With that, she thrust the crime scene photographs across the desk at the man.

He took each one carefully, spending perhaps a few too many seconds examining each. Then he shook his head. "Murdered people," he said with a lingering emphasis on the first word. "Dead and left in the woods, it looks like. Not my cup of tea."

"That isn't an answer."

"No. I don't know them." His lopsided grin expanded slightly. "And if I did, would you expect me to admit it?"

Lucy ignored this. "You have a record of violence," she said.

"A fight in a bar isn't a murder."

She looked closely at him.

"Nor is drunk driving. Or beating up some guy who thought he could call me names."

"Look carefully at that third picture," she said slowly. "Do you see the date inscribed on the bottom of the photograph?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me your whereabouts during that time?"

"I was here."

"No, you weren't. Please don't lie to me."

The man Harris shifted about. "Then I was in Walpole on some of those bogus charges they like to hit me up with."

"No, you weren't. I repeat: Don't lie to me."

Harris shifted about. "I was down on the Cape. I had a job down there working for a roofing contractor."

Lucy looked at the file. "Curious time, wasn't it? You're up on some roof somewhere, claiming to be hearing voices, and at the same time, after hours, all sorts of houses within blocks of where you're working are getting ripped off."

"Nobody ever filed those charges."

"That's because you got them to ship you here."

He smiled again, showing uneven teeth. A slippery, awful man, Lucy thought. But not the man she was hunting. She could sense Evans growing uneasy at her side.

"So," she said slowly, "you had nothing to do with any of this?"

"That's right," Harris said. "Can I leave now?"

"Yes," Lucy said. As Harris started to rise, she added: "As soon as you explain to me why another patient would tell us that you boasted of these killings."

"What?" Harris said, his voice rising an octave instantly. "Somebody said I did what?"

"You heard me. So explain why you're boasting in the dormitory, it's Williams, right? Tell me why you would say what you said."

"I haven't said anything like that! You're crazy!"

"This is a crazy place," Lucy said slowly. "Tell me why."

"I didn't. Who told you this?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge the source of information."

"Who?"

"You have made claims that have been overheard in the dormitory where you live. You have been indiscreet, to say the least. I'd like you to explain yourself."

"When did…"

Lucy smiled. "Just recently. This information only came to us recently. So you are denying saying anything?"

"Yes. It's crazy! Why would I boast about something like that? I don't know what you're driving at, lady, but I haven't killed nobody yet. It don't make sense…"

"You think everything in here should make sense?"

"Somebody's lying to you, lady. And somebody wants to get me into trouble."

Lucy nodded slowly. "I will take that into consideration," she said. "All right. You can leave. We may, however, have to speak again."

Harris fairly vaulted out of the chair, taking a step forward, which caused Big Black to uncurl from his position, a movement which the slight man couldn't help but notice. It made him stop. "Son of a bitch," he said. And then he turned and exited, after stubbing his cigarette butt on the floor beneath his feet.

Evans was red-faced. "Do you have any idea the trouble those questions might cause?" he demanded. He pointed at the file, slapping his finger down at Harris's diagnosis. "See what it says, right there. Explosive. Anger management issues. And you provoke him with a bunch of off-the-wall questions that you know won't elicit any response other than fury. I'll bet Harris ends up in an isolation cell before the end of the day, and I'll be in charge of seeing him sedated. Damn! That was simply irresponsible, Miss Jones. And if you're intending to persist with questions that will only serve to disrupt life on the wards, I'll be forced to speak with Doctor Gulptilil about it!"

Lucy pivoted toward Evans. "Sorry," she said. "Thoughtless of me. I'll try to be more circumspect with the next interviews."

"I need a break," Evans said, rising angrily. He stormed out of the room.

Lucy, however, felt a sense of satisfaction.

She, too, rose up and stepped out of the office into the corridor. Peter was waiting, wearing a small, elusive smile, as if he understood everything that had taken place outside of his presence. He gave her a small bow, acknowledging that he had seen and heard enough, and admired the ploy she'd come up with on such short notice. But he didn't get the chance to say anything to her because at that moment Big Black emerged from behind the nursing station bars, holding a set of hand and foot cuffs. The chains made a rattling sound that echoed in the corridor. More than one patient wandering through the area saw the attendant, and saw what he held in his hands, and like startled birds taking wing, they swirled out of his path as rapidly as possible.

Peter, however, remained stock-still, waiting.

From a few feet away, Cleo stood up, her immense bulk swaying back and forth as if buffeted by a hurricane wind.

Lucy watched Big Black approach Peter, whisper an apology, and then snap the cuffs on his wrists and attach them around his ankles. She kept her mouth closed.

But as the final restraint clicked shut, a red-faced, infuriated Cleo abruptly shouted out, "The bastards! The bastards! Don't let them take you away, Peter! We need you!"

Silence hammered the corridor.

"Damn it to hell," Cleo sang out, "We need you!"

Lucy saw that Peter's face was set, and that all his grinning insouciance had fled. He lifted his hands up, as if testing the limits of the restraints, and she thought she could see a great agony sweep through him, before he turned and passively allowed Big Black to lead him down the corridor hobbled like a wild beast that couldn't be trusted.

Chapter 21

Peter cautiously shuffled down the hospital pathway at the side of Big Black in the unmistakable loping manner caused by the restraints binding his legs and hands. The huge attendant remained silent, as if embarrassed by the escort duty. He had apologized once to Peter as they stepped outside of the Amherst Building, and then shut up. But he was walking quickly, which prompted Peter to half run to keep up, and forced him to keep his head down, eyes on the black macadam walkway, concentrating on what he was doing so that he would not stumble and fall.

Peter could feel a little of the late afternoon sunlight on his neck, and he managed to lift his head a couple of times to see that shafts of light were streaking over the rows of buildings, as the sunset took grasp of the end of the day. There was a little chill in the air, a familiar reminder that the spring in New England owns a warning to not be overconfident about the advent of summer. Some of the white paint on the window frames glistened, making the barred glass look like heavy-lidded eyes watching his progress across the quadrangle. The cuffs around his hands dug painfully into the flesh of his wrists and he realized that all the exuberance he'd felt when he'd first sneaked out of the Amherst Building in the company of the two brothers to start searching for the Angel, the excitement that had flooded him with every remembered smell and sense, had fled, replaced by a gloom of imprisonment. He did not know what meeting he was being taken to, but he suspected it was significant.

This thought was buttressed by the sight of two black Cadillac limousines parked in the rotary in front of the hospital administration building. They were polished to a reflective sheen.