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    Summary

    This time, Herbert would not let his own optimism and tenacity blind him. He would be prepared, tactical. He now knew just what kind of tool Cain was, what he was capable of and what was best left out of his hands. The job was relatively simple, but it would go far quicker with another pair of hands to help him—hands that Herbet could dirty rather than this own, both in the metaphorical and literal senses. All those years back, while Cain had been busy with his women and his angsting, Herbert had stayed busy. A new strain, a different avenue, something that haunted him every restless night for the past thirteen years. When he laid awake In the dark of his cell, listening to the clanging of the pipes in the wall, he would imagine the notes, buried in their lockbox coffins like the faithful awaiting the rapture, biding their time in the dark just like he was. Buried like the perfect subjects, untouched by rot and degradation, buried like seeds. Now was the time to unearth them; Cain would serve as a midwife to his new work.
    OR,
    You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

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