'What are you doing in there?' Megan demanded to know.
'Just taking inventory of my life. Nothing special.'
She shook her head. She didn't believe this, and kept craning her head forward.
'Why won't you let us in?' Colleen asked.
'I have a need for my privacy.'
'You're hearing voices again,' Megan said decisively. 'I can just tell.'
I hesitated, then asked, 'How? Can you hear them, as well?'
This, of course, angered her even more.
'You need to let us in immediately!'
I shook my head. 'I want to be left alone,' I replied. Colleen looked on the verge of tears. 'I just want you to leave me alone. Why are you here, anyway?'
'We told you. We're worried about you,' Colleen said.
'Why? Did someone tell you to worry about me?'
The two sisters stole a look between them and then came back to me. 'No,' Megan said, trying to modulate the insistence of her tone. 'We just haven't heard from you in so long…'
I smiled at them. It was nice that now we were all lying.
'I've been busy. If you'd like to make an appointment, well, have your people call my secretary, and I'll try to work you in before Labor Day.'
They didn't even laugh at my joke. I started to close the door, but Megan stepped forward and placed her hand on it, halting its progress. 'What are those words I see?' she demanded, pointing. 'What are you writing?'
'That would be my business, not yours,' I said.
'Are you writing about mother and father? About us? That wouldn't be fair!'
I was a little astonished. My instant diagnosis was that she was more paranoid than I am. 'What is it,' I said slowly, 'that makes you think you are interesting enough to write about?'
And then I closed the door, probably a little too hard, because the slamming sound resonated through the little apartment building like a gunshot.
They knocked again, but I ignored it. When I stepped away, I could hear a widespread murmuring of familiar voices within me congratulating me on what I'd done. They always liked my small displays of defiance and independence. But they were swiftly followed by a distant, echoing sound of mocking laughter, that rose in pitch and erased the familiar sounds. It was a little like a crow's cry, carried on a strong wind, passing invisibly over my head. I shuddered, and shrank down a little, almost as if I could duck beneath a sound.
I knew who it was. 'You can laugh!' I shouted out at the Angel. 'But who else knows what happened?'
Francis took a seat across from Lucy's desk, while Peter paced around in the back of the small office. 'So,' the Fireman said with a small amount of impatience, 'Miss Prosecutor, what's the drill?'
Lucy gestured toward some case files. 'I think it is time to start bringing in some patients to talk. Those who have some record of violence.'
Peter nodded, but seemed a little dismayed. 'Surely when you started reading case files you realized that covers just about everybody in here, except the senile and the retarded, and they just might have some violent entries, as well. We need to find some disqualifying characteristics, I think, Miss Jones…,' he started, but she held up her hand.
'Peter, from now on just call me Lucy,' she said. 'And that way I won't have to call you by your last name because I know from your file that your identity is supposed to be if not exactly hidden, at least, well, de-emphasized, correct? Because of your notoriety in some rather significant parts of the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And, I know, as well, that upon arrival here, you made a point of telling Gulptilil that you no longer had a name, an act of disassociation which he interpreted as having some wish to no longer bring some sort of unspecified shame on your large family.'
Peter stopped pacing, and for an instant Francis thought he was going to get angry. One of his voices shouted out Pay attention1, and he kept his own mouth shut and watched the two of them carefully. Lucy wore a grin, as if she knew she had discomfited Peter, and he had the look of someone trying to come up with the right riposte. After a moment or two, he leaned back against the wall, and smiled, a look that wasn't wholly dissimilar to that worn by Lucy.
'Okay, Lucy,' he said slowly. 'First names are fine. But tell me this, if you will. Don't you think interviewing any patient with a violent past, or even a violent act or two since he arrived here, will ultimately be fruitless? More critically, just how much time do you have, Lucy? How long do you think you can take, coming up with an answer here?'
Lucy's grin fled abruptly. 'Why would you ask that?'
'Because I wonder if your boss back in Boston is fully aware of what you're up to out here.'
Silence filled the small room. Francis was alert to every movement from his companions: the look in the eyes, and behind them, the positioning of arms and shoulders that might indicate subtle differences from the words spoken.
'Why wouldn't you think that I have the full cooperation of my office?'
Peter simply asked, 'Do you?'
Francis saw that Lucy was about to answer one way, then another, and finally a third, before she replied.
'I do and I don't,' she finally said slowly.
'That sounds to me like two different explanations.'
She nodded.
'My presence here is not yet part of an official case file. I believe one should be opened. Others are undecided. Or more accurately, unsure of our jurisdiction. So when I wanted to head out here, just as soon as I heard about Short Blond's killing, there was some contentious debate in my office. The upshot was that I was permitted to go, but not on an official basis, exactly.'
'I'm guessing that those circumstances weren't precisely outlined to Gulptilil.'
'You'd be right about that, Peter.'
He moved about the back of the room again, as if by motion he could add momentum to his thoughts. 'How much time do you need before the hospital administration gets fed up or your office wants you back?'
'Not long.'
Again, Peter seemed to hesitate, sorting through his observations. Francis thought that Peter saw facts and details in much the same way that a mountain guide did: seeing obstacles as opportunities, measuring achievement sometimes in single steps. 'So,' Peter said, as if he was suddenly speaking to himself, 'Lucy is here, persuaded that a criminal is here, as well, and determined to find him. Because she has a… special interest. Right?'
Lucy nodded. 'Right.' Any amusement had fled her face. 'Your days at Western State certainly haven't affected your investigative abilities.'
He shook his head. 'Oh, I think they have,' he said. He didn't say whether this was for the better or for the worse. 'And what might that special interest be?'
After a long pause, Lucy bent her head lower. 'Peter, I don't think we know each other quite well enough. But let me say this: The individual who committed the other three killings managed to get my personal attention by taunting my office.'
'Taunting?'
'Yes. In the you-can't-catch-me vein.'
'You don't want to be more specific?'
'Not right now. These are details that we would hope to use in an eventual prosecution. So '
Peter interrupted her. 'You don't want to share specifics with a couple of crazy guys.'
