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"And, of course, by putting yourself in this hazardous position, you will undoubtedly sign a letter absolving the hospital administration from any responsibility for maintaining your safety?"

Lucy's eyes narrowed, and her voice freighted the one word response with as much contempt as she could muster. "Yes."

"Wonderful. So, that part is settled. Now, Peter, let me just make a call…"

He pulled a small black leather address book from the top drawer of his desk. After casually flipping it open, he grasped an ivory colored business card. In short order, Doctor Gulptilil read a number off and dialed it. He rocked back in his seat, while the connection was being made. After a second, he said into the handset, "Father Grozdik, please. This is Doctor Gulptilil at the Western State Hospital."

There was a small pause, and then, Gulp-a-pill said, "Father? Good day. You will be pleased to learn that I have Peter here in my office and he has agreed to the arrangements we discussed recently. In all regards. Now, I believe there is some paperwork that will need to be processed so that we can bring this unfortunate situation to a speedy close?"

Peter sat back heavily, realizing that his entire life had just changed. It was almost as if he were outside of himself, watching it happen. He didn't dare to steal a look at Lucy, who was also on the threshold of something, but was unsure precisely what, because success and failure seemed to have muddied in her head.

Francis walked down the corridor and into the dayroom, looking across past the disjointed knots of patients toward the Ping-Pong table. An old man in striped nightclothes and a cardigan buttoned up to his throat, although it was hot in the room, had taken up a paddle and was swinging it, as if he were playing a game, but there was no opponent on the other side, nor did he have a ball, so that the game was played in silence. The old man seemed intent, concentrating on each point, anticipating each return from the imaginary foe, and had a determined look, as if the score was in balance.

The dayroom was quiet, except for the muted sound of the two televisions, where announcers' and soap opera actors' voices mingled freely with the mutterings of patients who conversed primarily with themselves. Occasionally a newspaper or magazine would be slapped down on a table, and every so often a patient would inadvertently slide into the space occupied by another, which would prompt some words. But for a place that could see explosions, the dayroom was quiet. It was a little bit, Francis thought, as if the loss of Cleo's bulk and presence had stifled some of the usual anxiety in the room. Death as a tranquilizer. It was all an illusion, he thought, because he could sense tension and fear throughout. Something had happened that made all of them feel at risk.

Francis dropped himself into an overstuffed and lumpy chair and wondered how he had arrived at where he was. He could feel his own heart racing, because he thought that he alone understood what had taken place the night before. He hoped that Peter would return, so that he could share the observations, but he was no longer sure that Peter would believe them.

One of his voices whispered You're all alone. You always have been. You always will be. And he didn't bother to try internally to argue or deny the sentiments.

Then another voice, equally soft, as if trying to keep from being heard in the area beyond his head, added No, there's someone searching for you, Francis.

He knew who this was.

Francis wasn't precisely sure how he knew the Angel was stalking him. But he was persuaded that this was the case. For a second he looked around, to see if he could spot someone watching him, but the trouble with the mental hospital was that everyone watched one another and ignored one another at more or less the same time.

Francis rose abruptly. He knew one thing: He had to find the Angel before the Angel came for him.

He started to walk toward the dayroom door, when he spotted Big Black. An idea occurred to him and he called after the attendant. "Mister Moses?"

The huge man turned. "What is it C-Bird? Bad day today. Don't go and ask for something I can't give you."

"Mister Moses, when are the release hearings scheduled?"

Big Black looked sideways at Francis. "There's a bunch for this afternoon. Right after lunch."

"I need to go."

"You what?"

"I need to watch those hearings."

"Whatever for?"

Francis couldn't quite articulate what he was really thinking, so instead he responded, "Because I want to get out of here, and if I can watch what other people do in a release hearing, maybe it will help me not make the same mistakes."

Big Black lifted an eyebrow. "Well, C-Bird," he said, "that makes some sense. Don't know that I've ever had anyone else ever ask for that before."

"It would help me," Francis said.

The attendant looked doubtful, but then he shrugged. He lowered his voice. "I don't know that I'm believing you fully on this C-Bird. But tell you what. You promise no trouble, and I'll take you over and you can sit with me and watch. This might be breaking some rule. I don't know. But seems to me that all sorts of rules been broke today."

Francis breathed out.

A portrait was forming in his imagination, and this was an important brush stroke.

Light gray clouds were cluttering the sky, and a sickly, humid heat filled the midmorning air as Lucy Jones, Peter in handcuffs, and Little Black walked slowly across the hospital grounds. She could feel the rain that was an hour or two off. For the first few yards, the three were quiet; even their footsteps against the black macadam pathway seemed muffled against the thickening heat and darkening skies. Little Black wiped a hand across his forehead, glanced at the sweat that had accumulated there, and said, "Damn, but you sure can feel summer coming about," which was true. They took a few more steps, when Peter the Fireman abruptly stopped.

"Summer?" he said. He looked up, as if searching the heavens for some sunlight and blue skies, but they were obscured. But whatever he was seeking wasn't in the steamy air around them. "Mister Moses, what's happening?"

Little Black also stopped and eyed Peter curiously. "What do you mean "What's happening?" " he asked.

"Like, in the world. In the United States. In Boston or Springfield. Are the Red Sox playing well? Are the hostages still in Iran? Are there demonstrations? Speeches? Editorials? Is the economy good? What's happening to the stock market? What's the number one movie?"

Little Black shook his head. "You ought to be asking Newsman these questions. He's the one with all the headlines."

Peter looked around. His eyes fixed on the mental hospital walls. "People think those are to keep all of us in," he said slowly. "But that's not what really happens. Those walls keep the world out." Peter shook his head. "It's like being on an island. Or like being one of those Japanese soldiers stuck in the jungle who were never told the war was over and who thought year after year, that they were just doing their duty, fighting on for their emperor. We're stuck in some Twilight Zone time warp, where everything just passes us by. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. Upheavals of all sorts, man-made and natural."

Lucy thought Peter was absolutely right, but still hesitated before speaking. "You're making a point?"

"Yes. Of course. In the land of locked doors, who would be king?"

Lucy nodded. "The man with the keys."

"So," Peter said, "how do you set a trap for a man who can open any door?"

Lucy thought for a moment. "You need to make him open the door where you can expect him."

"Right," Peter said. "So, what door would that be?"

He looked over at Little Black, who shrugged. But Lucy plunged deep into thought, and then inhaled sharply, as if the thought that came to her had been astonishing, maybe even shocking. "We know one door he opened up," she said. "It was the door that brought me here."

"Which door do you mean?"

"Where was Short Blond when he came for her?"

"Alone in the Amherst Building nursing station late at night."

"Then that's where I should be," Lucy said.

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