'Thank you, Mister Santiago,' I said, nodding my head. 'And thank you for the dinner.'
I closed the door, and took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the aroma of the food. It seemed suddenly as if it had been days since I'd eaten. Perhaps it had been, although I remembered grilled cheese. But when was that? I found a fork in a drawer and tore into Rosalita's specialty. I wondered whether arroz con polio, which was good for so many ailments of the spirit, might help my own. To my surprise, each bite seemed to energize me, and as I chewed away, I saw the progress I had made on the wall. Columns of history.
And I realized I was alone again.
He would be back. I had no doubt about that. He was lurking, vaporous, in some space just beyond my reach, and eluding my consciousness. Avoiding me. Avoiding the Santiago family. Avoiding the arroz con polio. Hiding from my memory. But for the moment, to my great relief, all I had was chicken, rice, and words. I thought to myself: All that talk in Gulp-a-pill's office about keeping things confidential had been nothing but showy emptiness.
It did not take long for all the patients and staff to become aware of Lucy Jones's presence in the Amherst Building. It was not merely the way she dressed, in loose dark slacks and sweater, carrying her leather briefcase with an orderliness that defied the more slovenly character of the hospital. Nor was it her height and bearing, or the distinctive scar on her face, that separated her from the regulars. It was more in the way she passed through the corridors, heels clicking on the linoleum floor, with an alertness in her eyes that made it seem as if she was inspecting everything and everyone, and searching for some telltale sign that might lead her in the direction she needed. It was an awareness that wasn't defined by paranoia, visions, or voices. Even the Catos standing in the corners, or leaning up against the walls, or the senile elderly locked into their wheelchairs, all seemingly lost inside their own reveries, or the mentally retarded, who stared dully at almost all that happened around them, seemed to take some strange note that Lucy was driven by forces every bit as powerful as those they all struggled with, but that hers were somehow more appropriate. More connected to the world. So when she paced past them, the patients would follow her with their eyes, not interrupting their murmuring and mumbling, or the shakiness in their hands, but still watching her with an attentiveness that seemed to defy their own illnesses. Even at mealtimes, which she took in the cafeteria with the patients and staff, waiting in line like everyone else for the plates of nondescript, institutionalized food, she was someone apart. She took to sitting at a corner table, where she could look out at the other people in the room, her back to a painted lime green cinder block wall.
Occasionally, someone would join her at the table, either Mister Evil, who seemed most interested in everything she was doing, or Big Black or Little Black, who immediately turned any conversation over to sports. Sometimes some of the nursing staff would sit with her, but their stark white uniforms and peaked caps set her even more apart from the regular hospital routine. And when she conversed with one of her companions, she seemed to constantly slip-slide her glance around the room, giving Francis the impression that she was a little like a field hawk soaring on wind currents above them all, looking down, trying to spot some movement in the withered brown stalks of the early New England spring and isolating her prey.
None of the patients sat with her, including, at the start, Francis or Peter the Fireman. This had been Peter's suggestion. He had told her that there was no sense in letting too many folks know that they were working with her, although people would figure it out for themselves before too much time had passed. So, at least for the first days, Francis and Peter ignored her in the dining hall.
Cleo, however, did not.
As Lucy was carrying her tray to the refuse station, the portly patient accosted her.
'I know why you're here!' Cleo said. She was loud, and forcefully accusatory, and had it not been for the usual dinnertime clatter of dishes, trays, and plates, her tone of voice might have grabbed everyone's attention.
'Do you now?' Lucy calmly replied. She stepped past Cleo and began to scrape leftovers from a sturdy white plate into a trash canister.
'Indeed, yes,' Cleo continued with a matter-of-fact tone. 'It is obvious.'
'Really?'
'Yes,' Cleo went on, filled with bluster and the peculiar bravado that madness sometimes has, where it releases all the ordinary brakes on behavior.
'Then perhaps you should tell me what you think.'
'Aha! Of course. You mean to take over Egypt!'
'Egypt?'
'Egypt,' Cleo said, waving her hand to indicate the entire room, motioning in a slightly exasperated fashion at the clarity of it all, which had initially eluded Lucy Jones. 'My Egypt. Followed pretty damn fast by seducing Marc Anthony and Caesar, as well, I wouldn't doubt.'
Cleo harumphed loudly, crossed her arms for a moment, block like in Lucy's path, and then added, as was her usual response to just about everything, 'The bastards. The damn bastards.'
Lucy Jones looked quizzically at her, then shook her head. 'No, in that, you are decidedly mistaken. Egypt is safe in your hands. I would never presume to rival anyone for such a crown, nor for the loves of their life.'
Cleo lowered her hands to her hips and stared at Lucy. 'Why should I believe you?' she demanded.
'You will need to take my word on this.'
The large woman hesitated, then scratched at the twisted mangle of hair she wore on top of her head. 'Are you a person of honesty and integrity?' she asked abruptly.
'I am told that I am,' Lucy replied.
'Gulp-a-pill and Mister Evil would say the same, but I do not trust them.'
'Nor do I,' Lucy said quietly, leaning forward slightly. 'On that count, we can certainly agree.'
'Then, if you do not mean to conquer Egypt, why are you here?' Cleo asked, putting her hands back on her hips, and resuming an aggressively intuitive tone.
'I think there is a traitor in your kingdom,' Lucy said slowly.
'What sort of traitor?'
'The worst sort.'
Cleo nodded. 'This has to do with Lanky's arrest and Short Blond's murder, doesn't it?'
'Yes,' Lucy replied.
'I saw him,' Cleo said. 'Not well, but I saw him. That night.'
'Who? Who did you see?' Lucy asked, suddenly alert, leaning forward.
Cleo smiled catlike, knowingly, then she shrugged. 'If you need my help,' she said, a sudden portrait of haughtiness, her voice dripping with entitlement, 'then you should apply for it in an appropriate fashion, at the correct time, at a proper place.'
With that, Cleo stepped back, and after taking a moment to light a cigarette with a flourish, she spun away, a look of satisfaction on her face. Lucy appeared a little confused, and took a step after her, only to be intercepted by Peter the Fireman, who had carried his tray up to the refuse counter at that moment, although Francis could see that he had barely touched any of his food. He began to scrape his plate, and thrust the utensils through an opening into the cleaning station. As he did this, Francis heard him say to Lucy, 'It's true. She saw the Angel that night. She told us that he entered the women's dormitory, stood there for a moment, then exited, locking the door behind him.'
Lucy Jones nodded. 'Curious behavior,' she said, although even she realized that this particular observation was somewhat useless inside a mental hospital where all the behavior was, at best, curious, and at worse, something truly awful. She looked over at Francis, who had risen and now stood next to them. 'C- Bird, tell me why would someone who has just committed a violent crime, taken the extraordinary trouble to cover up his tracks and worked hard to see that someone else is blamed for the crime and should by all rights want to disappear and hide, enter into a room filled with women who, if any one of them happened to awaken, might
