"I have killed. Yes, this is true."

More than one. Many, even.

I don't want to hear this. I do not want to hear it.

He goes on.

"I believe you are in contact with Mr. Graves. If you turn him over to me, I will make sure you do not end up on Ilsa's ... er ... should I say, Norman's ... menu." He smiles. "I can further guarantee that we will protect you. Give you employment. Teach you how to use your powers."

"Who's we?"

"A very old society."

"Like a government agency?"

"Related. Closely related."

"What does that mean?"

Quincrux clears his throat. "Never you mind. All questions will be answered if and when Mr. Graves is turned over."

"What will you do to him? Give him to the witch?"

"Hardly. He is a soldier. He will be used."

"And what am I?"

"That is what we are trying to determine." He stands and dusts off his overall pants legs as if he were wearing a suit. "You are, if you will pardon the pun, a loose cannon. Unquantifiable. But once we have our... match, our bit of mental contention, if you will ... I'll know exactly your final ... eh ... disposition."

This guy. Coming here. To threaten. To deal. For Jack.

Suddenly I'm furious, more furious than I ever thought I could be. I feel like burning embers have been placed in my chest, on my tongue.

I won't let him. I'll kick his ass out.

"No." I hit him with everything I've got. A full mental barrage. "No deal."

He sticks for a moment, but I rip at him, at the invisible tissues, the mental barbs and defenses. And he gives way before me. He gives way to my wrath.

I feel Biblical, casting out devils. I don't know. I feel beyond myself.

But I get a twinge that Quincrux is laughing, that he's amused. He knew I'd do it. And he let me. He goaded me into it.

The orderly shudders, blinks, and then looks like he's going to fall. I step forward, grab his arm, and ease him back into the guest chair.

"Where am I?" he says in a voice that's hopeless and utterly lost.

TWENTY.

Life in the hospital is far worse than life at Casimir.

The food sucks. I mean, how can you mess up pudding? Or popsicles?

The empty-headed police officer infuriates me. He won't let me out of this room. I could force him, get inside that gigantic echoing cranium and pull some levers, but ... I'd rather not. I'll have to do it eventually, to somebody. But I can't bolt until I make contact with Jack.

The nurses bug. Seriously. You can hear their thighs rubbing when they walk around in their squishy, lumbar-supporting shoes. They're always checking bandages or removing stitches. Sticking needles in my ass.

They released Jerry this morning. They forced him into a wheelchair and trucked him out, but not before he grabbed my hand.

"Shreve, you'll be a good boy, won't you?"

"Sure."

"They can't keep you in here forever. Someone will be here to get you soon, I'm sure. It won't be long now."

Understatement of the year. I think he meant it in a different way than it sounded to me.

I nodded.

"So, here." He pressed something in my hand. A business card. It read Jerry Aaronson, Asset Consulting, with a phone number, e-mail, and website.

"What's asset consulting?"

"Eh. Just like it sounds. But don't worry about that." He covered my hand with both of his. "If you ever need anything. Anything. You'll give me a call, right?"

"Sure. Can you take me with you?"

He laughed. You can see gold fillings and bridgework in the back of his mouth when he laughs. He's got a big laugh. To match his heart, I guess.

"If only I could. I need someone to beat at Double Shutter." At that, Nurse Larsson cleared her throat, indicating it was time for him to leave. "Be good."

I can't trust anyone. And I'm alone. No Jack, no Vig. No Coco. Not even Booth or Moms. I've always had someone to look after, or someone to rebel against. I don't know what to do with myself.

So now I'm back to watching the window.

On the inside, back in Casimir, you're never alone. There's always someone near, some kid pestering you, some bull eying you, your cellmate snoring-or going explodey, or getting interrogated by mind-jumping lunatics.

In the hospital there's even more noise and more commotion. But somehow it seems emptier. Lonelier.

That might have to do with all the antiseptics.

I'm not much for waiting. For watching.

But I don't have long.

I'm counting the birds and clouds when he lands on the opposite roof and starts looking around. He's got on a new jacket, puffier than the last, and a knit woolen hat pulled down around his ears. It looks cold out there.

I'm ready for him.

The nurses were kind enough to provide me with paper and markers during my convalescence. You know, because I'm just a poor little kid and of course I'd want to doodle and maybe turn over the drawings to the state-appointed head-shrinker. I dash to my bedside table, grab some of the paper, and write a big Q in black ink on one page. At the window, I slap it against the glass, Q facing out, and wait.

After a moment, Jack waves.

I write on another sheet IS HERE. Big capital letters.

Jack nods and points down.

I write YES and slap it on the window.

He makes the OK sign and then pantomimes riding a horse. No, not a horse. A broom.

I write NOT HERE. Then on another sheet, SHE LIVED.

I guess I've just discovered what newsmen and politicians have known for decades: lying is easier in print.

NORMAN DID TOO.

It's hard to tell across the thirty or forty yards that separate us, but I think Jack looks relieved.

He holds up his hands and makes a gesture. He's too far away for me to make it out.

WHAT?.

He points to me, then himself, then fake runs.

YES. HOW?.

He points up. At the roof of my building.

Oh. I don't know if I'm ready for this, but the point is irrelevant since I hear someone behind me clear her throat.

"Shreve? What are you doing?"

It's Nurse Larsson. For once her thighs remained quiet. Perfect timing for them to hush their whisking.

"Uh. Nothing." I scoop up all the papers and crumple them up. "Just doodling."

Behind Larsson stands the state shrink, come to talk, again. Helen Kristeva. She's good-looking, but she doesn't wear any makeup and she asks more questions than Jerome Aaronson.

She steps forward and says, "May I see?"

I ball up the paper, tight.

"Just doodling."

"I'd like to see."

"Maybe later." You can't say no to these people. You have to make small compromises so their radar doesn't go up.

She smiles. It's a patient, I'm-here-to-listen smile. She pads over-wool socks with sandals-and plants herself in the guest chair where Quincrux questioned me.

This could be him. I have to check.

Entering her head is as painless as entering the bathroom and almost as clean. In this hospital, that's saying something.

Is it weird that someone who wants to get into my skull is so easy to penetrate?

"Let me guess. You've never been to Maryland?"

She looks puzzled. "No. Now that you mention it, I haven't. Is it nice?"

"No clue. I haven't been there either."

She pulls out a notepad and scribbles something on it. Through her eyes I read what she wrote: Conversation- Defense tactics.

"It's not defense tactics."

She looks surprised, cranes her head to peer behind her, checking for a mirror.

"So, how are you doing, Shreve?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah." No reason to lie here. She's as clear as a glass of water. "Maybe a little bored."

"I'd think you'd want your life a little calmer. You've been on your own for what? Three months now?"

"On my own? More like fifteen years. Or do you mean escaped?"

"Okay. Escaped, then. It must be a relief to be somewhere safe and secure."

I'm about to ask her where that is but stop myself.

She scribbles Paranoia on her pad.

Am I that shifty? Is everything out there for display on my face?

I need to get back on script. I need to answer the way she expects me to answer. So she'll go away.