Milo removed the cigar, placed it between his index fingers, and sighted over the tobacco bridge. "If Peake was taken offThorazine, would he be able to talk more?"

"It's possible. But he could also fall apart, maybe even revert to violence. And don't forget, he was on Thorazine when he talked to Heidi. So he's capable of speech while medicated. Are you still taking this in-a-box stuff seriously?"

"Nah.... I guess I can't get away from the eye thing-hey, maybe I'm delusional and Peake's a true prophet. Maybe Satan has dispatched the Pluto Mantises."

"Maybe," I said, "but would he inform Peake?"

He laughed, chewed the cigar some more." 'Bad eyes in a box.' "

"For all we know, Claire tried talking to him about his crime and sparked some kind of memory. 'In a box' could mean his own incarceration. Or something else. Or nothing at all."

"Okay, okay, enough of this," he said, pocketing the cigar. "Back to basics: check out Claire's finances and StargilFs. Go over Richard's file again, too. For the hundredth time, but maybe there's something I missed. And if you're not jammed, now's as good a time as any to go see Dr. Theobold at County. Maybe one of us will come up with something remotely resembling a factoid."

He grinned. "Lacking that, I'll settle for some juicy delusions."

Chapter 13

I called Dr. Myron Theobold's office and got an appointment for ten-fifteen the next morning. By nine-forty-five I was clearing my head in the fast lane of the 10 East, enduring the crawl to the interchange, moving with the smog stream toward San Bernardino. I got off a few exits later, on Soto Street in East L.A., drove past the county morgue, and pulled into the main entrance of the dun-colored metropolis that was County General Hospital.

Perenially underfunded and overstressed, County's a wonder: first-rate medicine for the tired and the poor, last stop for the hopeless and the addled. I'd done some clinical training here, taught occasional seminars, but it had been two years since I'd set foot on the hospital campus. Outwardly, little had changed-the same sprawl of bulky, homely buildings, the constant parade of people in uniforms, the halting march of the ill.

One of those hot, overcast days that makes everything look decayed, but after Starkweather, County seemed fresh, almost perky.

Theobold's office was on the third floor of Unit IV, one of the half-dozen no-frills annexes sprouting at the rear of the complex like afterthoughts. Dazed-looking men and women in open-backed pajamas wandered white-tiled halls. Two grim nurses escorted a heavy black woman toward an open door. IV's in both her arms. Tears marked her cheeks like dew on asphalt. In an unseen place, someone retched. The overhead pager recited names emotionlessly.

Theobold's secretary occupied a space not much bigger man Peake's cell, surrounded by gunmetal filing cabinets. A stuffed Garfield clung to the handle of one drawer. Empty chair. A note said, "Back in 15 min."