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"About Orson’s journal," I said. "You told me Luther never attended Woodside College. That Orson never kidnapped him. Why would Orson make that up?"

"I’m afraid your brother was fantasizing again. He did take Luther to the desert ten years ago, but only because I asked him to. Toward the end, I think he wanted to feel that he was his own man. It injured his pride that he was such a pussycat before I found him. That it took me to show him who he was. But all in all, Andy, considering the journal and Willard Bass, I’d say Orson’s imagination is a helluva lot more vibrant than yours. And you’re supposed to be the writer."

Rufus stood up and plucked a pipe from the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.

"I have to tell you though, Andy," he said, glancing over his shoulder at his son at the end of the dock, "Luther and Orson are ultimately failures. Evil is something to be overcome and redefined. It overcame them. Orson was torn between his love of blood and his self-hate. My boy," Rufus sighed, "has only a love of blood. It’s the great sadness of my life. I love the Great Regression for what comes after it. Luther loves it for the warfare, and he would have it go on without end. Do you see what I’m saying?"

I nodded, because surprisingly I did. In that moment, the philosophy of Rufus Kite made perfect, terrifying sense. Not that I sympathized. I just…understood.

Vi said, "What fucked you up, Rufus?"

He took the pipe out of his mouth and howled with laughter.

"Little lady, I was raised by loving, God-fearing parents. Worst thing ever to happen to me was my cocker spaniel, Rusty, getting mange when I was fourteen. Broke my heart."

"But what made you into this—"

"Violet, I’m not the product of abuse, molestation, neglect, abandonment, mental disease, pick your excuse. The things I believe and do are the result of a man who has looked unflinchingly at the human heart and rid himself of the lies he’s been told about it."

"There’s no goodness left in you?"

"God, I hope not. Goodness? I should wish for goodness? Morality is not man’s Godlike quality. The search and acquisition of truth is. You think God’s moral? He’s beyond moral. He created the concept. Made the rules you play by. I reject those rules because I have free will, because I have that kind of vision. I’m starting a new game."

Baby Max had dozed off. Now he stirred, eyes rolling around in his sockets like shiny ball bearings. Rufus knelt down and grinned at the infant, stroking his ancient crooked finger against the silky cheek.

"Max," he said, "a self-centered, mercurial little monster. I love it. He hasn’t been brainwashed with your morality yet. He’s an original thinker, more Godlike than we’ll ever be, until mommy and daddy poison him with notions of right and wrong."

Rufus rose, started for the backdoor.

"If there was no right or wrong," Vi called after him, "this world would implode. We’d all kill each other. There’d be no one left."

He glanced back.

"A few would survive. And they’d be the creators. I’m sorry you don’t understand."

Rufus disappeared into the house.

Luther still sat motionless at the end of the dock.

Vi reached over, took hold of my hand.

We were quiet for awhile. I tried to see my brother in the new light of him never having been raped. Tried to flush the taste of Willard Bass from my mouth.

"Did that woman on the boat, Beth, have children?" Vi asked.

"Two," I said.

Vi shook her head. "I can’t believe she didn’t…"

"I know. But don’t pity her, Vi. Envy is the appropriate emotion. You have no idea what tomorrow will be like. If you and Max live through it, you won’t be the same person who’s sitting beside me tonight."

Maxine emerged from the house and walked down through the grass toward our colony of lawn chairs.

She stopped beside Vi’s chair, knelt down, and swiped the baby out of her arms.

"No!" Vi screamed, jerking against the chain. "What are you doing?"

Max wailed.

The old woman rocked and hushed him.

"You can have him back