The pilgrim, not running, but walking stiff-legged, moving along like a competitor in the Olympic event, suddenly swung right—away from the traffic, thank the Lord—and up the steps and through the door of B.U.’s School of Theology, as if that was what he’d been looking for all along. Fitz caught up to him on the second floor and for lack of a better plan snatched him by the arm again, and again the man swung round on him, crying out as if he’d been stabbed. The problem—the further problem—was that the building was populated. That was what buildings were for—to be populated. And now, accordingly, there were people up and down the hall peering out their doors. Someone—a man with a face like a raised axe—barked, “What’s going on here?”

It was then, everything scrambled and no sense at all to anything whatsoever, that Walter arrived, hustling down the hallway, his black bag in hand. “It’s all right,” he said to the faces gaping from the doorways, “I’m a medical doctor,” and in the next moment he had hold of the pilgrim’s other arm and he was cooing to him in the most soothing and reasonable tones. “Julius,” he cooed, drawing out the syllables, “it’s me, Walter. Everything’s all right, everything’s fine. Shhhh!”

Julius tried to pull away, but the two of them held fast. “There’s a man,” he said, his eyes black and staring. “A, a man—”

“It’s all right,” Walter whispered. “I know.”

“But, but”—looking now to Fitz—“what about him?”

“He knows too.”

That seemed to satisfy him and things might have settled down right there with no need for further intervention, but for the fact that the mailman happened to come down the hall at that moment, a registered letter for delivery to the main office clutched in one hand. As he passed by, Julius suddenly jerked his arm out of Fitz’s grasp and snatched the letter away, which the postman, with a look of incredulity, tried to snatch back, tug-of-war. Julius, still staring, still tense as wire, began making a keening noise in the back of his throat and then he was swinging wildly in place, the letter clutched in one hand, even as the postman—middle-aged, graying sideburns, startled eyes—held fast to his end. What ensued was a wrestling match, three against one, but even so the outcome was in doubt because Julius was in a panic, and the panic flooded his veins with adrenaline, giving him all but superhuman strength. He grunted and spun and held fiercely to the letter, shouting “A man on the cross!” even as the three of them finally managed to wrestle him to the floor and Walter, no choice in the matter now, plied his syringe.