Lucas scowled at him. The veins in his temples throbbed. Then slowly they subsided, and he studied the figure. "Maybe… Maybe I once knew him."

"Have you got a name for him?"

"I'll tell you when I'm ready. Did you notice if he had a scar?" he asked the medical examiner.

"Two wavy lines that intersect across his chest. They remind me of a swastika."

"And what about a-?"

"Tattoo on his shoulder. It's an eagle."

"Let me see it." Lucas watched the medical examiner tug at the sheet and gown. They looked at a purple eagle.

"Yes, I knew him." Lucas exhaled. "Pollock. All I ever heard him called was Pollock. He was Quiller's second in command. That eagle's like some kind of military symbol, like a captain or a major. If he wakes up, don't go near him. He's insane. If you could see his eyes, you'd understand what I mean."

Slaughter sighed. "Then the commune still exists."

"But where the hell did they go?" Dunlap wondered.

Now the figure squirmed beneath the straps. He shook his head, unconscious, flaring his nostrils, moaning, "Throne room."

"What?" The medical examiner shook his head.

"He said 'throne room'," Slaughter told him. "I don't understand it either. He was moaning that when Rettig found him." Slaughter didn't like the smell in here. Although the figure had been bathed while he was strapped down in the bed, he stank of rancid meat and sweat and mildew, and the pungent smell of medicine mixed with those other odors nauseated him.

"Where has he been living anyhow?"

"The throne room," Dunlap told him.

"Very funny."

"No, the place clearly has some importance to him. Maybe if we asked him."

"He's unconscious. You can see that."

"I don't care. Let's try it."

Slaughter looked at the medical examiner.

"It might work. I don't think that it could hurt him."

"But it's pointless," Slaughter said.

"What difference does it make? Let's try it." Dunlap bent down by the figure. "Pollock."

"Careful," Slaughter told him.

Dunlap nodded, moving slightly away from the figure. "Pollock, can you hear me?

There was no response. Dunlap waited. Then he said again but softer, "Pollock, can you hear me?"

The figure squirmed. He hissed once. Then he settled.

"Pollock, you're with friends now. Can you hear me? Talk about the throne room."

"Throne room." That was croaked, but they could hear it.

Dunlap glanced at his companions, then spoke more softly to the figure. "That's right. Talk about the throne room."

"Red room."

Dunlap frowned toward the others.

"It could be blood," the medical examiner suggested.

"Maybe," Slaughter told him. "Or it could be something he remembers from when he was just a kid. There isn't any way to know."

Abruptly the figure on the bed started screaming. They flinched as the scream swept louder around them. It rose higher, strident, the figure twisting, agonized, and then as suddenly as it began, the scream diminished. The figure settled, moaning, on the bed. They continued staring.

"Is there nothing you can give him?" Slaughter asked the medical examiner.

"I'm not about to risk a sedative. The only thing that we can do is watch to see what happens."

"What about these lights, though? Can't we dim them?'

"He's unconscious, so they shouldn't bother him. But why not? I don't see a need for them." The medical examiner walked to the door and switched off the lights. The room became shadowy.

But the figure didn't stop its moaning. It jerked its head from side to side. Then gradually it seemed calmer.

"What about the red room, Pollock? Tell us about it," Dunlap said.

There wasn't any answer.

"Red room," Dunlap said again.

And then in answer, "Red room, red room, antelope."

"I told you this is useless. He's just babbling," Slaughter said.

"Or else he's saying what's important to him," Dunlap answered.

"Then you tell me what it means."

"You know I can't."

"Of course you can't. We have to find out where they've gone. If there's some kind of red room, I sure want to know what's in it." Slaughter turned to Lucas. "Can you tell us where they might be living?"

Lucas shook his head. He studied Slaughter and then everyone, their faces in shadow. "No, they never told me much. But now that I think back, I can understand why Quiller would have moved. My father and the state police were proof the compound wasn't safe for him. He'd want to find a better place."

"But where?" Slaughter asked. "Those hills are used for camping, fishing, hunting. Someone would have found them."

"Could be someone did," Dunlap said. "You'd better check your missing-persons file and any inquiries you might have gotten from other sections of the country. You never know how far back this might take you."

"Slaughter, would you mind explaining what this means?"

The new voice thundered through the room. They stiffened, turning toward the doorway, Parsons braced there, looming over them, and then they turned toward Slaughter.

"We don't know yet. We were-"

"In the hallway."

"What?"

"I'm waiting, Slaughter."

Parsons stepped back out and let the door swing shut. The room was silent as they looked at Slaughter.

"Well, I guess I knew this would happen."

"What would happen?"

"He objects to the company I keep."

"He what?"

"It's nothing. I'll explain it later." Through the window, he saw Parsons stalking back and forth in the hallway. "Well, I guess I'd better get it settled." Slaughter faced the door and pulled on it.

Parsons waited until Slaughter shut the door behind him. "You were told to keep that reporter away from this, to make sure he was on a bus the hell from town!"

The nurses at the far end stared at them.

"I don't think I can do that."

"If you want to keep your job, you'll-"

"Parsons, look, we really should have gotten to know each other. It's too late now, but I'll try to make you understand. I've been through situations like this many times. Back in Detroit, when there was trouble and pressure was put on our supervisors, they'd look around for someone to blame. We learned early how to come out looking squeaky clean. Now there's about to be a lot of trouble, and you're going to need a fall guy, but I'm damned sure it won't be me. That reporter in there is closer to me right now than my jockey shorts. Except for this conversation, I don't go anywhere, not even to the men's room, without bringing him along. Because I want to guarantee that I'm protected, that he writes down every move I make, so if you have any accusations, any tricks you want to pull to keep your lovely reputation, there'll be someone else's word besides your own."

"I'll have you-"

"Listen to me. I'm not finished. So you want to sit back and let things happen. Well, that's not the way I plan to do this. If I have to, I'll declare martial law. I'm not sure I have the power, but when this is over, there'll be plenty of time for us to argue. In the meanwhile, I'll at least be doing something which is more than I can say for you. It could be I'll make mistakes. Okay then, I'll take blame for them. But there is no way in this life that I'll take blame for your inaction."

Parsons glared. "You'll wish you'd never come here."

"Maybe. But just think about your options. If I'm right, you'll reach out and take the credit. If I'm wrong, you know who to point blame at. But that reporter is my insurance that I've got a witness to protect me. I'm in charge now. Don't forget it."

Parsons looked through the window at the medical examiner and Dunlap and the young man who were watching him. "Oh, I'm not known for my forgetfulness. Years from now I'll still remember you, but you won't be around to realize it." Parsons studied him a moment longer and then stalked along the corridor.