And, with that, he led her down the corridor, pausing only to point at spots where blood had pooled up. But these, too, had been erased.

"The police," he said quietly, "thought all these blood spots were like the trail Lanky left behind. And, they were a mess, because the idiot security guard stepped all over them. He even slipped on one and fell and spread it all over the place."

"What did you think?" Lucy asked.

"I thought they were a trail, all right. But one that led to him. Not one that he made."

"He had her blood on his nightclothes."

"The Angel embraced him."

"The Angel?"

"That's what he called him. The Angel that came down to his bedside and told him that evil was destroyed."

"You think…"

"What I think, Miss Jones, is pretty obvious."

He opened the door to the dormitory, and they went inside. Francis pointed out where his bunk was, as did Peter the Fireman. They also showed her Lanky's bed, which had been stripped, and the mattress removed, so that only the steel frame and metal coils remained. The small foot locker that he'd had to hold his few clothes and personal items had also been taken, so that Lanky's modest space in the dormitory now seemed nothing more than a skeleton. Francis saw Lucy note the distances, measuring with her eyes the space between the bunks, the path to the door, the door to the adjacent bathroom. For a moment, he was a little embarrassed showing her where they lived. He was acutely aware, in that moment, how little privacy they had, and, in that crowded room, how much humanity had been stripped away from them. It made him angry, and more than a little self-conscious, as he watched the prosecutor survey the room.

As always, a couple of men lay on their beds, staring up at the ceiling. One man was mumbling to himself, carrying on a discussion of some intensity. Another saw her, then rolled over to watch. Others simply ignored her, lost in whatever series of thoughts occupied them at that moment. But Francis saw Napoleon rise up, and with a grunt, move his portly body across the room as rapidly as possible.

He approached Lucy, and then, with something of a misshapen flourish, bowed. "We have so few visitors from the world," he said. "Especially such beautiful ones. Welcome."

"Thank you," she replied.

"Are these two gentlemen filling you in adequately?" he asked.

Lucy smiled. "Yes. So far, they have been quite accommodating."

Napoleon looked slightly downcast. "Ah, well," he replied, "that is good. But please, should you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask." He fumbled about for a moment, patting his hospital garb. "I seem to have forgotten my business cards," he said. "Are you, perhaps, a student of history?"

Lucy shrugged. "Not particularly. Although I took some European history courses as an undergraduate."

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. "And where might that have been?"

"At Stanford," Lucy Jones replied.

"Then you should comprehend," Napoleon said, waving a single arm wide, as the other suddenly pressed in on his side. "Great forces are in play. The world hangs in balance. Moments become frozen in time, as immense seismic convulsions shake humanity. History holds its breath; gods strive on the field. We live in times of huge change. I shudder at the significance of it all."

"We each do what we can," Lucy replied.

"Of course," Napoleon answered, bowing at the waist. "We all do what is asked of us. We all play a part on history's great stage. The little man can become great. The minor moment looms large. The tiny decision can affect great currents of time."

Then he leaned forward, whispering, "Will night fall? Or will the Prussians arrive in time to rescue the Iron Duke?"

"I think," Lucy said confidently, "that Blucher arrives in time."

"Yes," Napoleon said, almost winking. "At Waterloo, this was true. But what about today?"

He smiled mysteriously, gave a little wave to Peter and Francis, then turned and walked away. it; Peter lifted his shoulders, in a motion of release, with a familiar wry smile;." t on his face. Then he whispered to Francis, "I'll bet Mister Evil heard every word; of that, and that Nappy gets his medications increased tonight." He spoke quietly, but loud enough so that Lucy Jones could hear, and, Francis suspected, that

Mister Evans, who had trailed them into the dormitory, could hear, as well.

"He seems quite friendly," Lucy said. "And harmless."

Mister Evil stepped forward. "Your assessment is accurate, Miss Jones," he said briskly. "That is the case for most everyone here. They mostly do harm to themselves. The problem for us staff is: which have the potential for violence. Who has that capacity reverberating about inside. Sometimes, that is what we look for."

"That would be what I am here for, as well," she replied.

"Of course," Mister Evans said, shifting his eyes over to Peter the Fireman, "with some, we already have those answers."

The two men glared at each other, just as they always did. Then Mister Evil reached out and gently took Lucy Jones by the arm, a gesture of old world gallantry that, given their circumstances, seemed to mean something much different. "Please, Miss Jones," he said briskly, "allow me to take you through the remainder of the hospital, although much of it is the same as what you see here. There are afternoon group sessions and activities scheduled, and dinner, as well, and much to do."

For a second, Lucy seemed about to withdraw from the psychologist. Then she nodded, and replied, "That would be fine." But before exiting, she turned to Francis and Peter the Fireman and said, "I will have some other questions for you later. Or perhaps tomorrow morning. If that is acceptable?"

Both Peter and Francis nodded in acknowledgment.

"I'm not certain that these two can assist you all that well," Mister Evans said, shaking his head.

"Perhaps they can, perhaps they cannot," Lucy Jones said. "That remains to be seen. But one thing is certain, Mister Evans."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"At the moment, they are the only two people I don't suspect."

Francis had difficulty falling asleep that night. The usual sounds of snoring and whimpering, which were the night chords of the dormitory, made him restless. Or, at least, that is what he thought, until he lay back in his bunk with his eyes open to the ceiling, and he realized that it wasn't the ordinariness of the night that was disruptive, it was all that had taken place during the day. His own voices were calm, but filled with questions, and he wondered whether he would be able to do what it was that was ahead of him. He had never thought of himself as the sort of person who noted detail, who saw meaning in words and actions, the way he thought Peter did, and the way that he knew Lucy Jones did. They seemed to him to be in control of their ideas, which was something he only aspired to. His own thoughts were haphazard, squirrel-like, constantly changing direction, always flitting off one direction or the next, shunted first one way, then the next, driven by forces within him he didn't really understand.

Francis sighed, and half turned in his bunk. It was then that he saw that he wasn't the only one awake. A few feet distant, Peter the Fireman was sitting up on his bed, his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up in front, so that he could encircle them with his arms, staring out across the room. Francis saw that Peter's eyes were fixed on the far bank of windows, staring past the cross-hatched grid of iron bars and milky glass to the dusky shafts of moonlight and ink black night beyond. Francis wanted to say something, but then he stopped himself, imagining that whatever was driving Peter from sleep that night was some crackling current far too powerful to be interrupted.