What he saw, in the faint glow from a yellowed, weak, exposed bulb, pitched him into action. Struggling through the debris and abandoned equipment, streaked with blood and grime, was a teary-eyed Francis. Right behind him, being dragged forward was Peter, who seemed to be near unconsciousness, though he held his hand over an immense wound in his side that had left a shocking path of red across the cement floor. Doctor Gulptilil looked up and was startled by the sight of a third patient deeper in the basement, eyes open in surprise and death, a large hunting knife lodged firmly in his chest. "Oh my goodness," the doctor said, as he hurried to catch up with Big Black and Little Black, who were already trying to administer some help to Peter and Francis.

Francis repeated over and over, "I'm okay, I'm okay, help him," although he was not altogether certain that he was okay, but it was the only thought that penetrated his exhaustion and relief. Big Black took everything in with a single immense glance, and seemed to understand what had taken place there that night, and he bent over Peter's form, pulling back the tatters of the Fireman's shirt, revealing the extent of his wound. Little Black pushed to Francis's side, and quickly, expertly, did more or less the same, examining him for injury, despite Francis's headshaking and protests.

"Hold still, C-Bird," Little Black said. "I need to make sure you're okay." Then, he whispered something else, as he nodded his head toward the Angel's body, "I think you done good work here tonight, C-Bird. No matter what anyone else says."

Then he seemed satisfied that Francis wasn't badly wounded, and he turned to help his brother.

"How bad is it?" Gulp-a-pill demanded, leaning over the two attendants, staring down at Peter.

"Bad enough," Big Black answered. "He needs to get to the hospital right now."

"Can we carry him upstairs?" Doctor Gulptilil asked.

Big Black didn't reply. He merely reached down, and with two massive arms cradling beneath Peter's limp form, he lifted the Fireman from the cold floor and with a heave and a grunt, carried him up the stairs to the power plant's main area, like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. He walked slowly, steadily to the front door, then gently knelt down just inside and lowered Peter's body. "We need to get the Fireman help right away," he said, turning to Doctor Gulptilil.

"I understand that," the medical director was saying. He had already seized an old black rotary dial telephone from a desktop, and was dialing a number. "Security?" he said briskly, when the line was connected. "This is Doctor Gulptilil. I need another ambulance, yes, that's correct, another ambulance, and I need it immediately at the power plant. Yes, this is a matter of life and death. Please make that call instantly, if not sooner."

Then he hung up the telephone.

Francis had trailed after Big Black, and was standing next to Little Black, who was speaking to Peter, urging him over and over to hang on, that help was coming, reminding him that this wouldn't be the right night to die, not after all that had taken place, and what had been accomplished. His steady, reassuring tone brought a smile to Peter's face, which managed to reach past all the gathered hurt and shock he felt, and the sensation of his life dripping from his side. He didn't say any words, however. Big Black cradled Peter's head, and then took off his white attendant's jacket, folded it up and began to apply it to the gash in Peter's side. "Help is on the way, Peter," Doctor Gulptilil said, bending toward the Fireman, but whether the wounded man heard this or not, neither he, nor any of the others could tell.

Doctor Gulptilil took a deep breath, surveyed their solitude, and then started to calculate fiercely in his head, trying to assess the damage that had been done that night. That it was a mess, the medical director understood, was a minimalist's statement of the events that had transpired. All he could see was a dizzying array of reports, inquiries, harsh questions with perhaps some very difficult answers, all awaiting him. He had an out of control prosecutor on her way to the local hospital with terrible wounds that no emergency room doctor was going to remain silent about, which meant policemen at his door within hours. He was staring down at a patient of significant notoriety and of substantial interest to many people, bleeding on the floor, clinging to life mere hours before he was supposed to be shipped off to another state in secret. And then he had a third patient very dead, and just as clearly killed by this notorious patient and his schizophrenic companion.

He had recognized that third patient, and he knew that a hospital file existed with his own handwriting on the jacket that stated unequivocally: Severe Retardation. Catatonic. Prognosis Guarded. Long Term Care required.

He knew also there was a notation that the dead man had been released for several weekend furloughs in the custody of an elderly mother and aunt.

The more he thought, the more he realized that his career hung in the balance of what he decided to do in the next few moments. For the second time that night, he heard a distant noise of sirens, which added urgency to his thinking.

Doctor Gulptilil breathed in sharply. He looked down at Peter and said, "You will live, Mister Fireman." He said this not knowing whether it was true or not, but knowing how important it was. Then he looked up at the Moses brothers. "We need for this night not to have happened," he said stiffly.

The two attendants quickly glanced at each other, then nodded.

"Going to be hard to make people not notice some," Little Black said.

"Then we need to make them notice as little as possible."

Little Black bent his head toward the basement, where the Angel's body remained behind. "That body's going to make things tricky," he said. He was speaking quietly, as if guarding his words carefully, understanding that this was a moment of some importance. "That man back there, he was a killer."

Doctor Gulptilil shook his head, speaking a little like he might to a grade school class, emphasizing some words. "There's no real evidence to support that. All we know for certain is that he tried to assault Miss Jones earlier tonight. For what reason, we have no idea. And, more critically, what he has done on some other occasions, in other locations, well, that remains a mystery. It has no connection to us, here tonight. Unfortunately, what is not a mystery is that this patient was pursued and then was murdered himself by these two patients. Now, they may have been justified in what they did…"

He hesitated, as if waiting for Little Black to complete his sentence. This, the smaller brother did not do, and so Doctor Gulptilil was forced to finish it himself.

"… But perhaps they were not. Regardless, there will be arrests. Headlines in the newspapers. Perhaps an official inquiry. Certainly a state inquest is a strong likelihood. Criminal charges are a possibility. Nothing is likely to be the same for some time…"

Doctor Gulptilil paused" watching the expressions on the two brothers' faces. "And perhaps," he added quietly, "it might not be merely Mister Petrel and the Fireman who conceivably would face charges. The people who helped allow this disastrous night to take place, they, too, might find their jobs in jeopardy…"

Again, he waited, carefully measuring the impact of what he said on the two attendants.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Big Black said. "And neither did Francis and Peter…"

"Of course," Doctor Gulptilil said quickly, shaking his head back and forth. "Morally, certainly. Ethically? Of course. But legally? Everyone did the right thing, I'm quite positive. I can see that. But others, ah, that would be outside investigators, I'm less sure how they might perceive these quite terrible events."