Lanky was about pointing and shouting and being loud. I don't think he was about killing. Certainly not killing in a sneaky, quiet, assassin's type of way.'
'He said evil had to be destroyed. He said it real loud, in front of everyone.'
Peter nodded, but his voice carried disbelief. 'Do you think he could kill someone, C- Bird?'
'I don't know. In a way, I think, under the right circumstances, anyone could be a killer. But I'm just guessing. I've never known a killer before.'
This reply made Peter smile. 'Well, you know me,' he said. 'But I think we should get to know another.'
'Another killer?'
'An Angel,' Peter said.
Shortly before the afternoon group session the following day, Francis was approached by Napoleon. The small man had a hesitancy about him, that seemed to speak of indecision, and doubt. He stuttered slightly, words seeming to hang up on the tip of his tongue, reluctant to burst forth for fear of how they would be received. He had the most curious sort of speech impediment, for when he launched himself into history, as it connected to his namesake, then he would be far more clear and precise. The problem was, for anyone listening, to separate the two disparate elements, the thoughts of that day from the speculations about events that had taken place more than 150 years earlier.
'C-Bird?' Napoleon asked, with his customary nervousness.
'What is it, Nappy?' Francis replied. They were hanging on the edge of the dayroom, not actually doing anything but patiently assessing their thoughts, as the folks of the Amherst Building often did.
'Something has really been bothering me,' Napoleon said.
'There's been a lot that's bothered everyone,' Francis responded. Napoleon ran his hands over his chubby cheeks.
'Did you know that no general is considered more brilliant than Bonaparte?' Napoleon said. 'Like Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar or George Washington. I mean, he was someone who shaped the world with his brilliance.'
'Yes. I know that,' Francis said.
'But what I don't understand is why, when he was so roundly considered such a man of genius, does everyone only remembers his defeats?'
'I'm sorry,' Francis said.
'The defeats. Moscow. Trafalgar. Waterloo.'
'I don't know if I can answer that question, Nappy…,' Francis started.
'It's truly bothering me,' he said quickly, 'I mean, why are we remembered for our failures? Why do defeats and retreats mean more than victories? Do you think Gulp-a-pill and Mister Evil ever talk about the progress we make, in group, or with medications? I don't think so. I think they only talk about setbacks and mistakes and all the little signs that we still belong here, instead of the indications that we're getting better and just maybe we ought to be going home.'
Francis nodded. This made some sense.
But the short man continued, his stuttering hesitancy dropping aside. 'I mean, Napoleon remade the map of Europe with his victories. They should be remembered. It really makes me so angry…'
'I don't know that there's much you can do about it,' Francis started, only to be cut off as the small man leaned forward and lowered his voice.
'It makes me so angry the way Gulp-a-pill and Mister Evil treat me and treat all these historical things that are so important, that I could hardly sleep last night…'
This statement got Francis's attention.
'You were awake?'
'I was awake when I heard someone working a key through the door lock.'
'Did you see…'
Napoleon shook his head. 'I heard the door swing open, you know, my bunk isn't far away, and I closed my eyes tight, because we are supposed to be asleep, and I didn't want someone to think that I wasn't sleeping when I was supposed to and get my meds increased. So I pretended.'
'Go on,' Francis urged.
Napoleon put his head back, trying to reconstruct what he remembered. 'I was aware that someone went by my bunk. And then, a few minutes later, passed by again, only this time to exit. And I listened for the lock turning, but it never happened. Then, after a little bit, I peeked just a tiny little peek, and I saw you and the Fireman heading out. We're not supposed to go out at night. We're supposed to be in our bunks and fast asleep, so it scared me when you went past, and I tried to go to sleep, but now, I could hear Lanky talking to himself, and that kept me up until the police came and the lights came on and we could see all the terrible things that had happened.'
'So, you didn't see the other person?'
'No. I don't think so. It was dark. I might have looked a little, though.'
'And what did you see?'
'A man in white. That's all.'
'Could you tell how big? Did you see his face?'
Napoleon shook his head again. 'Everyone looks big to me, C-Bird. Even you. And I didn't see his face. When he walked past my bunk, I squeezed my eyes shut and hid my head. I do remember one thing, though. He seemed to be floating. All white and floating.'
The small man took a deep breath. 'Some of the bodies, during the retreat from Moscow, froze so solid that the skin took on the color of ice on a pond. Like gray and white and translucent, all at the same time. Like fog. That was what I remember.'
Francis absorbed what he'd heard, and saw that Mister Evil was walking through the dayroom, signaling the start of their afternoon group session. He also saw Big Black and Little Black maneuvering through the throng of patients. Francis started suddenly, when he noticed that both men wore their white pants and white orderly jackets.
Angels, he thought.
Francis had one other, brief conversation, while heading into the group session. Cleo stepped in front of him, blocking his passage down that corridor to one of the smaller treatment rooms. She swayed back and forth before speaking, a little like a ferryboat nestling into its berth at a dock.
'C-Bird,' she said. 'Do you think Lanky did that to Short Blond?'
Francis shook his head slightly, as if in doubt. 'It doesn't seem to be the sort of thing that Lanky would do,' he said. 'It seems so much worse than he could ever manage.'
Cleo breathed out deeply. Her entire bulk shuddered. 'I thought he was a good man. A little wacky, like the rest of us, confused about things, sometimes, but a good man. I cannot believe that he would do such a bad thing.'
'He had blood on his shirt. And he seemed to have picked out Short Blond and for some reason, he thought she was evil, and this scared him, Cleo. When we get scared, we do things that are unexpected. All of us do. In fact, I'd bet that just about everyone here did something when they got scared, and that's why they're here.'
Cleo nodded in agreement. 'But Lanky seemed different.' Then she shook her head. 'No. That's not right. He seemed the same. And we're all different, and that's what I mean. He was different outside, but in here, he was the same, and what happened, that seemed like an outside thing that seemed to happen inside.'
'Outside?'
'You know, stupid. Outside. Like beyond.' Cleo made a wide, sweeping gesture with her arm, as if to indicate the world beyond the hospital walls.
This made some sense to Francis and he managed a small smile. 'I think I see what you're getting at,' he said.
