hearings?'
'He was there. I know it. I could feel it…'
'What did he say?'
'Nothing.'
'Then what did he do?'
'Nothing. But…'
'Then how can you be so sure, C-Bird?'
'Peter, I could feel it. I'm sure.' The words expressed a certainty that wasn't matched in the doubtful tone Francis used.
Peter shook his head. 'It's not much to go on, C-Bird. But we should tell Lucy if we get a chance.'
Francis looked at Peter and felt a sudden surge of frustration and perhaps a little anger. He wasn't being listened to now, they hadn't listened to him yet, and he realized that they would never listen to him. What they wanted to pursue was something solid and concrete. But in the mental hospital, such things barely existed.
'She's leaving. You're leaving…'
Peter nodded. 'I don't know what to tell you, C-Bird. I hate leaving you behind. But if I stay…'
'You and Lucy will leave. You'll both get out. I'll never get out.'
'It won't be that bad, you'll be fine,' Peter said, but even he knew this was a lie.
'I don't want to stay any longer, either,' Francis said. His voice quivered.
'You'll get out,' Peter said. 'Look, C-Bird, I'll make a promise. After I go through whatever the hell this program they're shipping me to, and then, once I'm clear, I'll get you out. I don't exactly know how, but I will. I won't leave you here.'
Francis wanted to believe this, but didn't dare allow himself to. He thought that in his short life many people had made promises and predictions and that precious few of them had ever happened. Caught between the two pillars of the future, one described by Evans, the other pledged by Peter, Francis did not know what to think, but he knew he was a whole lot closer to one than the other.
Instead, he stammered, 'The Angel, Peter. What about the Angel?'
'I'm hoping tonight's the night, C-Bird. It's pretty much our only chance. Last chance. Whatever. But it's a reasonable approach, and I think it will work.'
There was a distinct murmuring within Francis, as the chorus of voices all seemed to mutter at once. He was caught between paying attention to them or paying attention to Peter, who briefly described the plan for that night. It was a little like Peter didn't want Francis to have too many details, as if he was trying to move Francis to the perimeter of the night, keeping him from the center, where he expected the action to take place.
'Lucy will be the target?' Francis asked.
'Yes and no,' Peter replied. 'She'll be there, and she'll be the bait. But that's all. She'll be fine. It's all worked out. The Moses brothers will cover her on one side, and I'll be there on the other.'
Francis thought this was untrue.
For a moment, he hesitated. It seemed to him that he had almost too much to say.
Then Peter leaned toward Francis, bending his head down so that their words just flowed between the two of them. 'C-Bird, what is bothering you?'
Francis rubbed his hands together, like a man trying to wash something sticky from his fingertips. 'I can't be sure,' Francis said, although he knew this was a lie, because he was sure. His voice stammered, and he wanted desperately to endow it with strength, passion, and conviction, but, as he spoke, he thought every word that tumbled past his lips was filled with weakness. 'I just sensed it. It was the same feeling that I had when he came to my bed and threatened me. The night that he killed the Dancer with the pillow. The same I felt when I saw Cleo hanging there…'
'Cleo hung herself.'
'He was there.'
'She took her own life.'
'He was there!' Francis said, mustering all the insistence he could.
'Why do you think so?'
'He mutilated her hand. Not Cleo. The thumb was moved, it couldn't have just dropped in the location it was found. There was no pair of scissors or homemade knife anywhere to be found. There was only blood there, in the stairwell, nowhere else, so slicing off the thumb had to be done there. She didn't do it. He did.'
'But why?'
Francis put his hand up to his forehead. He thought he felt feverish, hot, as if the world around him had somehow been burnt by the sun. 'To join the two together. To show us that he was everywhere. I can't quite tell, Peter, but it was a message and one that we don't understand.'
Peter eyed Francis carefully, but noncommittally. It was as if he both believed and didn't believe everything Francis said. 'And the release hearing? You say you could sense his presence?' Peter's words were endowed with skepticism.
'The Angel needs to be able to come and go. He needs access to both here and there. The world inside and the world outside.'
'Why?'
Francis took a deep breath. 'Power. Safety.'
Peter nodded and shrugged, at the same time. 'Maybe so. But when all is said and done, C-Bird, the Angel is just a killer with a particular predilection for a certain body type and hair style, with a penchant for mutilation. I suppose Gulptilil or some forensic shrink could sit around and speculate about the whys and wherefores, maybe come up with some theory about how the Angel was abused as a child, but it's not really relevant. What he is, when you think about it, is just another bad-acting bad guy, and my guess is we're going to catch him tonight, because he's a compulsive type, who won't be able to refuse the trap set for him. Probably what we should have done from the start, instead of spinning our wheels with interviews and patient files. One way or the other, he'll show. End of story.'
Francis wanted to share Peter's confidence, but could not. 'Peter,' he said cautiously, 'I suppose everything you say is true. But suppose it's not. Suppose he's not what you and Lucy think. Suppose everything that has happened so far is something different.'
'C-Bird, I don't follow.'
Francis swallowed air. His throat felt parched and he could barely manage more that a whisper. 'I don't know, I don't know,' he repeated. 'But everything you and I and Lucy have done is what he would expect…'
'I've told you before: That's what any investigation is. A steady examination of facts and details.'
Francis shook his head. He wanted to get mad, but instead felt merely fear. He finally lifted his head and looked around. He saw Newsman, who had a newspaper open and was studiously memorizing headlines. He saw Napoleon, who envisioned himself a French general. He wished he saw Cleo, who once lived in a queen's world. He fixed on some of the geriatrics, who were lost in memory, and the retarded men and women, who were stuck in some dull childishness. Peter and Lucy were using logic even psychiatric logic to find the killer. But, what C-Bird realized was that this was the most illogical approach of all, inside a world so filled with fantasy, delusion, and confusion.
His own voices shrieked at him: Stop! Run! Hide! Don't think! Don't imagine! Don't speculate! Don't understand!
Right at that moment, Francis realized that he knew what would happen that night. And he was powerless to prevent it.
'Peter,' he said slowly, 'maybe the Angel wants everything to be as is it.'
'Well, I suppose that's possible,' Peter said with a small laugh, as if that was the
