The nurse and the huge attendant moved off, collecting the other patients' work, and Francis found himself standing next to Napoleon. "Nappy," he said, quietly, "how long have you been here?"
"In the hospital?"
"Yes. And in here, in Amherst." He gestured at the dayroom. Napoleon seemed to think for a moment before responding.
"Two years now, C-Bird, except it could be three, I'm not sure. A long time," he added sadly. "A real long time. You lose track. Or maybe it's that they want you to lose track. I'm not sure."
"You're pretty experienced in how things work around here, aren't you?"
Napoleon bowed slightly, almost gracefully. "An expertise, alas C-Bird, that I would prefer not to own. But true enough."
"If I wanted to get from here to one of the other buildings, how would I do it?"
Napoleon looked slightly frightened by the question, he took a single step back, and shook his head. His mouth opened, flustered, and he stammered his reply: "You don't like it here with us?"
Now it was Francis's turn to shake his head negatively. "No. I mean late at night. After medication, after lights-out. Suppose I wanted to get to one of the other buildings without being seen, could I do it?"
Napoleon considered the question. "I don't think so," he said slowly. "We're always locked in."
"But suppose I wasn't locked in…"
"We're always locked in."
"But suppose…," Francis said again, slightly exasperated by the round man's response.
"This has something to do with Short Blond, doesn't it? And Lanky, too. But Lanky couldn't get out of the dormitory. Except the night Short Blond died, when it was unlocked. I've never heard of the door being left unlocked before. No, you can't get out. No one can. I don't know that I've ever heard someone wanting to."
"Somebody could. Somebody did. And somebody wanted to. Somebody's got a set of keys."
Napoleon looked terrified. "A patient has a set of keys," he whispered. "I've never heard of that."
"I think so," Francis said.
"That would be wrong, C-Bird. We're not supposed to have keys." Napoleon shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if the ground beneath the soles of his tattered slippers had grown hot to the touch. "I think, if you got outside, I mean out of the building, avoiding the security patrol would be pretty easy. I mean, they don't seem like the brightest guys on the planet, do they? And I think they have to clock in at the same locations, at the same time every night, so avoiding them well, even somebody as crazy as one of us probably could manage it with a little bit of planning…" He giggled slightly, almost losing control, grinning at the radical opinion that the security guards were incompetent. But then his brow knit together closely. "But that wouldn't be the problem, would it, C-Bird?"
"What do you think the problem would be?" Francis asked.
"Getting back in. The main door, even if you had a key, is right across from the nurses' station. It's the same in every building, isn't it? And even if the nurse or the attendant on duty were asleep at the time, the sound of the door opening would likely awaken them."
"What about the emergency exits on the side of the building?"
"I think those are barred and nailed shut."
He shook his head. "Probably a fire code violation," he added. "We ought to ask Peter. I'll bet he knows."
"Probably. But still, even if you wanted to, you don't think it could be done?"
"There might be some other way. I've just never heard of one in all the time I've been here. And I've never heard of anyone who wanted to get from one place to another, C-Bird. Never. Not once. Why would anyone, when all we want and all we need and all that we could possibly use is right here in this building?"
That was a depressing question, Francis thought. And also untrue, for there was someone who had needs that departed from those that Napoleon was talking about. Francis thought to himself, probably for the first time: What is it the Angel needed?
It was Peter who spotted the maintenance man as we walked out of the dayroom. I wondered later if things might have been different if we'd been able to see exactly what he was doing, but we were on our way to talk to Lucy, and that always seemed to be the top priority. Afterward, I spent hours, maybe days, simply contemplating all the congruity of things as if this or that outcome might have been changed if any of the three of us had been able to see the connectivity that was so important. Sometimes madness is about fixation, dwelling on a single notion, hanky's obsession with evil. Peter's need for absolution. Lucy's need for justice. They, or course, weren't mad, at least not in the way I knew it, or Gulp-a-pill knew it, or even how Mister Evil knew it. But, in a curious sort of way, needs that are powerful can become a kind of madness unto themselves. The difference is, they're not so easily diagnosable as the madness I had. Still, seeing the maintenance man, a middle-aged fellow, with circles under his eyes, wearing his matching gray shirt and slacks, thick brown work boots, his dark hair streaked with sandy dust, and his clothing marred by black oil residue, should have spoken to us in some odd, subterranean way. He carried his wooden toolbox in a grimy hand, and a dingy rag drooped from his belt. He jingled a little, with his keys striking against the yellow plastic encased flashlight that bounced from a bracket around his waist. He had a satisfied look, the appearance that a man who can suddenly see the end of a long and dirty task might wear, and Peter and I heard him turn to Big Black and Little Black and as he lit a cigarette, say, "Won't be long now. Almost finished. Damn, what a bitch," before heading into a storage room at the opposite end of the hallway from where Short Blond's body was taken.
When I think back, I can see so many little things that should have meant something. Little moments that really should have been big moments. A maintenance man. A retarded man. A missing administrator. A man talking to himself. Another man seemingly asleep in a chair. A woman who thought she was the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian princess. I was young, and I didn't understand that crime is like all the mechanical parts of a transmission. Bolts and nuts, screws and pins, all meshing together to create a self-contained momentum that travels forward, controlled by forces that are a little like the wind; invisible, yet leaving signs in a piece of scrap paper that suddenly takes flight and dashes down the sidewalk, or a tree branch being tugged first one way, then the next, or merely the distant dark storm clouds scudding across an ominous sky. It took me a long time to see that.
Peter knew it, as did Lucy. Perhaps that was what connected them, at least at first. They were alert and constantly watching for all the gears that would tell them where to look for the Angel. But, later, afterward, I thought that what linked them was something more complex. It was that they had arrived at the Western State Hospital at that same moment unaware of what it was that they needed. Both had a great gap within themselves, and the Angel was there to provide the necessary filler.