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Chapter 12

Sometimes the lines of demarcation between dreams and reality become blurred. Hard for me to tell precisely which is which. I suppose that's why I am supposed to take so much medication, as if reality can be encouraged chemically. Ingest enough milligrams of this or that pill, and the world comes back into focus. This is sadly true, and, for the most part, all those drugs do pretty much what they are supposed to do, in addition to all the other things not so pleasant. And, I guess, it is all in all positive. It just depends on how much value one places on focus.

Currently, I wasn't placing much value on it all.

I slept, I don't know for how many hours, on the floor of my living room. I had taken a pillow and blanket from my bed, and then stretched out beside all my words, reluctant to leave them, almost like an attentive parent, afraid to leave a sickly child at night. The floor was board hard, and my joints complained in protest when I awakened. There was some dawn light slipping into the apartment, like a herald trumpeting in something new, and I rose to my task not precisely refreshed, but at least a little less groggy.

For a moment, or two, I looked about, reassuring myself that I was alone.

The Angel was not far, I knew. He had not fled. That wasn't his style. Nor had he concealed himself behind my shoulder again. My senses were all on edge, despite the few hours' sleep. He was close. He was watching. He was waiting. Somewhere nearby. But the room was empty, at least for the time being, and I felt some relief. The only echoes were my own.

I tried to tell myself to be very careful. In the Western State Hospital, there had been the three of us arrayed against him. And still it had been an equal contest. Now, here alone in my apartment, I feared that I wasn't capable of the same fight.

I turned to the wall. I remembered asking Peter a question and his response, spoken in an upbeat tone: "Detective work is about a steady, careful examination of facts. Creative thinking is always welcome, but only within the boundaries of known details."

I laughed out loud. This time irony overcame me, and I replied, "But that's not what worked, was it?" Maybe in the real world, especially today, with DNA testing and electronic microscopes and forensic techniques honed by science and technology and screaming modern capabilities, finding the Angel wouldn't have been so tricky. Probably not at all. Put the right substances into a test tube, a little bit of this and a little bit of that, run them through a gas chronometer, apply some space-age technology, get a computer readout and find our man. But back then, in the Western State Hospital, we didn't have any of those things. Not a one.

All we had was ourselves.

Inside the Amherst Building alone, there were nearly three hundred male patients. That figure was duplicated in the other housing units, bringing the hospital total to close to 2,100. The female population was slightly less, measuring one hundred and twenty-five in Amherst, and a little over nine hundred in the hospital itself. Nurses, nurse-trainees, attendants, security personnel, psychologists, and psychiatrists brought the number of people at the hospital to well above three thousand. It wasn't the widest world, Francis thought, but it was still a substantial one.

In the days after Lucy Jones's arrival, Francis had taken to examining the other men walking the corridors with a different sort of interest. The idea that one among them was a killer unsettled him, and he found himself pivoting and turning whenever someone closed in on him from behind. He knew this was unreasonable, and knew also that his fears were misplaced. But it was hard for him to erase a sense of constant dread.

He spent a lot of time trying to make eye contact in a place that discouraged it. He was surrounded by all sorts of mental illness, in varying degrees of intensity, and he had no idea how to change the way he looked at all that sickness to spot an entirely different disease. The clamor he felt within himself, from all his voices, added to the nervousness racing about inside his body. He felt a little like he was charged with electrical impulses, all darting about haphazardly, trying to find some location where they might settle. His efforts to rest were frustrated, and Francis felt exhausted.

Peter the Fireman didn't seem quite as hamstrung. In fact, Francis noted, the worse he felt, the better Peter seemed to be. There was more urgency in his voice, and quickness to his step, as he traversed the corridors. Some of the elusive sadness that he'd worn when first he'd arrived at the Western State Hospital had been shunted aside. Peter had energy, which Francis envied, because he had only fear.

But the time spent with Lucy and Peter, in their small office, managed to control even that for him. In the small space, even his voices quieted, and he was able to listen to what they said with relative peace.

The first order of business, as Lucy explained to him, was to create a means of narrowing the number of potential suspects. It was easy enough for her, she said, to go through the hospital records for each patient and determine who was available to kill the other victims that she believed were linked to the murder of Short Blond. She had three other dates, in addition to Short Blond. Each killing had taken place within a few days, or weeks, of the time the bodies were discovered. Clearly, the greatest percentage of hospital inmates were not out on the street during the time frame that all three of the other killings were performed. The long-term patients, especially the elderly, were easy to remove from their process of inspection.

She did not share this initial inquiry with either Doctor Gulptilil or Mister Evans, although Peter and Francis knew what she was doing. This created some tension, when she asked Mister Evil for the Amherst Building records.

"Of course," he said. "I keep the primary dossiers in my office in some file cabinets. You can come there and inspect them whenever you like."

Lucy was standing outside her own office. It was early in the afternoon, and Mister Evil had already come by twice that morning, knocking loudly at her door and asking if he could be of assistance, and to remind Francis and Peter that their regularly scheduled group session was going to take place as usual and that they would be required to be there.

"Now would be good," she said. She took a step down the hallway, only to be interrupted by Mister Evil.

"Only you," he said stiffly. "Not the other two."

"They're helping me," she said. "You know that."

Mister Evil nodded, in response, but then changed the nod into a vigorous back and forth negative. "Yes, they might be," he said slowly. "That remains to be seen, and, as you well know, I have my doubts. Still doesn't give them the right to examine the confidential files of other patients. There is sensitive, personal information in those dossiers, gleaned from therapeutic sessions, and I cannot permit that information to be examined by other clients of our little hospital, here. That would be unethical on my part and a violation of state laws concerning privacy of records. You should be aware of that, Miss Jones."

Lucy paused, considering what he'd said. "I'm sorry," she replied slowly. "You are, of course, correct. I simply assumed that the exigencies of the situation might create some leeway on your part."

He smiled. "Of course. And I wish to provide you with the widest possible latitude on your wild-goose chase. But I cannot break the law, nor is it fair for you to ask me, or any of the other dormitory supervisors to do so." Mister Evil wore long brown hair, and wire-rim glasses, giving him a close to scruffy look. To offset this impression, he often wore a tie and a white shirt, although his shoes were always scuffed and worn. It was, Francis thought, a little as if he did not want to be associated either with a world of rebellion or the land of the status quo. Not really wanting to be a part of either put Mister Evil into a difficult spot, he thought.

"Right," she said. "I wouldn't want to do that."

"Especially, because I have yet to see from you any real indication that the mythical person you are pursuing is actually here."

She did not reply to this at first, only smiling.

"And," she said, after a short silence had surrounded them unhappily, "precisely what sort of evidence is it that you'd like me to show you?"

Evans, too, smiled, as if he enjoyed the fencing back and forth. Thrust. Parry. Strike.

"Something other than supposition," he said. "Perhaps a witness that was credible, although where you might find one inside a mental hospital presently eludes me…" He said this with a small laugh, as if it was a joke."… Or perhaps the murder weapon that has, as of now, not been uncovered. Something concrete. Something solid…" Again, he seemed about to act as if this was all a great amusement, just for him. "Of course, as you've probably figured out, Miss Jones, concrete and solid are not concepts particularly suited to our little world, here. You know as well as I, that statistically, the mentally ill are far, far more likely to do harm to themselves than they are to hurt someone else."

"Perhaps the person I'm seeking isn't exactly what you would call mentally ill," Lucy said. "A different category completely."

"Well," Evans answered briskly, "that may be the case. In fact, it is likely. But what we have here, in abundance, are the latter, not the former."

With that, he gestured, bowing slightly and sweeping his arm in the direction of his own office. "You would still like to examine the files?" he said.

Lucy turned to Peter and Francis. "I need to go do this. Get started, at least. I will meet with you later."

Peter looked angrily at Mister Evans, who did not look back in his direction, but instead, led Lucy Jones down the corridor, dismissing patients who approached him with short, chopping hand motions. It was, Francis thought, a little like a man cutting his way with a machete through the jungle.

"It would be nice," Peter said, under his breath, "if it turned out that that son of a bitch was the man we were hunting for. That would really be special, and would make all this time in here incredibly worthwhile." Then he burst | out in a short laugh. "Ah, well, C-Bird. The world is never that convenient. And '" you know what they say: "Beware of getting what you wish for." " But even as he spoke, he continued to watch Mister Evans as he maneuvered down the hall-|. way. He waited a few moments, and then added, "I'm going to go speak with

Napoleon." Peter sighed. "At least, he will have the eighteenth-century perspective on all this."

Francis would have joined him, but he hesitated, as Peter wheeled and walked swiftly toward the dayroom. In that moment, he saw Big Black leaning up against the wall of the corridor, smoking a cigarette, his white uniform bathed in light that streamed through the windows, so that he glistened. For some reason, the light made Big Black's skin seem even darker, and Francis saw that the attendant had been watching them. He walked over, and the huge man separated himself from the wall, and dropped his smoke to the floor.

"A bad habit," Big Black said. "One that is just as likely to kill you as anything else in here. Maybe. Can't be altogether too sure about that, what with all that's been happening. But don't you go and take it up like everybody else in this place, C-Bird. Lots of bad habits in here. And not much to do about them. You try to keep yourself out of bad habits, C-Bird, and you'll find yourself out of here, sooner or later."

Francis didn't reply. Instead, he watched the attendant stare down the corridor, his eyes fixing on first one patient, then another, but clearly, his real attention somewhere else.

After a moment, Francis asked, "Why do they hate each other, Mister Moses?"

Big Black did not answer this question directly, other than to say, "You know, sometimes, down South where I was born, there were these old women who could sense the weather changing. They were the ones who knew when storms were gonna blow in off the water, and especially, during hurricane season, they were forever walking about, sniffing the air, sometimes saying little chants and spells, sometimes throwing bones and seashells on a piece of cloth. A little like witchcraft, I guess, and now that I am an educated man, living in a modern world, C-Bird, I know better than to believe all those spells and incantations. But, trouble was, they were always right. Storm coming, they knew it long before anyone else did. They were the ones got the folks to bring in the livestock, fix the roof of the house, maybe bottle some water, just for the emergency that no one else could see was coming. But which came, all the same. Makes no sense, when you think about it; makes perfectly good sense, if you don't."

He smiled, and put his hand on Francis's shoulder. "What you think, C-Bird? You look at those two and the way they act and feel that storm coming on, too?"

"I still don't understand, Mister Moses."

The large man shook his head. "Let me say this: Evans, he's got a brother. And maybe what it was that Peter did, maybe that did something to that brother. And so, when Peter came here, Evans made right certain that he was the one in charge of his evaluation. He made sure that Peter knew that whatever it was that Peter wanted, he was going to make damn certain that Peter didn't get it."

"But that can't be fair," Francis said.

"Didn't say something was fair, C-Bird. Didn't say nothing about things being fair, the one way or the other. Only said that's maybe some part of that little bit of trouble that's heading bad, isn't it?"

Big Black removed his hand and stuck it in his pocket. As he did so, the chain of keys on his belt jangled.

"Mister Moses, those keys can you go anywhere in here with them?"

He nodded. "In here. And in all the other dormitories, too. Unlock doors to Security. Unlock dormitory doors. Even get into the isolation cells, too. Want to go out the front gate, Francis? These will help show you the way."

"Who has keys like that?"

"Nursing supervisors. Security. Attendants like me and my brother. Main staff."

"Do they know where all the sets are, at all times?"

"Supposed to. But like everything around here, what they are supposed to do and what really happens might be different things."

He laughed. "Now, C-Bird, you starting to ask questions like Miss Jones and Peter, too. He knows how to ask questions. You're learning."

Francis smiled in reply to the compliment. "I wonder," he said, "if all those sets of keys are accounted for at all times."

Big Black shook his head. "Ain't quite asking that question right, C-Bird. Try again."

"Are any keys missing?"

"Yes. That's the question, isn't it? Yes. Some keys are missing."

"Has anyone searched for them?"

"Yes. But maybe search ain't the right word. People looked in all the real likely places, and then gave up when they didn't find them."

"Who lost them?"

"Why," Big Black said with a grin, "that person would be our very good friend, Mister Evans."

The huge attendant burst out with another laugh, and as he threw his head back, he spotted his smaller brother heading toward them. "Hey," he called out, "C-Bird is starting to figure things out."

Francis saw the nurses stationed behind the wire mesh of the station in the middle of the corridor look up, and smile, as if this was something of a joke. Little Black also grinned, as he sauntered up to the two of them. "You know what, Francis?" he said.

"What's that, Mister Moses?"

"You get the handle on the way this world works," he spoke, gesturing wildly with his arm to indicate the hospital ward. "You get a good solid grip on all this, and I'll tell you the truth, figuring out the world outdoors there, right out there past the walls well, that won't be so hard for you. If you get the chance."

"How do I get that chance, Mister Moses?"

"Now, ain't that the great question, little brother? That's the great big question gets asked every minute of every day in here. How does a gentleman get that chance. There's ways, C-Bird. There's more than one way, at least. But ain't no simple yes and no rules. Do this. Do that. Get a chance. Nope, don't work precisely that way. You've got to find your own path. You'll get there, C-Bird. Just got to see it when it shows itself. That's the problem, ain't it?"

Francis did not know how to respond, but he thought the older brother undoubtedly wrong. And he didn't think he had any ability to understand any world whatsoever. A few of his voices rumbled deep within him, and he tried to listen to what they were saying, because he suspected they had an opinion or two. But as he concentrated, he saw that both attendants were watching him, taking note of the way his own face wore whatever was inside of him and for a moment, he felt naked, as if his clothing had been ripped from him. So, instead, he smiled as pleasantly as he could, and walked off down the corridor, his footsteps keeping quick pace with all the doubts drumming about within him.

Lucy sat behind the desk in Mister Evans's office as he rummaged through one of four file cabinets lined up against one wall. Her eyes were drawn to a photograph on the corner, which was a wedding picture. She saw Evans, his hair a little more closely cropped and combed, wearing a blue pin-striped business suit that still seemed to merely underscore his skinny physique, standing next to a young woman wearing a white gown which only barely concealed a significant pregnancy, and who was wearing a garland of flowers in frizzy brown hair. They were in the middle of a group that ranged in age from very old to very young, and all wore similar smiles, that, on balance, Lucy thought she could accurately describe as forced. In the midst of the wedding party, was a man wearing a priest's flowing robes, which caught the photographer's light in their golden brocade. He had his hand on Evans's shoulder, and, after a slight double take, Lucy recognized a nearly complete resemblance to the psychologist.

"You have a twin?" she asked.

Evans looked up, saw where her eyes were fixed on the photograph, and turned toward her, his arms filled with yellow file folders. "Runs in the family," he said. "My daughters are twins as well."

Lucy looked around, but failed to see a photograph. He saw the inquisitive survey and added, "They live with their mother. Suffice it to say we're going through a bit of a rough spot."

"Sorry to hear that," she said, although she didn't say that that was no explanation for not having their photo on the wall.

He shrugged. He dumped the files on the desk in front of her. They made a thudding sound.

"When you grow up as a twin, you get accustomed to all the jokes. They are always the same, you know. Two peas in a pod. How do ya tell 'em apart? You guys share the same thoughts and ideas? When one spends all their years knowing that there is a mirror image of oneself asleep in the bunk bed above, it changes one's understanding of the world. Both for the better, and for the worse, as well, Miss Jones."

"You were identical twins?" she asked, mostly just for conversation, though a single glance at the picture told her the answer to her question.

Mister Evans hesitated before replying, his gaze narrowing, and a distinct ice slipping into his words. "We were once. No longer."

She looked at him quizzically.

Evans coughed once, then added: "Why don't you ask your new friend and detective partner to explain that statement? Because he has that answer a whole lot better than I do. Ask Peter the Fireman, the sort of guy who starts out extinguishing fires, but ends up setting them."

She did not know how to respond, so instead, she drew the files toward her. Mister Evans took up a seat across from her, leaning back, crossing his legs in a relaxed fashion and watching what she was doing. Lucy did not like the way his glance penetrated the air around her, bullet like and she felt uncomfortable with the intensity of his scrutiny. "Would you like to help?" she asked abruptly. "What I have in mind is not all that difficult. Initially, I'd simply like to eliminate those men who were here in the hospital when one or another of these three additional killings took place. In other words, if they were here… "

He interrupted her. "Then they couldn't be out there. That should be an easy matter of comparing dates."

"Right," she said.

"Except there are some elements that make it a little harder."

She paused, then asked, "What sort of elements?"

Evans rubbed his chin, before answering. "There are a percentage of patients who have been voluntarily committed to the hospital. They can be signed in and out, on a weekend, for example, by responsible family members. In fact, it is encouraged. So, it is conceivable that someone whose records seem to show that they are a full-time resident here, actually has spent some time outside the walls. Under supervision, of course. Or, at least, allegedly under supervision. Now, that would not be the case for people ordered here by a court. Nor would it be the case for patients that after they arrived, the staff has deemed to be a danger to themselves, or perhaps someone else. If an act of violence got you here, then you wouldn't be released, even for a visit home. Unless, of course, a staff member felt it was an acceptable part of one's therapeutic approach. But this would also depend upon what medications the patient was currently prescribed. Someone can be sent home for overnight with a pill. But not needing an injection. See?"

"I think so."

"And," Evans continued, picking up some steam as he spoke, "we have hearings. We are required to periodically present cases in a quasi judicial proceeding, in effect to justify why someone should be kept here, or, in some cases, released. A public defender comes up from Springfield, and we have a patient advocate, who sits on a panel with Doctor Gulptilil and a guy from the state division of Mental Health Services. A little like a parole board type hearing. Those happen from time to time, as well, and they have an erratic track record."

"How do you mean erratic?"

"People get released because they've been stabilized, and then they're back here in a couple of months after they decompensate. There is an element to treating mental illness which makes it seem very much like a revolving door. Or a treadmill."

"But the patients you have here in the Amherst Building…"

"I don't know whether we have any current patients who have the capacity both social and mental to be granted a furlough. Maybe a couple, at best. I don't know that we have any scheduled for hearings. I'd have to check. Furthermore, I don't have a clue about the other buildings. You will have to find my counterparts in each one and check with them."

"I think we can eliminate the other buildings," Lucy said briskly. "After all, the killing of Short Blond took place here, and I suspect the killer is likely here."

Mister Evans smiled unpleasantly, as if he saw a joke in what she said that wasn't obvious to her. "Why would you assume that?"

She started to respond, but stopped. "I merely thought," she started, but he cut her off.

"If this mythical fellow is as clever as you think, then I shouldn't imagine that traveling between buildings late at night was a problem he couldn't overcome."

"But there is Security patrolling the grounds. Wouldn't they spot anyone moving between buildings?"

"We are, alas, like so many state agencies, understaffed. And Security travels set patterns at regular times, which wouldn't be all that difficult to elude, if one had that inclination. And there are other ways of traveling about unseen."

Lucy hesitated again, realizing there was a question there that she should ask, and into the momentary pause, Mr. Evans added his opinion: "Lanky," he said, with a small, almost nonchalant wave. "Lanky had motive and opportunity and desire and ended up with the nurse's blood all over him. I fail to see why it is that you want to look so much harder for someone else. I agree that Lanky is, in many regards, a likable fellow. But he was also a paranoid schizophrenic and had a history of violent acts. Especially toward women, whom he often saw as minions of Satan. And, in the days leading up to the crime, his medications had been shown to be inadequate. If you were to review his medical records, which the police took with him, you would see an entry from me suggesting that he might have found a way to conceal that he wasn't getting the proper dosages at the daily distribution. In fact, I had ordered that he be started on intravenous injections in upcoming days, because I felt that oral dosages weren't doing the job."

Again, Lucy did not reply. She wanted to tell Mr. Evans that the mutilation of the nurse's hand alone, in her mind at least, cleared Lanky. But she did not share that observation.

Evans pushed the files toward her. "Still," he said, "if you examine these and the thousand others in the other buildings you can eliminate some people. I think I would deemphasize times and dates and concentrate more time on diagnosis. I'd rule out the mentally retarded. And the catatonics who don't respond to either medication or electric shock treatments, because they just don't seem to have the physical capacity to do what you think they did. And the other personality disorders that contraindicate what you're looking for. I'm happy to help by answering any questions you might have. But the hard part well, that's for you."

Then he leaned back and watched her, as she drew forward the first dossier, flipped open the jacket, and began to inspect it.

Francis leaned up against the wall outside Mister Evil's office, unsure what else f to do. It wasn't long before he saw Peter the Fireman sauntering down the corridor, heading to join him. Peter slumped himself up against the wall, and stared toward the door blocking them from where Lucy was poring over patient records. He exhaled slowly, making a whistling sound.

"Did you speak with Napoleon?"

"He wanted to play chess. So I did play a game and he kicked my butt. Still, it's a good game for an investigator to learn."

"Why is that?"

"Because there are infinite variations on a winning strategy, yet one is still restricted in the moves one can make by the highly specific limitations of each piece on the board. A knight can do this…" He made a forward and sideways gesture with his hand. "While a bishop can go like so…" He changed to a diagonal slashing motion. "Do you play, C-Bird?"

Francis shook his head.

"You should learn."

As they spoke, a heavyset, thickly built man who lived in the third floor dormitory lurched to a halt across from them. He wore a look that Francis had come to recognize among many of the retarded people in the hospital. It combined a blankness and an inquisitiveness at the same time, as if the man wanted an answer to something, but knew he could not understand it, which created a state of near constant frustration. There were a number of men in Amherst, and throughout Western State Hospital, like this man, and day in, day out, they frightened Francis as much as anyone, because they were on balance, so benign, and yet, capable of sudden, inexplicable aggressiveness. Francis had learned quickly to steer clear of the retarded men. When Francis looked over at him, he opened his eyes wide, and seemed to snarl, as if angry that so much in the world was so far beyond his reach. He made a small gurgling sound, and continued to stare at Peter and Francis intently.

Peter returned the gaze, with an equal ferocity. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

The man simply gurgled a little louder.

"What do you want?" Peter demanded. He peeled himself from the wall, tensing.

The retarded man emitted a long, grunting sound, like a wild animal squaring off against a rival. He took a step forward, hunching his shoulders. His face contorted, and it seemed to Francis that the limits of the man's imagination made him more terrifying, because all that he possessed, within his meager resources, was rage. And there was no way of determining where it came from. It just erupted, at that moment, in that spot. The retarded man flexed his hands into fists and then swung wildly in the air between them, as if he was punching a vision.

Peter took another step forward, then stopped. "Don't do it, buddy," he said.

The man seemed to gather himself for a charge.

Peter repeated, "It's not worth it." But as he spoke, he braced himself.

The retarded man took a single additional step toward them, then halted. Still grunting with an internal fury that seemed massive, he suddenly took his fist and slammed it against the side of his own head. The punch resounded down the corridor. Then he followed this, with a second blow, and a third, each one echoing loudly. A small trickle of blood appeared by his ear.

Neither Peter nor Francis moved.

The man let out a cry. It had some of the pitch of victory, some of the tone of anguish. It was hard for Francis to tell whether it was a challenge or a signal.

And, as it resounded down the hall, the man seemed to stop. He let out a sigh, and straightened up. He looked over at Francis and Peter and shook his head, as if clearing something from his vision. His eyebrows knit together abruptly, quizzically, as if some great question had penetrated within him, and in the same revelation, he'd seen the answer. Then he half snarled, half smiled, and abruptly lurched off down the hallway, mumbling to himself.

Francis and Peter watched him move unsteadily away.

"What was that about?" Francis asked, a little shakily.

Peter shook his head. "That's just it," he replied softly. "In here, you just don't know, do you? You just can't tell what has made someone burst like that. Or not. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, C-Bird. This is the strangest damn place I hope either of us ever has the misfortune to land."

The two men leaned back up against the wall. Peter seemed stricken by the attack that hadn't happened, as if it had said something to him. "You know, C-Bird, when I was in Vietnam, I thought that was pretty weird. Strange things were likely to happen all the damn time. Strange and deadly things. But, at least, they had some rhyme and reason to them. I mean, after all, we were there to kill them, and they were there to kill us. Made some perverse logic. And after I came home, and joined the department, sometimes, in a fire, you know things can get pretty dicey. Walls tumbling. Floors giving way. Heat and smoke everywhere. But still, there's some cosmic sense of order to it all. Fire burns in defined patterns, accelerated by certain stuffs, and, when you know what you're doing, you can usually take the right precautions. But this place is something else. It's like everything is on fire all the time. It's like everything is hidden. And booby-trapped."

"Would you have fought him?"

"Would I have had a choice?"

He looked around at the flow of patients moving throughout the building.

"How does anyone survive in here?" he asked.

Francis didn't have an answer. "I don't know that we're really supposed to," he whispered.

Peter nodded, his wry smile suddenly back in place. "That, my young and crazy friend, might be the most dead-on accurate thing you've ever said."


Chapter 11 | The Madman | Chapter 13