"It's hard to respond," Francis said. He shifted about a little uncomfortably in his seat, aware, in that second, that any action he made, every word he spoke, every inflection, every mannerism, might be fodder for the doctor's opinion. "I think Mister Evans automatically considers something that one of us patients says that he disagrees with to be a delusion, and so it is hard to know what to say in answer."

The medical director smiled, and finally leaned back. "That is a cogent and organized statement, Francis. Very good."

For an instant, Francis started to relax, but then, as quickly, he remembered to not trust the doctor, and especially not to trust a compliment tossed his direction. There was a murmuring of assent deep within him. Whenever his voices agreed with him, it gave Francis confidence.

"But Mister Evans is also a professional, Francis, so we should not discount what he says too rapidly. Tell me, how is life in Amherst for you? Do you get along with the other patients? The remainder of the staff? Do you look forward to Mister Evans's therapy sessions? And, tell me, Francis, do you think you are closer to being able to go home? Has your time here so far been, shall we say, profitable?"

The doctor moved forward, a slightly predatory motion that Francis recognized. The questions hovering in the air were a minefield, and he needed to be cautious in his replies. "The dormitory is fine, Doctor, although overcrowded, and I believe I am able to get along with everyone, more or less. It is sometimes difficult to see the value in Mister Evans's therapy sessions, although it is always helpful when the discussion turns to current events, because I sometimes fear that we are too isolated here in the hospital, and that the world's business continues without our engagement in it. And I'd very much like to go home, Doctor, but I'm unsure what it is that I have to prove to you and to my family that will allow me to."

"None of them," the doctor said stiffly, "has deemed it necessary or worthwhile to come visit you, I believe?"

Francis looped some coils of control over emotions that threatened to erupt. "Not yet, doctor."

"A phone call, perhaps? A letter or two?"

"No."

"That must cause you some distress, does it not, Francis?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes," he said.

"But you do not feel abandoned?"

Francis was unsure what the right answer was, so he said, "I'm okay."

Gulptilil smiled, not the bemused smile, but the snakelike one. "And you are okay I suspect because you still hear the voices that have been with you for so many years?"

"No," Francis lied. "The medication has erased them."

"But you acknowledge that they have been there in the past?"

Within him, he could hear echoes no, no, no, don't say anything, hide us, Francis!

"I'm just not precisely sure I know what you mean, Doctor," he replied. He didn't imagine for an instant that this would put the doctor off his pursuit.

Gulptilil waited for several seconds, letting silence flow throughout the room, as if he expected Francis to add something, which he did not.

"Tell me this, Francis. Do you believe that there is a killer loose in the hospital?"

Francis inhaled sharply. He hadn't expected this question, although, he understood, it would have been fair to say that he hadn't expected any question For a moment, he let his eyes race around the room, as if he was looking for a way out. His heart was pounding and all his voices were silent, because they all knew that hidden within the doctor's question were all sorts of important notions, and he had no idea what the right answer would be. He saw the doctor lift an eyebrow quizzically, and Francis knew that delay was as dangerous as anything.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"You do not believe that this is a delusion and a paranoid one, at that?"

"No," he said, trying unsuccessfully to not sound hesitant.

The doctor nodded his head. "And why do you think this?" he asked.

"Miss Jones seems convinced. And so does Peter. And I don't think that Lanky…"

Gulptilil held up his hand. "These details we've discussed before. Tell me, what has changed in the ah, investigation, ah, that suggests that you are on the correct path."

Francis wanted to squirm in his chair but didn't dare to do so. "Miss Jones is still interviewing potential suspects," he said. "I don't believe that she has reached any conclusions yet about any individual, other than some that have been cleared. Mister Evans has helped her with that."

Gulptilil paused, assessing the answer. "You would tell me, would you not, Francis?"

"Tell you what, Doctor?"

"If she had made some determination."

"I'm not sure…"

"It would be a sign, at least to me, that you have a much firmer grasp of reality. It would show some progress on your part, I think, if you were able to express yourself on this score. And who knows where that might lead, Francis? Taking charge of reality, why that's an important step on the road to recovery. A very important step and a very important road. And that road would lead to all sorts of changes. Perhaps a visit from your family. Perhaps a furlough home for a weekend. And then, perhaps greater freedoms, still. A road of significant possibility, Francis."

The doctor bent toward Francis, who remained silent.

"I make myself clear?" he asked.

Francis nodded.

"Good. Then we will make time to speak of these matters again in the next few days, Francis. And, of course, should you think it important to speak to me at any time, about any details or observations you might have, why, my door is always open to you. I will always make the time available. At any time, do you understand?"

"Yes. I believe so."

"I am pleased with your progress, Francis. And pleased, as well, that we had this talk."

Francis again remained silent.

The doctor gestured toward the door. "I believe we are finished for this moment, Francis, and I have to prepare for a rather important visitor. You may let yourself out. My secretary will arrange for someone to escort you back to Amherst."

Francis pushed himself up out of the chair and took a few tentative strides toward the office door, when he was stopped by Doctor Gulptilil's voice. "Ah, Francis, I almost forgot. Before you leave, can you tell me what day it is?"

"Friday."

"And the date."

"The fifth of May."

"Excellent. And the name of our distinguished president?"

"Carter."

"Very good, Francis. I hope we will have an opportunity soon to speak some more."

And with that, Francis let himself out the door. He didn't dare to look back over his shoulder, to see if the doctor was watching him. But he could feel Gulptilil's eyes boring into his back, right into the place where his neck met his skull. Get out now! he heard from deep within his head, and he was eager to oblige.

The man seated across from Lucy was wiry and small, a little like a professional horse racing jockey in build. He wore a crooked smile, that seemed to her to bend in the same direction that the man hunched his shoulders, giving him a lopsided appearance. He had stringy black hair that encircled his face in a tangled mass, and blue eyes that glowed with an intensity that was unsettling. Every third breath the man took seemed to emerge in an asthmatic wheeze, which didn't prevent him from lighting one cigarette after the other, so that a smoky haze surrounded his face. Evans coughed once or twice and Big Black retreated to a corner of the office, just close enough, just far enough. Big Black, Lucy thought, seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of distances, almost automatically going to just the right amount for every patient.

She glanced at the file in front of her. "Mister Harris," she said. "I wonder if you might tell me if you recognize any of these people."