"Show me!" Gulptilil demanded of Big Black.

There were three gray-shirted security personnel standing in the doorway waiting for someone to tell them what to do, blocking his sight. None of the quasi cops had done anything except stare up at Cleo's body since they arrived, and now they stepped aside to let Gulptilil and Evans enter the gloomy stairwell area.

The hospital director stepped forward, and gasped. "My goodness!" he said, astonished. "Oh, my, but this is terrible." He shook his head back and forth.

Evans craned past him, also taking in the sight. His response, at least at first, was limited to "Damn!"

The two administrators continued to examine the scene. Francis saw that they both absorbed the severed thumb, and the noose fastened to the stairway railing. But he had the curious thought that the two men saw something different from what he did. Not that they didn't see Cleo hanging dead. But that they were reacting differently. It was a little like standing in front of a famous work of art in a museum, and having the person next to him reach some opposing assessment, emitting a laugh, instead of a sigh, or a groan in place of a smile.

"What bad luck," Gulptilil said quietly. Then he turned to Mister Evans. "Has there been any indication…" he started, not truly needing to finish the question for the unit supervisor.

Evans was already nodding his head. "I made a notation in the daily log yesterday that her sense of distress seemed to be increasing. There were other signs over the past week or so that she was decompensating. I sent you a memo last week about a number of patients who needed to be reassessed medically, and she was on it, right at the top. Perhaps I should have moved a little more aggressively, but she did not seem to be in such an immediate crisis that it was warranted. Clearly, that was in error."

Gulptilil nodded. "I recall the memo. Alas, sometimes even the best intentions…" he said. He added, "Ah, well, it is difficult to anticipate these things, is it not?" He did not act like he expected an answer to this question. Hearing none, he shrugged. "You will take careful notes, will you not?"

"Of course," Evans said.

Gulp-a-pill then turned to the three security guards. "All right gentlemen. Mister Moses will show you how to get Cleo down. Bring a body bag and a gurney. Let's get her over to the morgue promptly…"

"Wait just a second!"

The objection came from behind all of them, and they turned to the sound of the voice. It was Lucy Jones, standing a few feet back, and staring past them all toward Cleo's body.

"My goodness!" Gulptilil said, almost breathlessly. "Miss Jones? My lord, what have you done?"

But the answer to this, Francis thought, was utterly obvious. Her long black hair was gone, replaced by a sheet of streaky blond dyed hair, cropped closely, almost haphazardly. He stared at her dizzily. It was a little, he thought, like seeing a work of art defaced.

I pushed myself away from the words on the wall, scurrying back across the floor of the apartment a little like a frightened spider, trying to avoid a heavy boot. I came to a rest with my back against the opposite wall, and I stopped, taking the time first to light a cigarette, and then pausing for a moment with my head up against my knees. I held the cigarette in my hand, letting the thin trail of smoke waft up toward my nostrils. I was listening for the Angel's voice, waiting for the sensation of his breath against the small hairs on the back of my neck. If he wasn't there, I knew he wasn't far. There was no sign of Peter or anyone else, although, for an instant I wondered if Cleo might not visit me in that moment.

All my ghosts were close by.

For a moment I thought of myself like some medieval necromancer, standing over a cauldron of bats' eyes and mandrake root, bubbling along, able to summon up whatever evil vision I needed.

When I opened my eyes to the small world around me, I asked her, "Cleo? What happened? You didn't have to die." I shook my head back and forth, closed my eyes, but in the darkness, I heard her speak in the gruff, rollicking tones that I had grown accustomed to.

"Oh, C-Bird, but I did. Goddamn bastards. I had to die. The sons of bitches killed me for sure. I knew they would, right from the first."

I looked around to see her, but at first she was only a sound. Then slowly, like a sailboat emerging from the fog, Cleo took shape in front of me. She leaned up against the wall of writing, and lit her own smoke. She wore a frilly pastel house-dress and the same pink flip-flops I remembered from her death. In one hand she waved her cigarette, in the other, as I should have expected, a Ping-Pong paddle. Her eyes were lit with a kind of maniacal pleasure, as if she had been set free from something difficult and troubling.

"Who killed you, Cleo?"

"The bastards."

"Who, in particular, Cleo?"

"But C-Bird, you know. You knew from the moment you got to the stairwell where I was waiting. You could see, couldn't you?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It was so confusing. I couldn't be sure."

"But that was it, C-Bird. That was it. It was all a contradiction, and in that, you could see the truth, couldn't you?"

I wanted to say yes, but I still wasn't certain. I was young back then, and unsure, and it was the same today.

"He was there, wasn't he?"

"Of course. He was always there. Or maybe he wasn't there. It's all in how you looked at it, C-Bird. But you saw, didn't you."

I was still undecided.

"What happened, Cleo? What really happened?"

"Why C-Bird, I died. You know that."

"Yes, but how?"

"It should have been with an asp held to my breast."

"It wasn't"

"No, alas, true enough. It wasn't. But still in my own way, it was close enough. I even got to say the words, C-Bird. "I am dying, Egypt. Dying…" which was satisfying."

"Who was there to hear them?"

"You know."

I tried a different tack. "Did you fight, Cleo?"

"I always fought, C-Bird. My whole sorry goddamn life was a fight."

"But did you fight the Angel, Cleo?"

She grinned and waved the Ping-Pong paddle in the air, rearranging the smoke from her cigarette. "Of course I did, C-Bird. You knew me. I wasn't going down easy."

"He killed you?"

"No. Not exactly. But sort of, as well. It was like everything in the hospital, C-Bird. The truth was crazy and complicated and as mad as we all were."

"I thought so," I answered.

She laughed a little. "I knew you could see it. Tell them now, like you tried to tell them back then. It would have been easier if they'd listened to you. But then, who ever wants to listen to the crazy people?"

This observation made us both smile, for it was the closest thing to the truth that either of us could muster in that moment.

I took a deep breath. I could feel a great welling loss, like a vacuum within me.

"I miss you, Cleo."

"I miss you, too, C-Bird. I miss living. How about a game of Ping-Pong? I'll even spot you a couple of points."

She smiled before she faded away.

I sighed, and turned back to the wall. A shadow seemed to have slithered over it, and the next sound I heard was the voice I wanted to forget.

"Little C-Bird wants answers before he dies, doesn't he?"

Each word was confusing, a little like a pounding headache, as if there were someone banging against the door of my imagination. I rocked back and wondered if there was someone actually trying to break in, and I cowered, hiding from the darkness that crept through the room. Within my heart I searched for brave words to respond with, but they were elusive. I could feel my hand quiver, and thought I was on the verge of some great pain, but from some recess I found a reply.

"I have all the answers," I said. "I always did."