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.

chapter 29

By midday it had started to rain, an erratic drizzle, interrupted frequently by stronger downpours, or even the occasional overly optimistic light break that spoke of clearing, but which soon enough was swept aside by another line of dark showers. Francis had hurried along at Big Black's side, dashing between the dampness and sticky humidity, almost hoping that the attendant's huge bulk would carve a path through the gloomy weather, and that he could remain dry in the big man's wake. It was the sort of day, he thought, that suggested unchecked epidemic and rampant disease: hot, oppressive, sultry, and wet. Almost tropical in character, as if the usual conservative dry New England world of the state hospital had been suddenly overtaken by some alien, bizarre rain forest sensibility. It was weather, Francis thought, that was every bit as out of place and insane as all of them. Even the light breeze that swept rain puddles from the asphalt sidewalks had an otherworldly thickness to it.

As was the custom in the hospital, the release hearings were held in the administration building, inside the modestly sized staff lunchroom, which was reconfigured for the occasion into a pseudo courtroom It had a thrown together, makeshift quality to it. There were tables for the hearing officers and for the patient advocates. Uncomfortable steel folding chairs had been arranged in rows for the hospital inmates and their families. A desk was provided for a stenographer and a seat for witnesses. The room was crowded, but not to overfilling, and what few words being spoken were whispered. Francis and Big Black slid into chairs in a row at the back. At first, Francis imagined the air in the room was stifling, then, upon reflection, thought perhaps it was less the air, than it was the cloud of eager hopes and helplessness that filled the space.

Presiding over the hearing was a retired district court judge from Springfield. He was gray-haired, overweight, and florid, taken to making large gestures with his hands. He had a gavel which he banged every so often for no apparent reason, and he wore a slightly frayed black robe that had probably seen better days and more important cases' some years in his past. To his right was a psychiatrist from the state Department of Mental Health, a young woman with thick eyeglasses who kept shuffling through files and papers, as if unable to find just precisely the right one, and to his left a lawyer from the local district attorney's office, who lounged in his seat, with a young man's bored eyes, clearly having lost some office pool which led to the assignment at the hospital. At one table, there was another young lawyer, wiry-haired, wearing an ill-fitting suit, slightly more eager and open-eyed, who served as the patients' representative, and across from him, various members of the hospital staff. It was all designed to give an official flavor to the proceedings, to couch decisions in conjoined medical and legal terms. It had the veneer of authenticity, of responsibility, of system and attentiveness, as if every case being heard had been carefully examined, properly vetted, and thoroughly assessed before being presented, when Francis immediately understood the exact opposite was the truth.

Francis felt a world of despair within him. As he looked around the room, he realized that the critical element of the release hearings had to be the families sitting quietly, waiting for the name of their son or daughter or niece or nephew or even mother or father to be called out. Without them, no one got released. Even if the initial orders putting them in Western State had long since expired, absent someone willing on the outside to take responsibility, the gate to the hospital remained closed. Francis could not help but wonder how he would be able to persuade his parents to open their door to him again, when they would not even come to the hospital to visit.