses. They're on the vanity," she pointed to the vanity desk not five feet from the foot of the bed. Jerry did her bidding.

"Much better," she sighed while she put her glasses on.

Then, she spared another glance at her son. "Good heavens, your hair! How can it be so unruly? Just like your Uncle Leopold." Jerry stroked his hair, trying to make himself more presentable. As he kept his head down, he noticed that the book sitting on her mother's lap was upside down.

He looked up again, hopeful that he'd made some improvement. His mother pursed her lips together, but didn't utter a word.

"Well, I shall return to my reading. I will see you after dinner," she dismissed her son. She picked up the book and resumed reading, taking her time to realise her mistake.

Jerry shuffled out of the bedroom and headed into the relative safety of his own room. He would have a two-hour respite before his Bible lesson.

Present day

Jerry eyed the curs with mild interest. No sign of any of them dropping dead, yet. Maybe he'd got the dosage right on his second try. That would be promising. It would save him some time. After he was sure of his dosage, he would get to work on gaining access to Sharon. He would have to dig up information on the attorney who'd served as her public defenders back in Aurora, Illinois. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. If not, then he'd have to dummy up an identity.

At least the Chicago citation was now all taken care of. Except the retired cop. That was a loose end that was bothersome. But, he had to risk it.

He lit up another cigarette, took a drag and then blew out the smoke. It looked like the mongrels would live to see another day. He could adjust the dosage a bit more.

Later on, he would drive to the office building once more, and go through the footage. He hoped it'd be another week without Malone dropping by. That would be encouraging.

He grabbed a photo of Sam he'd snapped outside the home of the district attorney's daughter. His Sam was so beautiful.

He forgave her for her trangression.