He phoned Mike Rupe on Wednesday and asked him to come out. When Rupe got there and saw how nervous Billy was, he phoned Dr. Caul.

“You’re on night duty anyway,” Caul said. “Stay with him tonight and bring him back tomorrow.”

With Mike Rupe there, Billy relaxed. They had a drink at the bar, and Billy talked of his hope of being treated by Sybil’s physician.

“I’ll check myself into a hospital for a couple of weeks until Dr. Wilbur thinks I can stay in an apartment by myself. I think I can, because even while I’m having trouble, I’m still able to function. Then I’ll start my treatment and follow her guidelines.”

Rupe listened as he spoke about his plans for the future, about the new life ahead of him if Judge Jackson wiped the slate clean in Lancaster.

They talked through the night, fell asleep in the early hours and, after a late breakfast, drove back to the hospital Thursday morning.

Back on the ward, Billy sat in the lobby and thought about how he couldn’t do anything right anymore. He felt like a dunce because he was losing all the things his other personalities had given him: Arthur’s intelligence, Ragens strength, Allen’s smooth talking, Tommy’s electronics knowledge. He was feeling more and more stupid, pressures were building and building. The stress and the fear were getting to him. Noises were amplified, colors became unbearably intense. He wanted to go into his room, slam the door, and scream and scream and scream …

The following day, Wanda Pancake was finishing her lunch in the coffee room when a friend jumped out of his chair and ran to the window. Wanda turned and peered through the rain to see what he was staring at.

“I saw somebody,” he said, pointing. “A guy in a tan trench coat ran across the Richland Avenue bridge and then went under it.”

“Where?” She stood on tiptoe, stretching her short, stocky frame, but all she could see through the rain-streaked window was a car parked on the bridge. The driver got out, looked over the side of the bridge wall, went back to his car and then to the wall, looking down as if watching something or someone below.

Wanda had an odd sinking feeling. “I’d better go check where Billy is.”

She went up and down the ward, asking staff and patients, but no one had seen him. She checked his room. His tan trench coat was gone from his closet.

Charlotte Johnson, the unit supervisor, came to the nurses’ station to say she’d been told on the phone that another employee, who’d been uptown, had seen Billy on Richland Avenue. Dr. Caul emerged from his office; he’d gotten a call about Billy being on the bridge.

Everyone began shouting at once. They didn’t want Security to go after him because they knew the uniforms would upset him.

“I’ll go,” Wanda said, grabbing her coat.

Clyde Barnhart of Security drove her out to the Richland Bridge. She climbed down and looked under the bridge among the pipes. Then she walked along the riverbank, peering in all directions. Nothing. When she came back, she saw the driver of the parked car and was surprised he was still there.