Peter could hear some sounds from the corridor beyond the bolted door to the isolation cell, and there was a thudding noise of another door being opened, then slammed shut. He couldn't refuse the Cardinal's offer. And, he couldn't leave Francis and Lucy alone to face the Angel.

He understood, that however he managed it, he had to propel the investigation forward, as rapidly as possible. Time no longer allied itself with him.

Peter looked up at the locked door, as if he expected someone to open it right at that second. But there was no sound, not even from the restless corridor beyond, and he remained seated, trying to check his impatience, thinking that in some small way the situation he was in resembled his whole life. Everywhere he'd been, it was as if there was a locked door preventing him from moving freely.

So he waited for someone to come for him, dropping ever deeper into a canyon walled with contradictions, unsure whether he would be able to climb out.

"I see no apparent signs of foul play," the medical director said stiffly, almost formally.

Doctor Gulptilil was standing next to the Dancer's body where it lay porcelain-toned and death-rigid on the bunk. Mister Evil was at his side, as were two other psychiatrists and a psychologist from other housing units. One of the men, Francis had learned, doubled as the hospital's pathologist, and he was bending closely over the Dancer, inspecting him cautiously. This physician was tall and slender, with a hawk nose and thick glasses and the nervous habit of clearing his throat before saying anything and nodding his head up and down so that his slightly unkempt shock of black hair bobbed, regardless whether he was agreeing or disagreeing. He had a clipboard, with a form on it, and he was taking some notes, jotting them down rapidly as Gulp-a-pill spoke.

"No signs of a beating," Gulptilil said. "No external signs of trauma. No obvious wounds of any note."

"Sudden heart failure," the vulturelike doctor said, head moving rapidly. "I see from his records that he had been treated for a heart condition in the past couple of months."

Lucy Jones was hovering just behind the doctors. "Look at his hands," she said abruptly. "The nails are torn and bloody. Those could be defensive wounds."

The doctors all turned to her, but it was Mister Evil that took it upon himself to respond. "He was caught up in a fight yesterday, as you well know. Really, just a bystander who got drawn into it, when two men slammed into him. Not something he would have participated in, but he struggled to get free from the melee. I suspect that's how his nails were affected."

"I suppose you would say the same about the scratches on his forearms?"

"Yes."

"And the way the sheet and blanket are tangled around his feet?"

"Heart attack can be very fast and very painful and he might have twisted about for an instant before being overcome."

The physicians all murmured in agreement. Gulp-a-pill turned to Lucy.

"Miss Jones," he said, speaking slowly, patiently, which only underscored how impatient he truly was. "Death, alas, is not uncommon in the hospital. This unfortunate gentleman was elderly and had been confined here for many years. He had suffered one heart attack in the past, and there is little doubt in my mind that the emotional stress of moving from Williams to Amherst in the past days, coupled with the fight he was caught up in through no fault of his own, and the debilitating effect of substantial courses of medications over the years, all had conspired to weaken his cardiovascular system further. A most normal, to be sure, and not remarkable death, here at Western State. I thank you for your observation…"

He spoke, pausing in such a way as to demonstrate that he was actually not thanking her for anything, before continuing. "… But are you not seeking someone who uses a knife, and who somewhat ritualistically defaces the hands of his victims and who, to the best of your knowledge, confines his assaults to young women?"

"Yes," Lucy replied. "You are correct."

"So, this death would not seem to fit the pattern that interests you?"

"Again, Doctor, you are correct."

"Then, please, allow us to handle this death in routine fashion."

"You don't call in outside authorities?"

Gulptilil sighed, but again, this only barely concealed his irritation. "When a patient dies during surgery, does the neurosurgeon call a policeman? This situation is analogous, Miss Jones. We file a report with the state. We hold a mortality conference with the staff. We contact the next of kin, if there are any listed. In some cases, where doubt factors are large, we hand the body over for autopsy. In others, however, we do not. And oftentimes, Miss Jones, because this hospital is the only home and only family that some unfortunate patients have, we are in charge of seeing our dead directly into the grave."

He shrugged, but again, a movement that spoke of disinterest and nonchalance, hid what Lucy Jones thought was anger.

In the doorway, a crowd of patients gathered, trying to see into the dormitory. Gulptilil glanced at Mister Evil. "I think this is bordering on the morbid, Mister Evans. Let's clear those folks out and move the fellow over to the morgue."

"Doctor…" Lucy started in again, but he cut her off, and turned, instead to Mister Evil.

"Tell me, Mister Evans, did anyone in this unit awaken last night and observe a struggle? Was there a battle that anyone saw? Were there screams and punches thrown and shouted curses and imprecations? Everything that ordinarily fits into the type of conflict that we are accustomed to?"

"No, Doctor," Evans replied. "None whatsoever."

"A fight to the death, perhaps?"

"No."

Gulptilil turned to Lucy. "Certainly, Miss Jones, if there had been a murder, someone in the midst of this room would have awakened and seen or heard something. Absent that, however…"

Francis took a half step forward, about to say something, but then stopped.

He glanced over at Big Black, who shook his head slightly. The big attendant was giving good advice, Francis realized. If he described what he'd heard, and the presence that had lurked by his own bedside, it most likely would merely have been considered another hallucination by physicians predisposed to reach that conclusion. I heard something but no one else did. I felt something but no one else noticed. I know a murder took place but no one else does. Francis immediately saw the hopelessness of his position. His protest would have been noted and registered in his file as yet a further indication of how far he was from meaningful recovery and the opportunity to get out of the hospital.

Francis held his breath. In the hospital, the Angel's presence was still neither real nor delusion. He knew the Angel understood this. No wonder, Francis thought, to a chorus of assent within him, the killer was confident. He can get away with anything.

The question, Francis asked himself, was: What is it he wants to get away with?

So he clamped down on his lip, and stared instead at the Dancer. What killed him, Francis wondered? No blood. No marks around the neck. Just a death mask engraved on his features. Probably a pillow held down over the face. Quiet panic. Silent death. A momentary thrashing about and then oblivion. Is that what I heard last night? Francis asked himself. He thought painfully: Yes. I just never opened my eyes to the noise.

The knife that had killed Short Blond, this time had been reserved for him. But the message on the bunk was for all of them. Francis could feel his muscles shuddering. He was still gathering himself together, understanding how close he'd been that night to either real death or being driven into a deeper madness. It was, he thought, as if the two of them went hand in hand, a matched set of unpleasant alternatives.