The doctor smiled weakly. "Of course it is. But would you say that if this person she pursues this possibly imaginary killer actually exists here within these walls, that she has done something which will, of necessity, gain his immediate and probably undivided attention?"

"I believe so."

"Very good. I suspect so, as well. If this gentleman is here. So, we could postulate, could we not, Peter, that were nothing to happen to Miss Jones in the immediacy of time, that we could reasonably believe that this maybe killer of hers was not, in actuality present in the hospital? That the unfortunate nurse-trainee was in fact killed by Lanky in a fit of homicidal delusion, as the evidence indicates?"

"That would be a considerable leap, Doctor," Peter answered. "The man Miss Jones and I have been pursuing might have more discipline than we have come to believe."

"Ah yes. A killer with discipline. A most unusual characteristic for a killer being driven by psychosis, no? You are, as we have discussed, pursuing a man who is dominated by his murderous impulses, but now that is seemingly a less convenient diagnosis? Or, if he is, as Miss Jones suggested upon her arrival here, some Jack the Ripper mythological sort, that might explain things. But, then, in the small amount of reading I've managed about this historical fellow, I have learned that he seemed to have precious little in the area of discipline. Compulsive killers are driven by immense forces, Peter, and ultimately incapable of restraining themselves. But that is a conversation for historians of these things to have, and concerns us little here, today. Might I ask the two of you: If the killer you are so persuaded is here were to be able to constrain himself, wouldn't that make it even more unlikely that you would ever discover him? No matter how many days, weeks, or even years you were to search?"

"I cannot predict the future any more than you can, Doctor."

Gulptilil smiled. "Ah, Peter, a most clever response. And one that speaks of your potential for recovery when we get you into this most progressive program suggested by your friends in the Church. That, I take it, was your actual reason for bursting into my office here today? To signal your desire to take them up on their most generous and thoughtful offer?"

Peter hesitated. Doctor Gulptilil eyed him closely.

"That was, of course, your reason?" he asked a second time, his voice precluding any response but the obvious one.

"Yes," Peter said. He was impressed with the way Gulptilil had managed to conflate the two issues: an unknown killer and his own legal problems.

"So, Peter wishes to leave the hospital for a new course of treatment and a new life, and Miss Jones has done something which she believes will encourage the reason for her presence to emerge so that she can bring him to justice. Is that not a fair assessment of the moment we find ourselves in?"

Both Lucy, who had remained silent, and Peter nodded.

Doctor Gulptilil allowed himself a small grin, just around the corners of his mouth. "Then, I think, we can safely say that a small, but suitable amount of time will allow us to answer both these questions with certainty. It is Friday. I would think that on Monday morning I will be able to say farewell to both of you. No? That would be more than enough time to discover whether Miss Jones's approach might bear fruit. And for Peter's situation to be, well, accommodated."

Lucy shifted about. She thought of several things she might say that could alter the doctor's deadline. But, as she squirmed slightly, she saw that Gulptilil was thinking hard, turning over one thing after another in his own head. She imagined that at the chess game of bureaucracy she would always finish second to the psychiatrist, especially as it played out on his own turf. So, instead, she replied: "Monday morning. Okay."

"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?"