"Just me and Marian." She gave him a tentative smile. "I told her I'd handle you."

"I've made a fool of myself."

"You've revealed yourself to be a man under pressure."

"It was weak and unprofessional and I'm sorry you and Marian had to hear it."

She ruffled his hair. "Is there anything else?"

There was, he realized. There could be. But then he had a change of heart. That sort of fraternization was just a bit less bad than diddling with patients, especially in an enclosed situation like the Acton Clinic was becoming. Or rather, had become.

"Thanks for helping me, Katie."

She smiled, he thought, a little sadly. "Not a problem. You're a lot easier than the patients."

"I should hope so."

"Incidentally, if you want to read the paper files, could you please ask me in the future, David? I'd really appreciate that."

"Of course. I was just curious, Katie."

"Oh, hey. You do know how to use given names. Everybody's been wondering."

As if on impulse, she leaned forward, lifted onto her toes, and brushed his cheek with a kiss. He started to speak, but she held her finger to his lips, then waved it. Then she turned and was gone.

The little intimacy had shot right through him, warm and immediate and comforting. The need he had been feeling for a woman surfaced so intensely that he sprang up in his pajamas.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he took deep breaths, waiting for the desire to subside. He could probably go across the hall right now and have her. That had been a clear invitation. But no, it was a mistake.

And then he thought, That light was real That light was real. But the hallucination that had followed-dear G.o.d, the pressure was really getting to him, driving itself deep. That had been Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec G.o.d he was identified with in Herbert Acton's note. Now he was, himself, integrating the imagery into his fantasy life.

Well, here was some pretty obvious psychology: he wanted to identify himself with the compa.s.sionate and healing aspect of the dark religion that was obsessing the world, and had long since seduced this place.

He worried about the light. Finally, he called the guard station.

"Did you notice a flash?"

"Yes, Doctor. But we don't know its origin."

"The facility is quiet?"

"All secure."

He padded across his bedroom and gazed out the window. Katie must not have seen it because it had originated on this side of the building.

Standing, watching the grounds pale in the auroral light, he felt a great surge of compa.s.sion for this little community whose welfare had been put in his hands.

But then he saw-could that be real? No, it was a trick of light, surely. But then he saw it again, a supple figure moving toward the copse of honey locust that stood between the parking area and the formal gardens behind the house. Was that somebody heading toward the gate?

He watched the trees, their leaves fluttering in the wind. No, he was sure he had seen a woman going toward the gate-a woman in what looked like a hospital gown.

Not a staffer, then. So, a patient. He went back to his phone. "Dr. Ford again. You guys need to light us up, we've got somebody on the grounds. A woman. Heading for the main gate."

"Got it. I'll alert perimeter and send a team out."

As David hung up, the night security officer threw the switches that flood-illuminated the entire property.

A moment later, three uniformed guards, guns on their hips, came up from the gatehouse, and two more from the nearest of the new watchtowers that had been installed along the perimeter.

He grabbed the phone again. "I want a patient census. Every room, including the lockdowns."

"We're moving."

Glen he trusted, and his security team was the best money could buy ... but, these days, how good was that? He did not want to end up having to call a family that was paying fifty grand a month to keep their patient safe, to tell them that he or she had left care, especially not naked in the middle of the night.

Should he go down and supervise? No, that would send the wrong message. He needed to show his people he had faith in their abilities-or, at the least, to conceal his suspicions. Only if a patient was apprehended would he go down. If it turned out to be a member of the staff, he'd leave the matter to others.

Still, he might be needed, so he pulled jeans and a sweatshirt over his pajamas, then thrust his feet into a pair of sandals.

His phone rang. He picked it up and Katie said, "Now I see light."

"A possible patient outside," he said. "I thought I saw somebody over by the parking lot."

"Oh, okay. Do you need me again?"

"No, I'm waiting on a census from security. If we've got somebody missing, I'll call you."

He hung up. A moment later, the phone rang again. "We're fully complimented," the security officer said without preamble. "The patients are all in their beds and the staff's all accounted for."

"Well, okay, then chalk it up to inexperience."

The security officer chuckled. "Doc Ullman lit us up twice a week at least. Comes with the territory."

"Boy, does it ever." He hung up. The flash of light, the bizarre hallucination, the person outside-were they all somehow connected?

Thinking back, he thought maybe he recognized the woman. That flowing hair-maybe it had been Caroline Light. But she'd been so extremely distraught-or acting the part so well-that he had moved her into a padded room, which meant constant surveillance, so surely she hadn't managed to just stroll out.

He sank down onto his bed. He was absolutely exhausted and dawn was not far off. But before he went to sleep, he had to face some facts. First, there had been that flash. It couldn't have been an aurora, they weren't that bright. Maybe an exploding satellite, but then surely Katie would have noticed it, too. No, he thought that the flash must have come from below his windows, either from inside the building or from the grounds in front. From Katie's room on the back, it must not have been noticeable.

Then had come the hallucination of Quetzalcoatl. It had been very vivid, but his overwrought and overtaxed mind was the explanation for it.

He was less sure about the presence of Caroline Light outside. That had seemed real. He had been awake, standing at the window.

He decided to look in on her, and not rely on the surveillance system, but do it personally.

He went quietly into the corridor. All the doors were closed, including Katie's. Even so, a glance up at the surveillance camera at the far end of the ceiling made him wonder who might be watching him besides the guard station, or if anyone there might be part of the opposition.

He came to the door that led to the patient wing, swiped his right forefinger across the reader, and waited for it to unlock. But as he waited, he heard sounds coming from the part of the recreation complex that was in the old house, which included the art room with its tall windows, and the music room. Somebody was playing the wonderful old Steinway that was there.

Immediately, he changed direction and hurried down the service stairway that led from this back hall to the pantry below. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and listened. No question now. That was Beethoven's Appa.s.sionata, Appa.s.sionata, and the pianist was superb. The only problem was that it was nearly five in the morning, and the public rooms were closed. and the pianist was superb. The only problem was that it was nearly five in the morning, and the public rooms were closed.

As he pa.s.sed through the patients' dining area and the sound grew more distinct, the superb musicianship made him think that it might be a recording.

At the door to the music room, though, he saw a vague figure sitting at the instrument.

It was a woman in a nightgown, her hair down her back.

Caroline?

No, the hair was straight, not shimmering and flowing like Caroline's. The woman was wrapped in an enormous robe. As she played, her body moved gracefully. She was easily good enough to go on stage. A member of the cla.s.s, then?

He knew that he should not approach this person without support personnel equipped with restraints, and he hesitated-whereupon she stopped playing.

"I'm not dangerous, Doctor," she said without turning around.

He knew the voice. It was Linda Fairbrother. No wonder she had been identified with the G.o.d of music. He wished he had her glyph with him. He could test the process. If it worked, he'd awaken the whole cla.s.s. The time for waiting was past, he sensed that clearly, and he was going to trust his instincts now.

"Linda," he said, "I think there's a time for this. Another time."

She resumed playing.

"Linda, we need to stop now." Slowly, carefully, he moved closer, until he was standing directly beside her. "Linda, we need to stop."

She played on.

There was another of the terrific flashes. In the second or so that it filled the darkness, Linda Fairbrother seemed to turn into something else, a complicated creature full of flaring colors-her G.o.d, or, as we call it now, her subconscious. And then the light was gone and all he could see were two red dots. But the music never stopped. She didn't miss a single note.

Unlike him, she had not startled. So she was expecting the flash, she must be.

"Linda, what was that?"

He put his hand on her hand, dropping the music into discord.

She stopped, and in the silence, he heard something unexpected-a hissing noise that had been covered by the sound of the music ... which, he thought, was meant to have been covered by it.

It came from the art room.

"Linda," he said, "what is that?"

She sat staring into the dark, silent.

"Linda, I need you to step out of here because that sounds like a major gas leak, and I've got to-"

Another flash, and again he was looking at the fluttering, dangerous, wonderful deity of music.

Whatever was happening in the art room had to be dealt with. He went to the wall phone and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, only to find that there was no dial tone. Wonderful.

He called back to Linda, "You can play, go ahead and play." He didn't need this one to be wandering right now. But the music did not start again and he had to prioritize. Clearly, the possible danger to the whole structure took precedence, and he pushed his way into the art room.

At once, his eye was drawn to the kiln, out of which there glared an unearthly blue light. Here, the hissing sound was a roar. There were figures cl.u.s.tered around the furnace-it was no kiln, that could not have been more obvious. They were wearing welder's masks.

"Excuse me!"

As if in a nightmare, n.o.body seemed to hear him. He went right up to them, but here the light was so intense that he had to shield his eyes.

"This has to stop!"

He saw a big square tray from the kitchen's baking department. On it was a measure of white powder, and two of the concealed figures were carefully pouring it into tiny jars, mixing it with a liquid. Others took trays of the jars toward the kitchen.

A yellow flash so bright that he was ready to believe he'd been blinded forever this time came out of the furnace. In it, though, he saw something completely unexpected, not glowering Aztec G.o.ds but a beautiful field, a green and smiling land, incredibly detailed. It was there for only a second, but it was as if he was actually in this field.

Then it was over-and there was a smattering of applause. Applause! And still they were acting as if he wasn't there at all.

An instant later, he saw the face of Caroline Light three inches from his own, the eyes tight with anger, but also-what was it? Humor? The kindness, he thought, and the danger of the G.o.ds.

Then the room was filled with clouds, beautiful, soaring clouds just becoming visible in the light of the predawn. Clouds ... he was looking up at clouds.

Dear heaven, he was in bed! He was in bed and those were the clouds of his ceiling, one of the many trompe l'oeils in the mansion.

As if the mattress was on fire, he jumped out and onto the floor. But nothing was on fire. He was simply alone in bed at dawn, that was all.

But no, that couldn't be. It could not be. That had not been a dream, n.o.body dreamed that elaborately, it wasn't possible.

He was still in his jeans, anyway, so he went back downstairs.

There was n.o.body at the piano and the kiln was dark. But, G.o.d, how disorienting. What had happened to the time?

Exactly.

Whatever they had been doing with the kiln had affected not just the brain, inducing hallucinations, it had, he thought, done something to s.p.a.ce-time itself. Warped it, twisted it, sent him racing across the hours from three o'clock until dawn in just seconds.

He went to it, opened it, and thrust his hand into the firing chamber. A faint warmth was all he felt, exactly as if it hadn't been fired since yesterday.

But he had seen Caroline Light in here, and Linda Fairbrother had been in the other room playing music to cover the sound of the superintense fire.

They'd made some sort of powder, he had seen it. And they had also been fools, because everybody in the place must have noticed the flashes, except for the staff in the four bedrooms on the far side of the building, and maybe them, too. Maybe Katie had lied.

What a h.e.l.l of a situation. What was real? Who could be trusted?

Those people could. That had been the cla.s.s, and Caroline had been there. They could be trusted. But who were they?

She must be waking them up. Of course she was, they'd been taught to use the glyphs and she was doing it.

Not all of them, though, and not the ones likely to be needed the most, they were still trapped in their various insanities.

It was while they were making that powder that s.p.a.ce-time had gotten all twisted. So the opposition was going to try to take it. Therefore, bloodshed was coming.

He took the stairs leading to the second floor of the patient wing, running up, then through the door and down the hall to the central nurses' station.