"No, you're not wrong," she said, "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." These were falsehoods, she knew.
"I'll believe that when I see it," he said. "And, I presume, you intend to continue interviewing patients in the morning."
"I do."
"Well, we'll see," he said. And with the thinly veiled threat hovering in the air, Mister Evil turned and started to the front door. He stopped after a couple of strides, when he spotted Big Black accompanying Peter the Fireman. The psychologist immediately saw that Peter wasn't restrained, as he had been earlier. "Hey!" he called out, waving at Big Black and Peter. "Hold it right there!"
The huge attendant stopped, turning toward the dormitory head. Peter hesitated, as well.
"Why isn't he in restraints?" Mr. Evans shouted angrily. "That man is not allowed out of this facility without cuffs on his hands and feet. Those are the rules!"
Big Black shook his head. "Doctor Gulptilil said it would be okay."
"What?"
"Doctor Gulptilil," Big Black repeated, only to be cut off.
"I don't believe that. This man is under a court hold. He faces serious assault and manslaughter charges. We have a responsibility…"
"That's what he said."
"Well, I'm going to check on it. Right now." Evans spun, leaving the two men standing in the corridor, as he blasted toward the front door, first fumbling with his keys, swearing when he thrust the wrong one into the lock, swearing louder when the second one failed to work, and then finally giving up, and lurching off down the corridor toward his office, scattering patients out of his path.
Francis trailed behind the stocky man, as the new resident cut a swath through Amherst. There was something in the way his head was cocked slightly to the side, his lip raised, white teeth displayed, the bend of his shoulders forward and the thickly tattooed forearms swinging at his waist that clearly warned the other patients to steer to one side or the other. A predatory, challenging walk through Amherst. The stocky man took a long look through the dayroom, like a surveyor eyeballing a tract of land. The few remaining patients inside the room shrank to the corners, or buried themselves behind out-of-date magazines, avoiding eye contact. The stocky man seemed to like this, as if he was pleased to see that his bully status was going to be easily established, and he stepped into the center of the room. He didn't seem aware that Francis was following him until he stopped.
"So," he said in a loud voice, "I'm here now. Don't anybody try to fuck with me."
As he projected this, it seemed a little foolish to Francis. And perhaps cowardly, as well. The only folks left in the dayroom were old and obviously infirm, or else lost in some distant and private world. Nobody who might rise to challenge the stocky man was available.
Despite his voices shouting caution within him, Francis took several steps toward the stocky man, who finally grew aware of Francis's presence and spun to face him.
"You!" he said loudly. "I thought I'd already dealt with you."
"I want to know what you meant," Francis said cautiously.
"What I meant?" The man mocked Francis with a singsong voice. "What I meant? I meant what I said and I said what I meant and that's all there is to it."
"I don't understand," Francis said, a little too eager. "When you said I'm the man you're looking for," what did you mean?"
The man brayed out loud. "Seems pretty damn obvious, don't it?"
"No," Francis said cautiously, shaking his head. "It isn't. Who do you think I'm looking for?"
The stocky man grinned. "You're looking for one mean mother, that's who. And you've found him. What? Don't you think I can be mean enough for you?" He stepped toward Francis, bunching his hands into fists, bending forward slightly at the waist, cocking his body like the hammer on a pistol.
"How did you know I was looking for you?" Francis persisted, holding his ground despite all the urgent entreaties within him to flee.
"Everyone knows. You and the other guy and the lady from outside. Everyone knows," the stocky man said cryptically.
There are no secrets, Francis thought. Then he realized that was wrong.
"Who told you?" Francis asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Who told you?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Who told you I was looking?" Francis said, his voice rising in pitch and picking up momentum, driven forward by something utterly different from the voices he was so accustomed to, forcing questions out of his mouth when every word increased the danger he was facing. "Who told you to look for me? Who told you what I looked like? Who told you who I was, who gave you my name? Who was it?"
The stocky man lifted a hand and placed it directly under Francis's jaw. Then he gently touched Francis with the knuckles, as if making a promise. "That's my business," he said. "Not yours. Who I speak to, what I do, that's my business." Francis saw the stocky man's eyes widen slightly, as if opening to some idea that was elusive. He could sense that any number of volatile elements were mixing in the stocky man's imagination, and somewhere in that explosive concoction was some information that he wanted.
Francis persisted. "Sure, it's your business," he said, changing his tone to a slow pace, as if that might help. "But maybe it's a little bit of mine, as well. I just want to know who it was that told you to single me out and say what you said."
"No one," the stocky man replied, lying.
"Yes, someone," Francis countered. The man's hand dropped away from Francis's face, and he saw electric fear in the stocky man's eyes, hidden beneath rage. It reminded him, in that second, of Lanky, when he fixated on Short Blond, or earlier, when the tall man had fixated on Francis. A total absorption with a single notion, an overwhelming tidal wave of a single sensation, all set loose deep within, in some reach and cavern that even the most potent medication had difficulty penetrating.
"It's my business," the stocky man persisted.
"The man who told you, he might be the man I'm searching for," Francis said.
The stocky man shook his head. "Screw you," he said. "I'm not helping you with anything."
For an instant Francis stood directly across from the stocky man, not willing to move, thinking only that he was close to something and that it would be important for him to find it out, because it would be something concrete that he could take to Lucy Jones. And, in the same moment, he saw the machinery of the stocky man whirling faster and faster, anger, frustration, all the ordinary terrors of being mad coalescing, and in that volcanic moment, Francis suddenly realized that he had pushed something just a bit too far. He took a step backward, but the stocky man followed him.
"I don't like your questions," the man said low and cold.
"All right, I'm finished," Francis replied, trying to retreat.
"I don't like your questions and I don't like you. Why did you follow me in here? What are you trying to make me say? What are you going to do to me?"
Each of these questions hammered forth like blows. Francis glanced right and left, trying to spot somewhere to run to, somewhere he might hide, but there were none. The few people in the dayroom had shrunk away, concealing themselves in corners, or else staring at walls or ceiling, anything that might help them to will themselves mentally to some far different place. The stocky man pushed his fist into Francis's chest and knocked him back a stride, slightly off-balance. "I don't think I like you getting in my face," he said. "I don't think I like anything about you." He pushed again, harder.
"All right," Francis said, holding up his hand. "I'll leave you alone."