The mouth had flattened, gone two-dimensional. Moistened by saliva, the lips materialized-port-wine slash in the center of the triangle, vivid against the doughy skin.

It opened again and the tongue extended completely- thick, purplish, mottled, like some cave-dwelling slug.

It hung in the air. Curled. Wagged from side to side. Zipped back.

Out again. In again.

More neck-rolling.

I knew where I'd seen the face. Poster art from my college days. Edvard Munch's The Scream.

Hairless melting man clutching his face in primal mental agony. Peake could have posed for the painting.

His hands remained in his lap, but his upper body swayed, trembled, jerked a few times, seemed about to topple. Then he stopped Righted himself.

Looked in our direction.

He'd butchered the Ardullos at age nineteen, making him thirty-five. He looked ancient.

"Ardis?" said Swig.

No reaction. Peake was staring in our direction but not making contact. He closed his eyes. Rolled his head. Another two minutes of tardive ballet.

Swig gave a disgusted look and waved his hand, as if to say, "You asked for it."

Mik> ignored that and stepped closer. Peake began rocking faster, licking his lips, the tongue emerging, curling, retreating. Several toes on his left foot jumped. His left hand fluttered.

"Ardis, it's Mr. Swig. I've got some visitors for you."

Nothing.

Swig said, "Go ahead, Detective."

No response to "Detective."

I bent and got down at Peake's eye level. Milo did, too. Peake's eyes had remained closed. Tiny waves seemed to ruffle-eyeballs rolling behind gray skin. His chest was white and hairless, freckled with blackheads. Gray nipples- a pair of tiny ash piles. Up close the burning smell was stronger.

Milo said, "Hey," with surprising gentleness.

A few new shoulder tics, tongue calisthenics. Peake rolled his head, lifted his right hand, held it in midair, dropped it heavily.

"Hey," Milo repeated. "Ardis." His face was inches from Peake's. I got closer myself, still smelling the combustion but feeling no heat from Peake's body.

"My name's Milo. I'm here to ask you about Dr. Argent."

Peake's movements continued, autonomic, devoid of intent.

"Claire Argent, Ardis. Your doctor. I'm a homicide detective, Ardis. Homicide."

Not an errant eyeblink.

Milo said, "Ardis!" very loud.

Nothing. A full minute passed before the lids lifted. Halfway, then a full view of the eyes.

Black slots. Pinpoints of light at the center, but no definition between iris and white.

"Claire Argent," Milo repeated. "Dr. Argent. Bad eyes in a box."

The eyes slammed shut. Peake rolled his head, the tongue explored air. One toe jumped, this time on the right foot.

"Bad eyes," said Milo, nearly whispering, but his voice had gotten tight, and I knew he was fighting to keep the volume down. "Bad eyes in a box, Ardis."

Ten seconds, fifteen ... half a minute.

"A box, Ardis. Dr. Argent in a box."

Peake's neuropathic ballet continued, unaltered.

"Bad eyes," Milo soothed.

I was looking into Peake's eyes, plumbing for some shred of soul.