"Better?"

"To that end, we would like to help."

"Help?"

"Yes. There is a clinic, a facility, that is leading the way in post-traumatic stress research and treatment. We believe, the Church believes, even your family believes, that you would be far better suited to a stay there, than you would here in Western State."

"My family?"

"Yes. They seem quite eager to see you get this help."

Peter wondered what they had been promised. Or threatened. He was angry for an instant, shifted in his seat, then abruptly saddened as he realized that he'd probably solved nothing for any of them, especially his damaged nephew. He wanted to say all this, but stopped himself, and instead, shunted all those thoughts deep within him.

Peter asked instead: "And where is this facility?"

"It is in Oregon. You can be there within days."

"Oregon?"

"Yes. A quite beautiful part of that state, or so I'm reliably informed."

"And the charges against me?"

"A successful completion of the treatment plan would result in the charges being dropped."

Peter thought hard, then asked, "And I do what, in return?"

Father Grozdik pitched forward once again. Peter had the sensation that the priest had discussed long before his arrival at Western State precisely how he would reply to that question. Father Grozdik spoke in a low, clear, very slow voice: "We would expect that you would do nothing and say absolutely nothing today, or at any time in the future, that might prevent great and wondrous progress from being made with such enthusiasm."

These words chilled him and his first response was anger. A great mixture of ice and fire within him. Fury commingled with cold. He managed to control himself with great effort.

"You say you've actually talked this over with my family?" he asked flatly.

"Do you not think that your return here to this state would cause them great anguish, by reminding them of so much, and so many troubled times? Do you not think it would be far better for Peter the Fireman to begin anew, somewhere distant? Do you not think that you owe them the opportunity to get on with their lives, as well, and not to be hounded by terrible memories of such awful events?"

Peter did not reply.

Father Grozdik shuffled the papers on the desktop. Then he said: "You can have a life, Peter. But we need you to agree. And promptly, for this offer may not remain viable for very long. In many places, many people have made significant sacrifices and difficult arrangements so that this offer can be made to you, Peter."

Peter's throat was dry. When he did speak, words seemed to squeak past his lips. "Promptly, you say. Do you mean minutes? Days? A week, a month, a year?"

Father Grozdik smiled again. "We would like to see you getting the proper treatment within days, Peter. Why prolong barriers to your emotional well-being?"

This question seemingly did not require an answer.

He stood up. "You will need to tell Doctor Gulptilil of your decision promptly, Peter. We, of course, will not demand you to make it on the spot. I'm sure there is much for you to think about. But it is a fine offer, Peter, and one that will bring much good out of this terrible series of circumstances."

Peter rose, as well. He looked over at Doctor Gulptilil. The round Indian physician had kept his mouth shut throughout the conversation. The doctor gestured toward the door, and finally said, "Peter, you may ask Mister Moses to escort you back to Amherst. Perhaps he can do this without the restraints at this time."

Peter took a step back, and the doctor added, "Ah, Peter, when you reach what is so clearly the only possible decision on this matter, simply inform Mister Evans that you wish to speak with me, and then we will get the necessary paperwork for your transfer in order."

Father Grozdik seemed to stiffen slightly, as he stood beside the doctor, behind the desk. He shook his head. "Perhaps," he said cautiously, "Doctor, we could have Peter deal only with you on this matter. In particular, I believe that Mister Evans, your associate, should not be, shall we say, involved in any way, shape, or form."

Gulp-a-pill looked oddly at the priest, who added, by way of explanation, "It was his brother, Doctor, who was one of the men injured running into the church in a vain attempt to rescue Father Connolly. Evans's brother is still in the midst of long-term, and' considerably painful therapy for burns received that tragic night. I fear your associate might harbor some animosity toward Peter."

Peter hesitated, thought about one, two, perhaps a dozen responses, but said none of them. He nodded toward the Cardinal, who nodded back, but without a smile, the priest's florid face set in an edge, which told Peter that he was walking on a very thin and desperately narrow precipice.

The ground floor corridor in the Amherst Building was crowded with patients. There was a buzz in the hallway, as people spoke to one another or to themselves. It was only when something out of the routine took place that people grew silent, or else made untethered noises that could have been speech. Any change was always dangerous, Francis thought. It frightened him to realize he was growing accustomed to existence at Western State. A sane person, he told himself, accommodates change and welcomes originality. He promised himself to embrace every different thing that he could, to fight off the dependence upon routine. Even his voices echoed agreement within him, as if they, too, could see the dangers in becoming just another face in the hallway.

But, as he told himself this, there was a sudden silence in the corridor. Noise dropped away like a receding wave at the beach. When Francis looked up, he saw the reason: Little Black was leading three men through the center of the hallway toward the first-floor dormitory room. Francis recognized the hulking retarded man, who easily carried a footlocker in both arms, and had a large Raggedy Andy doll stuck under his armpit. The man sported a contusion on his forehead and a slightly swollen lip, but wore a skewed smile, which he delivered to anyone who met his gaze. He grunted, as if making greetings, as he trotted behind Little Black.

The second man was slight, and significantly older, with glasses and thin, wispy white hair. He seemed to be light on his feet, like a dancer, and Francis watched him pirouette down the corridor as if the gathering there was a part of a ballet. The third man was dull-lidded, a little shy of middle age, a little beyond youth, wide in the shoulders, dark-haired and stocky. He plodded forward, as if it was a struggle to keep up with either the retarded man or the

Dancer. A Cato, Francis thought at first. Or else damn close to it. But then, when he looked a little closer, he saw the man's black eyes moving furtively back and forth, inspecting the sea of patients parting in front of Little Black's procession. Francis saw the man's eyes narrow, as if what he saw displeased him, and an edge of his mouth turned upward in a doglike snarl. Francis immediately altered his diagnosis, and recognized a man that deserved a wide berth. He carried a brown cardboard box with his meager belongings.

Francis saw Lucy emerge from the office and stand watching the group move toward the dormitory. He caught Little Black's slight nod of his head in her direction, as if to signal her that the disruption that she'd set in motion had succeeded. A disruption that had necessitated the moving of several men from one dormitory to another.

Lucy moved to Francis and whispered to him quickly. "C-Bird, tag along there, and see that our guy gets into a bunk where you and Peter can keep an eye on him."

Francis nodded, wanted to say that the retarded man wasn't the man they should be watching, but did not. Instead, Francis peeled himself from the wall and moved down the hallway, which returned to a busy buzz and muted talk as he passed.