Monster

Chapter 33

"Swio," he said, returning from the kitchen.

"Someone told him about Peake's Jesus pose," I said, "and he's going to make your life a living hell if you don't stay away."

"On the contrary. He offered a personal invitation to come over. Now."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't say, just 'Now.' Not an order, though. A polite request. He actually said please."

I looked at Robin. "Have fun."

She said, "Oh, please. You'll be pacing the house, end up having one of your sleepless nights." To Milo: "Take care of him, or no more beer."

He crossed his heart. I kissed her and we hurried down to the car.

As he sped down to the Glen and headed south, I said, "Were you shielding Robin, or did he really not say?"

"The latter. One thing I didn 't say in front of her. He sounded scared."

Ten P.M. The night was kind to the industrial wasteland. A hospital security guard was waiting on the road just outside the turnoff, idly aiming a flashlight beam at the ground. As we drove up, he illuminated the unmarked's license plate and waved us forward hurriedly.

"Straight through," he told Milo. "They're waiting for you."

"Who's they?"

"Everyone."

The guard in the booth flipped the barrier arm as we approached. We drove through without being questioned.

"No surrendering the gun?" I said. "When do they unfurl the red rug?"

"Too easy," said Milo. "I hate it when things go too easy."

At the parking lot, a black tech with salt-and-pepper hair pointed out the closest parking space. Milo muttered, "Now I have to tip him."

When we got out of the car, the tech said, "Hal Cleveland. I'll take you to Mr. Swig."

Hurrying toward the inner fence without waiting. Running ahead the way Dollard had done, he kept checking to see if we were with him.

"What's the story?" Milo asked him.

Cleveland shook his head. "I'll leave that to Mr. Swig."

At night, the yard was empty. And different, the dirt frosty and blue-gray under high-voltage lights, scooped in places like ice cream. Cleveland half-jogged. It was nice being able to cross without fear of some psychotic jumping me. Still, I found myself checking my back.

We reached the far gate and Cleveland unlocked it with a quick twist. The main building didn't look much different- still ashen and ugly, the clouded plastic windows gaping like an endless series of beseeching mouths. Another guard blocked the door. Armed with baton and gun. First time I'd seen a uniform-or weapons-inside the grounds. He stepped aside for us, and Cleveland hurried us past Lindeen's cleared desk, past the brassy flash of bowling trophies, through the silent hallway. Past Swig's office, all the other administrative doors, straight to the elevator. A quick, uninterrupted ride up to C Ward. Cleveland wedged himself in a corner, played with his keys.

When the elevator door opened, another tech, big and thick and bearded, was positioned right in front of us. He stepped back to let us exit. Cleveland stayed in the lift and rode it back down.

The bearded tech took us through the double doors.

William Swig stood midway up the corridor. In front of Peake's room. Peake's door was closed. Another pair of uniformed guards was positioned a few feet away. The bearded man left us to join two other techs, their backs against the facing wall.

No men in khaki. But for the hum of the air conditioner, the ward was silent.

Swig saw us and shook his head very hard, as if denying a harsh reality. He had on a navy polo shirt, jeans, running shoes. The filmy strands atop his head puffed at odd angles. Overhead fluorescents heightened the contrast between his facial moles and the pallid skin that hosted them. Dark dots, like braille, punctuating the message on his face.

Nothing ambiguous about the communication: pure fear.

He opened Peake's door, winced, gave a ringmaster's flourish.

Not that much blood.

A single scarlet python.

Winding its way toward us from the far right-hand corner of the cell. About three feet from the spot where Peake had played Jesus.

Otherwise the room looked the same. Messy bed. Wall restraints bolted in place. That same burning smell mixed with something coppery-sweet.

No sign of Peake.

The blood trail stopped halfway across the floor, its point of origin below the body.

Stocky body, lying facedown. Plaid shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. A head full of coarse gray hair. Arms outstretched, almost relaxed-looking. Thick forearms. The skin had already gone grayish-green.

"Dollard," said Milo. "When?"

"We don't know," said Swig. "Someone discovered him two hours ago."

"And you called me forty-five minutes ago?"

"We had to conduct our own search first," said Swig. He picked at a mole, brought a rosy flush to its borders.

"And?"

Swig looked away. "We haven't found him."

Milo was silent.

"Look," said Swig, "we had to do our own search first. I'm not even sure I should've called you. It's sheriff's jurisdiction-actually, it's our jurisdiction."

"So you did me a favor," said Milo.

"You had an interest in Peake. I'm frying to cooperate."

Milo stepped closer to the body, kneeled, looked under Dollard's chin.

"Looks like one transverse cut," he said. "Has anyone moved him?"

"No," said Swig. "Nothing's been touched."

"Who found him?"

Swig pointed to one of the three techs. "Bart did." The man stepped forward. Young, Chinese, delicately built, but with the oversized arms of a bodybuilder. His badge photo was that of a stunned child. B.L. Quan, Tech II.

"Tell me about it," Milo told him.

"We were in lockdown," said Quan. "Not because of any problems; we do it during staff meetings."

"How frequent are staff meetings?"

"Twice a week for each shift."

"What days?"

"It depends on the shift," said Quan. "Tonight was for the eleven-to-seven. Six-thirty. Friday night, the weekly summary. The patients go in lockdown and the staff goes in there." He pointed to the TV room.

"No staff on the ward?" said Milo.

"One tech stays outside. We rotate. There's never been any problem, the patients are all locked up tight."

Milo looked at the body.

Quan shrugged.

"And Dollard was scheduled to be the outside guy tonight."

Quan nodded.

"But your beeper never went off."

"Right."

"So what made you look for him?" said Milo.

"The meeting was over, I was doing a double, and Frank was supposed to talk to me about some patients. Give me the transfer data-meds, things to watch out for, that kind of thing. He didn't show up, I thought he forgot."

"Was that typical?" said Milo. "Frank forgetting?"

Quan looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Swig.

"Don't worry," said Milo. "You can't embarrass him anymore."

Quan said, "Sometimes."

"Sometimes what?"

Quan shifted his feet. Milo turned to Swig.

"Tell him anything you know," said Swig. His voice had turned hoarse. He rolled his fingers, rubbed another mole.

"Sometimes Frank forgot things," said Quan. "That's why I didn't make any big deal out of it. But then, when I went to get the charts I couldn't find one of them-Peake's. So I checked out Peake's room."

"You ever find the chart?"

"No."

"What else?" said Milo.

"That's it. I saw Frank, Peake was gone, I locked the door, put out a Code Three alert. Easy, we were already in lock-down. Mr. Swig came in, we brought outside guards onto the wards, and a bunch of us searched everywhere. He's got to be somewhere, it makes no sense."

"What doesn't?" said Milo.

"Peake disappearing like that. You don't just disappear at Starkweather."

Milo asked for a key to Peake's room, got Swig's, closed the door and locked it, then moved out of earshot and used his cell phone to call the sheriff. He talked for a long time. None of the guards or techs budged.

The silence seemed to amplify. Then it began to falter- with sporadic knocks from behind some of the brown doors; muffled scuffs, faint as mouse steps. Cries, moans, escalating gradually but steadily into ragged shards of noise that could only be human voices in distress.

A chorus of cries. The guards and techs eyed one another. Swig seemed oblivious.

"Shit," said the bearded tech. "Shut the hell up."

Swig moved farther up the hall. No one attempted to stop the noise.

Louder and louder, frantic pounding from within the cells.

The inmates knew. Somehow, they knew.

Milo pocketed the phone and returned. "Sheriff's crime-scene team should be here shortly. Squad cars will be searching a five-mile radius outside the hospital grounds. Tell your men in front not to hold anyone up at the gate."

Swig said, "We need to keep this under wraps until- What I mean is, let's find out exactly what happened before we jump to-"

"What do you think happened, Mr. Swig?"

"Peake surprised Frank and cut his throat. Frank's a strong man. So it had to be a sneak attack."

"What did Peake use to cut him?"

No answer.

"No guesses?" said Milo. "What about Dollard's own knife?"

"None of the techs are armed," said Swig.

"Theoretically."

"Theoretically and factually, Detective. For obvious reasons we have strict-"

Milo cut him off: "You have rules, an ironclad system. So tell me, are techs and doctors required to check in weapons at the guardhouse the way we were?"

Swig didn't answer.

"Sir?"

"That would be cumbersome. The sheer number of…"

Milo looked over at the three techs. No telltale evasive gestures. The big bearded man stared back defiantly.

"So everyone but staff is required to surrender weapons?"

"Staff knows not to bring weapons," said Swig.

Milo reached into his jacket, pulled out his service revolver, dangled it from his index finger. "Dr. Delaware?"

I produced my Swiss Army knife. Both guards tensed.

"No one checked us tonight. I guess the system breaks down from time to time," said Milo.

"Look," said Swig, raising his voice. He exhaled. "Tonight is different. I told them to facilitate your entry. I had full knowledge-"

"So you're willing to bet Dollard wasn't carrying the blade that killed him?"

"Frank was very trustworthy."

"Even though he tended to forget things?"

"I've never heard that," said Swig.

"You just did," said Milo. "Let me tell you about Frank. Hemet P.D. fired him for malfeasance. Ignoring calls, false overtime-"

"I had absolutely no knowledge of-"

"So maybe there are other things you have no knowledge of."

"Look," Swig repeated. But he added nothing, just shook his head and tried to smooth down his filmy hair. His Adam's apple rose and fell. He said, "Why bother? You've already got your mind made up."

Milo turned to the techs. "If I frisk any of you guys, am I going to turn up something?"

Silence.

He walked across the hall. Bart Quan's feet spread, as if ready for combat, and the other two men folded their arms across their chests-the same resistant stance Dollard had adopted yesterday.

"Tell them to cooperate," said Milo.

"Do what he says," said Swig.

Quickly, efficiently, Milo patted down the techs. Nothing on Quan or the tech who hadn't spoken-an older man with droopy eyes-but the jeans of the heavy, bearded man produced a bone-handled pocketknife.

Milo unfolded the blade. Four inches of gracefully honed steel. Milo turned it admiringly.

"Steve," said Swig.

The heavy man's face quivered. "So what?" he said. "Work with these animals, you take care of yourself."

Milo kept examining the blade." Where'd you get it, Home Shopping Network?"

"Knife show," said Steve. "And don't worry, man, I haven't used it since I went hunting last winter."

"Kill anything?"

"Skinned some elk. Tasty."

Folding the knife, Milo dropped it in his jacket pocket. "That's mine, man," said Steve. "If it's clean, you'll get it back."

"When? I want a receipt."

"Quiet, Steve," ordered Swig. "You and I will talk later." The bearded man's nostrils opened wide.

"Yeah, right. If I even want to stay in this dump."

"That's up to you, Steve. Meanwhile, the state's still paying your salary, so listen up: Go down to A and B Wards, make sure everything's in order. Complete foot circuits, constant surveillance including door checks. No breaks till you're notified."

The bearded man gave Milo one last glare and stomped around the left side of the nursing station. "Where's he heading?" said Milo. "Staff elevator."

"We didn't see any elevator when we toured."

"The door's unmarked, staff only," said Swig.

"We need to keep searching. Can I free these guards?"

"Sure," said Milo.

"Go," Swig told the uniformed men.

"Where?" said one of them.

"Every damn where! Start with the outer grounds, north and south perimeters. Make sure he's not hiding somewhere in the trees." Swig turned to the two remaining techs. "Bart, you and Jim search the basement again. Kitchen, laundry, every storage room. Make sure everything's as tight as it was the first time we looked."

Barking orders like a general. When everyone had dispersed, Swig turned to Milo. "I know what you're thinking. We're a bunch of civil-service bumblers. But this is absolutely the first time since I've run this place that we've had anything close to an escape. As a rule, nothing ever-"

"Some people," said Milo, "live for the rules. Me, I deal with the exceptions."

We walked up and down C Ward as Milo inspected doors. Several times, he had Swig unlock hatches. As he peered inside, the noise from within subsided.

"Can't see the entire room through these," he said, fingering a hatch door.

"We've gone over every room," said Swig. "First thing. Everything checks out."

I said, "That unmarked staff elevator door. I assume the inmates know about it."

"We don't make a point of explaining it," said Swig. "But I suppose-"

"Reason I mention it is that yesterday Peake and Heidi came from that direction. It was the first time anyone remembers Peake leaving his room for any length of time. I'm wondering if he saw someone enter the elevator, got an idea. Does it stop on every floor?"

"It can," said Swig.

"Has anyone checked it?"

"I assume."

Milo bore down on him. "You assume?"

"My orders were to check everywhere."

"Your orders were not to carry weapons."

"I'm sure," said Swig, "that- Fine, to hell with it, I'll show you."

Brown door, slightly wider than those that sealed the inmates' cells. Double key locks, no intercom speaker. Swig keyed the upper bolt and a latch clicked. The door swung open, revealing yet another brown rectangle. Inner door. No handle. Single lock in the center of the panel. The same key operated it, and a flick of Swig's wrist brought forth rumbling gear noise that vibrated through the walls. A few feet away was a smaller door, maybe two feet wide and twice as high.

"Where's the car coming from?" said Milo.

"No way to tell," said Swig. "It's a little slow, should be here soon."

"The first time we were here," I said, "Phil Hatterson called upstairs, spoke to someone, and got the elevator sent down. You can't do that with this one."

"Right," said Swig. "The call box for the main elevator is in the nursing station. A tech's in there at all times to monitor meds. Part of station duty's also monitoring inter-floor transport."

"Did Frank Dollard ever have that duty?"

"I'm sure he did. The staff circulates. Everyone does a bit of everything."

"When the elevators are keyed remotely, what determines where they stop?"

"You leave the key in until the elevator arrives. When an approved person-someone with a key-rides up, he can release the lock mechanism and punch buttons in the elevator."

"So once the lock's been released, this operates like any other elevator."

"Yes," said Swig, "but you can't release anything without a key, and only the staff has keys."

"Do you ever remaster the locks?"

"If there's a problem," said Swig.

"Which never happens," said Milo.

Swig flinched. "It doesn't take something of this magnitude to remaster, Detective. Anything out of the ordinary-a key reported stolen-and we change the tumblers immediately."

"Must be a hassle," said Milo. "AH those keys to replace."

"We don't have many hassles."

"When's the last time the tumblers were changed, Mr. Swig?"

"I'd have to check."

"But not recently, that you can recall."

"What are you getting at?" said Swig.

"One more thing," said Milo. "Each ward is sectioned by those double doors. Every time you walk through, you have to unlock each one."

"Exactly," said Swig. "It's a maze. That's the point."

"How many keys do the techs need to carry to negotiate the maze?"

"Several," said Swig. "I never counted."

"Is there a master key?"

"I have a master."

Milo pointed to the key protruding from the inner elevator door. The rumbling continued, louder, as the lift approached. "That it?"

"Yes. There's also a copy in the safe in one of the data rooms on the first floor. And yes, I checked it. Still there, no tampering."

The door groaned open. The compartment was small, harshly lit, empty. Milo looked in. "What's that?"

Pointing to a scrap on the floor.

"Looks like paper," said Swig.

"Same paper as the sandals the inmates wear?"

Swig took a closer look. "I suppose it could be-I don't see any blood."

"Why would there be blood?"

"He cut Frank's throat-"

"There were no bloody footprints in Peake's room," said Milo. "Meaning Peake did a nice clean job of it, stepped away as he cut. Not bad for a crazy man."

"Hard to believe," said Swig.

"What is?"

"Just what you said. Peake mobilizing that much skill."

"Close this elevator," said Milo. "Keep it locked, don't let anyone in. When the crime-scene people come, I want them to remove that paper first thing."

Swig complied. Milo pointed to the smaller door. "What's that?"

"Disposal chute for garbage," said Swig. "It goes straight down to the basement."

"Like a dumbwaiter,"

"Exactly."

"I don't see any latches or key locks," said Milo. "How does it open?"

"There's a lever. In the nursing station."

"Show me."

Swig unlocked the station. Three walls of glass, a fourth filled with locked steel compartments. The room felt like a big telephone booth. Swig pointed to the metal wall. "Meds and supplies, always locked."

I looked around. No desks, just built-in plastic counters housing a multiline phone, a small switchboard, and an intercom microphone. Set into the front glass was a six-inch slot equipped with a sliding steel tray.

"Too narrow to get their hands through," said Swig, with defensive pride. "They line up, get their pills, nothing's left to chance."

"Where's the lever?" said Milo.

Reaching under the desk, Swig groped. A snapping sound filled the booth. We left the station and returned to the hall. The garbage chute had unhinged at the top, creating a small metal canopy.

"Big enough for a skinny man." Milo stuck his head in and emerged sniffing. "Peake wasn't exactly obese."

Swig said, "Oh, come on-"

"What else is in the basement?"

"The service areas-kitchen, laundry, pantry, storage. Believe me, it's all been checked thoroughly."

"Deliveries come through the basement level?"

"Yes."

"So there's a loading dock."

"Yes, but-"

"How can you be sure Peake's not hiding out in a bin of dirty laundry?"

"Because we've checked and double-checked. Go see for yourself."

Milo tapped the elevator door. "Does this go up to the fifth floor, too-where the fakers are kept?"

Swig looked offended. "The 1368's. Yes."

"Does the main elevator go there, too?"

"No. The fifth floor has its own elevator. Express from ground level to the top."

"A third elevator," said Milo.

"For Five only. Security reasons," said Swig. "The 1368's come in and out. Using the main elevator for all that traffic would create obvious logistical problems. The jail bus lets them off around the back, at the 1368 reception center. They get processed and go straight up to Five. No stops-they have no access to the rest of the hospital."

"Except for the staff elevator."

"They don't use the staff elevator."

"Theoretically."

"Factually," said Swig.

"If you want to segregate the fifth floor completely, why even have the staff elevator go there?"

"It's the way the hospital was built," said Swig. "Logical, don't you think? If something happens on Five and the staff needs backup, we're ready for them."

"Ready," said Milo, "by way of a slow elevator. How often does something happen on Five?"

"Rarely."

"Give me a number."

Swig rubbed a mole. "Once, twice a year-what does it matter? We're talking temporary disruption, not a riot. Some 1368 trying too hard to impress us with how crazy he is. Or a fight. Don't forget, plenty of the evaluees are gang members." Swig sniffed contemptuously. Every society had its castes.

"Let's have a look at Five," said Milo. "Through the reception center. I don't want anyone to touch that piece of paper."

"Even if it is an inmate slipper," said Swig, "that wouldn't make it Peake's. All the inmates are issued-" He stopped. "Sure, sure, staff only-what was I thinking?"

On the way down, he said, "You think I'm some bureaucrat who doesn't give a damn. I took this job because I care about people. I adopted two orphans."

We got out on the first floor, exited the way we'd come in, followed Swig around the left side of the building. The side we'd never seen. Or been told about.

Identical concrete pathway. Bright lights from the roof yellowed five stories, creating a giant waffle of clouded windows.

Another door, identical to the main entrance.

The structure was two-faced.

A painted sign said INTAKE AND EVALUATION. A guard blocked the entry. Ten yards away, to the left, was a small parking lot, empty, separated from the yard by a chain-link-bordered path that reminded me of a giant dog run. The walkway veered, bled into darkness. Not visible as you crossed the main yard. Not accessible from the main entry. So there was another way onto the grounds, an entirely different entry.

Off to the right I saw the firefly bounce of searchlights, the outer borders of the uninhabited yard we'd seen yesterday, hints of the annex buildings. Unlit, too far to make out details. The search seemed to be carrying on beyond the annexes, fireflies clustering near what had to be the pine forest.

"How many roads enter the hospital grounds?" I said.

"Two," said Swig. "One, really. The one you've taken."

"What about there?" I pointed to the small parking lot.

"For jail buses only. Special access path clear around the eastern perimeter. The drivers have coded car keys. Even staff can't access the gates without my permission."

I indicated the distant searchlights. "And that side? Those pine trees. How do you get in there?"

"You don't," said Swig. "No access from the western perimeter, it's all fenced." He walked ahead and nodded at the guard, who stepped aside.

The intake center's front room was proportioned identically to that of the hospital entrance. Front desk, same size as Lindeen's, gunboat gray, bare except for a phone. No bowling trophies, no cute slogans. Lindeen's counterpart was a bullet-headed tech perched behind the rectangle of county-issue steel. Reading a newspaper, but when he saw Swig, he snapped the paper down and stood.

Swig said, "Anything unusual?"

"Just the lockdown, sir, per your orders."

"I'm taking these people up." Swig rushed us past a bare hall, into yet another elevator and up. Fast ride to Five, during which he used his walkie-talkie to check on the search's progress.

The door slid open.

"Keep on it," he barked, before jamming the intercom into his pocket. His armpits were soaked. A vein behind his left ear throbbed.

Two sets of double doors, over each a painted sign: I AND E, RESTRICTED ACCESS. As opposed to what?

Where the nursing station would have been was empty space. The ward was a single hall lined with bright blue doors. Higher tech-inmate ratio: a dozen especially large men patrolled.

Milo asked to look inside a cell.

Swig said, "We went room-to-room here, too."

"Let me see one, anyway."

Swig called out, "Inspection!" and three techs jogged over.

"Detective Sturgis wants to see what a 1368 looks like. Open a door."

"Which one?" said the largest of the men, a Samoan with an unpronounceable name on his tag and a soft, boyish voice.

"Pick one."

The Samoan stepped to the closest door, popped the hatch, looked inside, unlocked the blue panel, and held it open six inches. Sticking his head in, he opened the door fully and said, "This is Mr. Liverwright."

The room high and constricted, same dimensions as Peake's. Same bolted restraints. A muscular young black man sat naked on the bed. The sheets had been torn off a thin, striped mattress. Torn into shreds. Royal blue pajamas lay rumpled on the floor next to a pair of blue paper slippers. One of the slippers was nothing but confetti.

I stepped closer and was hit by a terrible stench. A mound of feces sat in a drying clot near the prisoner's feet. Several pools of urine glistened. The walls behind the bed were stained brown.

He saw us, grinned, cackled.

"Clean this up," said Swig.

"We do," said the Samoan calmly. "Twice a day. He keeps trying to prove himself."

He flashed Liverwright a victory V and laughed. "Keep it up, bro."

Liverwright cackled again and rubbed himself.

"Shake it but don't break it off, bro," said the Samoan.

"Close the door," said Swig. "Clean him up now."

The Samoan closed the door, shrugging. To us: "These guys think they know what crazy is, but they overdo it. Too many movies." He turned to leave.

Milo asked him, "When's the last time you saw George Orson?"

"Him?" said the Samoan. "I dunno, not in a while."

"Not tonight?"

"Nope. Why would I? He hasn't worked here in months."

"Who are we talking about?" said Swig.

"Has he visited since he quit?" Milo asked the Samoan.

"Hmm," said the Samoan. "Don't think so."

"What kind of guy was he?" said Milo.

"Just a guy." The Samoan favored Swig with a smile. "Love to chat, but got to clean up some shit." He lumbered off.

"Who's George Orson?" said Swig.

"One of your former employees," said Milo. Watching Swig's face.

"I can't know everyone. Why're you asking about him?"

"He knew Mr. Peake," said Milo. "Back in the good old days."

Swig had plenty of questions, but Milo held him off. We rode the fifth-floor elevator down to the basement, took a tense, deliberate tour of the kitchen, pantry, laundry, and storage rooms. Everything smelled of slightly rotted produce. Techs and guards were everywhere. Helping them search were orange-jumpsuited janitors. White-garbed cooks in the kitchen stared as we passed through. Racks of knives were in full view. I thought of Peake passing through, deciding to sample. The good old days.

Milo found four out-of-the-way closet doors and checked each of them. Key-locked.

"Who gets keys besides clinical staff?" he asked Swig.

"No one."

"Not these guys?" Indicating a pair of janitors.

"Not them or anyone else not engaged in patient care. And to answer your next question, nonclinical staff enter through the front like anyone else. I.D.'s are checked."

"Even familiar faces are checked?" said Milo.

"That's our system."

"Do clinical staffers take their keys home?"

Swig didn't answer.

"Do they?" said Milo.

"Yes, they take them home. Checking in scores of keys a day would be cumbersome. As I said, we change the locks. Even in the absence of a specific problem, we remaster every year."

"Every year," said Milo. I knew what he was thinking: George Orson had left five months ago. "What date did that fall on?"

"I'll have to check," said Swig. "What exactly are you getting at?"

Milo walked ahead of him. "Let's see the loading dock."

Sixty-foot-wide empty cement space doored with six panels of corrugated metal.

Milo asked a janitor, "How do you get them open?"

The janitor pointed to a circuit box at the rear.

"Is there an outside switch, too?"

"Yup."

Milo loped to the box and punched a button. The second door from the left swung upward and we walked to the edge of the dock. Six or seven feet above ground. Space for three or four large trucks to unload simultaneously. Milo climbed down. Five steps took him into darkness and he disappeared, but I heard him walking around. A moment later, he hoisted himself up.

"The delivery road," he asked Swig, "where does it go?"

"Subsidiary access. Same place the jail bus enters."

"I thought only the jail buses came in that way."

"I was referring to people," said Swig. "Only jail bus trans-portees come in that way."

"So there's plenty of traffic in and out."

"Everything's scheduled and preapproved. Every driver is preapproved and required to show I.D. upon demand. The road is sectioned every fifty feet with gates. Card keys are changed every thirty days."

"Card keys," said Milo. "So if they show I.D., they can open the gates on their own."

"That's a big if," said Swig. "Look, we're not here to critique our system, we want to find Peake. I suggest you pay more attention to-"

"What about techs?" said Milo. "Can they use the access road?"

"Absolutely not. Why are you harping on this? And what does this Orson character have to do with it?"

Shouts from the west turned our heads. Several fireflies enlarged.

Searchers approaching. Milo hopped down off the deck again and I did the same. Swig contemplated a jump but remained in place. By the time I was at Milo's side, I could make out figures behind the flashlights. Two men, running.

One of them was Bart Quan, the other a uniformed guard.

Suddenly, Swig was with us, breathing audibly. "What, Bart?"

"We found a breach," said Quan. "Western perimeter. The fence has been cut."

Half-mile walk to the spot. The flap was man-sized, snipped neatly and put back in place, wires twisted with precision. It had taken a careful eye to spot it in the darkness. Milo said, "Who found it?"

The uniform with Quan raised his hand. Young, thin, swarthy.

Milo peered at his badge. "What led you to it, Officer Dalfen?"

"I was scoping the western perimeter."

"Find anything else?"

"Not so far."

Milo borrowed Dalfen's flashlight and ran it over the fence. "What's on the other side?"

"Dirt road," said Swig. "Not much of one."

"Where does it lead?"

"Into the foothills."

Milo untwisted the wires, pulled down the flap, crouched, and passed through. "Tire tracks," he said. "Any gates or guards on this side?"

"It's not hospital territory," said Swig. "There has to be a border, somewhere."

"What's in the foothills?"

"Nothing. That's the point. There's no place to go for a good three, four miles. The county clears trees and brush every year to make sure there's no cover. Anyone up there would be visible by helicopter."

"Speaking of which," said Milo.

By the time the choppers had begun circling, nine sheriff's cars and the crime-scene vans had arrived. Khaki uniforms on the deputies; I saw Swig tense up further, but he said nothing, had started to isolate himself in a corner, muttering from time to time into his walkie-talkie.

Two plainclothes detectives arrived last. The coroner had just finished examining Dollard, searching his pockets. Empty. Milo conferred with the doctor. The paper scrap in the staff elevator had been retrieved and bagged. As a criminalist carried it past, Swig said, "Looks like a piece of slipper."

"What kind of slipper?" said one of the detectives, a fair-haired man in his thirties named Ron Banks. Milo told him.

Banks's partner said, "So all we have to do is find Cinderella." He was a stout man named Hector De la Torre, older than Banks, with flaring mustaches. Banks was serious, but De la Torre grinned Unintimidated by the setting, he'd greeted Milo with a reminder that they'd met. "Party over at Musso and Frank's-after the Lisa Ramsey case got closed. My buddy here is good pals with the D who closed it."

"Petra Connor?" said Milo.

"She's the one."

Banks looked embarrassed. "I'm sure he cares, Hector." To Milo: "So maybe he rode down in that elevator."

"No inmates allowed," said Milo. "So there's no good reason for there to be a slipper in there. And Dollard's key ring is missing, meaning Peake lifted it. The rest of the techs were in a meeting, so Peake could've easily ridden down to the basement, found a door out, and hightailed it. On the other hand, maybe it's just a scrap that got stuck on the bottom of someone's shoe."

"No blood in the elevator?" said Banks.

"Not a drop; the only blood's what you just saw in the room."

"Clean, for a throat cut."

"Coroner says it wasn't much of a cut. Peake nicked the carotid rather than cut it, more trickle than spurt. Came close to not being fatal; if Dollard had been able to seek help right away, he might've survived. Looks like he went into shock, collapsed, lay there bleeding out. No spatter-most of the blood pooled under him."

"Low-pressure bleedout," said Banks.

"A nick," said De la Torre. "Talk about bad luck."

"Peake didn't have much muscle on him," said Milo.

"Enough to do the trick," said De la Torre. "So who cut the fence? Where'd Peake get tools for that?"

"Good question," said Milo. "Maybe Dollard carried the blade he was cut with. Maybe one of those Swiss Army deals with tools. Though there'd be no way for Peake to know that, unless Dollard had gotten really sloppy and let him see it. The alternative's obvious. A partner."

Banks said, "This is some big-time premeditated deal? I thought the guy was a lunatic."

"Even lunatics can have pals," said Milo.

"You got that right," said De la Torre. "Check out the next city council meeting."

Banks said, "Any ideas about who the buddy might be?"

Milo eyed Swig. "Please go down to your office and wait there, sir."

"Forget it," said Swig. "As director of this facility, I have jurisdiction and I need to know what's going on."

"You will," said Milo. "Soon as we know something, you'll be the first to find out, but in the meantime-"

"In the meantime, I need to be-" Swig's protest was cut short by a beeper. He and all three detectives reached for their belts.

Banks said, "Mine," and scanned the readout. A cell phone materialized and Banks identified himself, listened, said, "When? Where?," wiggled his fingers at De la Torre, and was handed a notepad. Tucking the phone under his chin, he wrote.

The rest of us watched him nod. Emotionless. Clicking off the phone, he said, "When we got your call I told our desk to keep an eye out for any psycho crimes in the vicinity. This isn't exactly in the vicinity, but it's pretty psycho: woman found on the Five near Valencia." He examined his notes. "White female, approximately twenty-five to thirty-five, multiple stab wounds to torso and face, really messy. Coroner says within the last two hours, which could fit if your boy has wheels. Tire tracks nearby said someone did. She wasn't just dumped there-lots of blood: it's almost certain that's where she got done."

"What kind of facial wounds?" said Milo.

"Lips, nose, eyes-the guy at the scene said it was really brutal. That fits, right?"

"Eyes," said Milo.

"My God," said Swig.

"Was she found on the northbound Five?" I said.

"Yes," said Banks.

Everyone stared at me.

"The road to Treadway," I said. "He's going home."