"Yes."

"You want him to feel the full consequence, Inspector? Will you ask Monsieur Paris to take the cover off the guillotine so he can see the blade, sober, with his vision unclouded?"

"My reasons are my own. What you will not do is give him laudanum. If I find him under the influence of laudanum you will never hold a medical license in France: Look at that with your vision unclouded."

Hannibal saw that the room didn't bother Popil. He watched the inspector's duty come up in him.

Popil turned away from him to speak. "It would be a shame, because you show promise. I congratulate you on your remarkable grades," Popil said.

"You have pleased… your family would be-and is-very proud. Good night."

"Good night, Inspector. Thank you for the opera tickets."

EVENING IN PARIS, soft rain and the cobbles shining. Shopkeepers, closing for the night, directed the flow of the rainwater in the gutters to suit them with rolled scraps of carpet.

The tiny windshield wiper on the medical school van was powered by manifold vacuum and Hannibal had to lift off the gas from time to time to clear the windshield on the short drive to La Sante Prison.

He backed through the gate into the courtyard, rain falling cold on the back of his neck as he stuck his head out the van window to see, the guard in the sentry box not coming out to direct him.

Inside the main corridor of La Sante, Monsieur Paris' assistant beckoned him into the room with the machine. The man was wearing an oilskin apron and had an oilskin cover on his new derby for the occasion. He had placed the splash shield before his station in front of the blade to better protect his shoes and cuffs.

A long wicker basket lined with zinc stood beside the guillotine, ready for the body to be tipped into it.

"No bagging in here, warden's orders," he said. "You'll have to take the basket and bring it back. Will it go in the van?"

"Yes."

"Had you better measure?"

"No."

"Then you'll take him all together. We'll tuck it under his arm. They're next door."

In a whitewashed room with high barred windows Louis Ferrat lay bound on a gurney in the harsh light of overhead bulbs.

The plank tipping board, the bascule, from the guillotine was under him. An IV was in his arm.

Inspector Popil stood over Louis Ferrat, talking quietly to him, shading Ferrat's eyes from the glare with his hand. The prison doctor inserted a hypodermic into the IV and injected a small amount of clear fluid.

When Hannibal came into the room Popil did not look up.

"Remember, Louis," Popil said. "I need for you to remember."

Louis' rolling eye caught Hannibal at once.

Popil saw Hannibal then and held up a hand for him to keep back. Popil bent close to Louis Ferrat's sweating face. "Tell me."

"I put Cendrine's body in two bags. I weighted them with plowshares, and the rhymes were coming-"

"Not Cendrine, Louis. Remember. Who told Klaus Barbie where the children were hidden, so he could ship them East? I want you to remember."

"I asked Cendrine, I said, 'Just touch it'-but she laughed at me and the rhymes started coming-"

"No! Not Cendrine," Popil said. "Who told the Nazis about the children?"

"I can't stand to think about it."

"You only have to stand it once more. This will help you remember."

The doctor pushed a little more drug into Louis' vein, rubbing his arm to move the drug along.

"Louis, you must remember. Klaus Barbie shipped the children to Auschwitz. Who told him where the children were hidden? Did you tell him?"

Louis' face was grey. "The Gestapo caught me forging ration cards," he said. "When they broke my fingers, I gave them Pardou -Pardou knew where the orphans were hidden. He got so much a head for them and kept his fingers. He's mayor of Trent-la-Foret now. I saw it, but I didn't help. They looked out of the back of the truck at me."

"Pardou." Popil nodded. "Thank you, Louis."

Popil started to turn from him when Louis said, "Inspector?"

"Yes, Louis?"

"When the Nazis threw the children into the trucks, where were the police?"

Popil closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded to a guard, who opened the door into the guillotine room. Hannibal could see a priest and Monsieur Paris standing beside the machine. The executioner's assistant removed the chain and crucifix from around Louis' neck and put it in his hand, bound by his side. Louis looked at Hannibal. He lifted his head and opened his mouth. Hannibal went to his side and Popil did not try to stop him.

"The money, Louis?"

"St.-Sulpice. Not the poor box, the box for souls in Purgatory. Where's the dope?"

"I promise." Hannibal had a vial of dilute tincture of opium in the pocket of his jacket. The guard and executioner's assistant officially looked away. Popil did not look away. Hannibal held it to Louis' lips and he drank it down. Louis nodded toward his hand and opened his mouth again. Hannibal put the crucifix and chain in Louis' mouth before they turned him over on the plank that would carry him under the blade.

Hannibal watched the burden of Louis' heart roll away. The gurney bumped over the threshold of the guillotine room and the guard closed the door.

"He wanted his crucifix to remain with his head instead of his heart,"

Popil said. "You knew what he wanted, didn't you? What else do you and Louis have in common?"

"Our curiosity about where the police were when the Nazis threw the children into the trucks. We have that in common."

Popil might have swung at him then. The moment passed. Popil shut his notebook and left the room.

Hannibal approached the doctor at once.

"Doctor, what is that drug?"

"A combination of thiopental sodium and two other hypnotics. TheSurete has it for interrogations. It releases repressed memory sometimes. In the condemned."

"We need to allow for it in our blood work in the lab. May I have the sample?"

The doctor handed over the vial. "The formula and the dosage are on the label."

From the next room came a heavy thud.

"I'd wait a few minutes if I were you," the doctor said. "Let Louis settle down."

HANNIBAL LAY ON the low bed in his garret room. His candles flickered on the faces he has drawn from his dreams, and shadows played over the gibbon skull. He stared into the gibbon's empty sockets and put his lower lip behind his teeth as if to match the gibbon's fangs. Beside him was a windup phonograph with a lily-shaped trumpet. He had a needle in his arm, attached to a hypodermic filled with the cocktail of hypnotics used in the interrogation of LouisFerrat.

"Mischa, Mischa. I'm coming." Fire on his mother's clothes, the votive candles flaring before St. Joan. The sexton said, "It's time."

He started the turntable and lowered the thick needle arm onto the record of children's songs. The record was scratchy, the sound tinny and thin, but it pierced him.

Sagt, wermagdas Mannleinsein

DasdastehtimWaldeallein

He pushed the plunger of the needle a quarter of an inch and felt the drug burn in his vein. He rubbed his arm to move it along. Hannibal stared steadily by candlelight at the faces sketched from his dreams, and tried to make their mouths move. Perhaps they would sing at first, and then say their names. Hannibal sang himself, to start them singing.

He could not make the faces move any more than he could flesh the gibbon. But it was the gibbon who smiled behind his fangs, lipless, his mandible curving in a grin, and the Blue-Eyed One smiled then, the bemused expression burnt in Hannibal 's mind. And then the smell of wood smoke in the lodge, the tiered smoke in the cold room, the cadaverine breath of the men crowded around him and Mischa on the hearth. They took them out to the barn then. Pieces of children's clothing in the barn, stained and strange to him. He could not hear the men talking, could not hear what they called each other, but then the distorted voice of Bowl-Man saying, "Take her, she's going to die anyway. He'll stayfreeeeeaaassh a little longer." Fighting and biting and coming now the thing he could not stand to see, Mischa held up by the arms, feet clear of the bloody snow, twisting, LOOKING BACK AT HIM.