"Which brings us to Joe Leary," he said, regrouping.

Dr. Raymond beamed like a kid talking about a favorite big brother. "Which does, indeed, bring us to Joe Leary. What would you like to know?"

"Why you're paying for his care, for one thing."

The perfect face fell a little. Surprise, disappointment, caution. "I imagine Mary Jane told you. I'd really rather not let that get around, if you don't mind. It's a personal matter."

"Personal how?"

And now, as if choreographed, that smile. The smile Murphy had seen from damn near everybody in town with the notable exception of Timmie Leary when Joe Leary was introduced. "Joe is... special. He's a true original who won't come this way again, and I already miss him."

"That's it?"

The smile grew, shifted. "Why don't we go see him now? After you spend some time with him, I think you'll understand."

* * *

"Like most of our residents in the inpatient area of Restcrest," Raymond said as they walked, "Joe is in what we term the second stage of Alzheimer's. Affected enough that he can't safely remain in a home environment, but still mostly able to care for himself. The first stage, when he was beginning to forget, is the toughest stage for the patient, I think; the second stage, when he begins to lose touch with his world, is toughest for his family. He only remembers Timmie occasionally now, which must be terrible for her. The two of them were inseparable when she was a little girl." For a second, Raymond remembered, smiled, and nodded. "It's something you just don't forget. That great, huge man with his booming laugh walking down the sidewalk in the summer holding hands with that tiny girl and singing and reciting poetry to her."

"He still seems to remember the poetry, anyway."

"Magnificently. I wish he'd taught me English lit instead of Mrs. Beal. I might have actually passed the class."

"He taught?"

"For a while. He did lots of things for a while. He entertained us all for the sheer love of it, though. Bars, town square, church suppers. He always said there wasn't enough music in the air. If nobody else was going to provide it, he would. He did."

He still was, evidently. Murphy heard the distinctive voice even before they'd opened the doors.

"'... Oh, how may I call this a lightning? O, my love! My wife!'"

Raymond grinned like a kid. "Romeo," he crowed, pushing open the door as if expecting to see Julia Roberts on the other side.

The only thing on the other side was more old people. More staff. More glass-fronted storage and brightly lettered memory boards. And Joe Leary standing foursquare in the center of the beige carpet, his frame bent, his massive hand cupping the face of his daughter, who was sitting at a table littered with coffee cups and orange rinds. Even from where he stood Murphy could see the glitter in her eyes.

"'Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,'" Joe Leary whispered so that every person in the room could hear, "'hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered..."'

"Act five, scene three," Raymond told Murphy in awed tones. "Romeo's about to die for her."

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Murphy watched them, watched Raymond quiet to attention just like the rest. He turned and took in the show himself.

Joe Leary mesmerized. His great voice was hushed, his eyes grief-stricken, his movements small. Murphy could damn near see a crushed, callow seventeen-year-old standing in the place of the rumpled, white-haired old titan.

Evidently, so could everybody else. They remained in suspended animation as the words built like a soft, sad storm in the artificially bright room.

'"Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once... now at once..."'

Nobody noticed the hesitation but Murphy. It seemed a natural pause in the play if you didn't know it by heart. But the old man's eyes flickered, his hand trembled.

"Now, at once..."

Murphy wanted to jump in to save him. He didn't have to. Joe Leary's trembling grew until Murphy thought the people in the room would surely see. His gaze sharpened on the face of his daughter. She didn't move. Murphy could barely see her mouth work the lines the old man had temporarily misplaced, the whispered words so soft the audience could barely tell. The perfect prompter, she kept the focus on him.

And then, as if she'd hit a light switch, Romeo returned.

"'Now at once run on the dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!'" he cried. '"Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick.'" Lifting an imaginary vial to his lips, he drank, and all eyes went with him. '"Thus with a kiss... I die.'"

They all burst into applause.

"He do this all the time?" Murphy asked as he joined in.

"All the time," Raymond assured him. "He's the best thing that's happened to this place since music therapy."

Everybody clustered around the old man, all with that same damn smile. Old people wept and staff laughed and Joe stood there, the power draining away from his features like a flashlight with a failing battery, the tremble reappearing.

He began to look around, as if trying to remember something, and then one of the staff asked him to refresh her about the rest of the story. Joe settled, turned to her, smiled.

"The story is as old as time," he said, reaching to take her small hand, and everyone listened.

Murphy knew then why Timmie didn't want to indict Restcrest for anything. What he didn't understand was why, as everybody else crowded around in rapt attention to catch some of Joe Leary's infectious enthusiasm, the one person who walked away, movements as tight and contained as fury, was his daughter.

* * *

It was two more days until Halloween and Timmie hadn't finished sewing the damned costume yet. Why couldn't Meghan want to be Pocahontas like every other kid on the block? Why couldn't she even want to be a pumpkin, like last year? That costume was still around somewhere, a masterpiece of orange-and-green felt, and Meghan certainly hadn't grown out of it yet.

No, Meghan had to be Scheherazade, just like in one of Grandda's stories, and that meant she had to have yards of netting and those stupid bloused pants. It meant that all that damn material was draped over Timmie's dining room table like a taunt as Timmie skimmed pages of death notices.

She should be finishing the costume, or Meghan was going to be trick-or-treating with straight pins in her crotch. She should be getting ready for work so she could afford to extend her father's run at the Restcrest Playhouse. Instead, she read about dead people.

Normal dead people. Old people, young people, all reduced to a single line of print. Name, age, date of birth, date of death, unit, cause of death, disposition.

William Anthony Marshall, 47,

1/15/50, 2/25/96,

CCU, Acute MI,

Breyer's Mortuary

She had to find some direction other than Restcrest for Murphy to point his finger. Somebody other than Alex Raymond to be responsible.

Minerva G. Wilding, 71,

6/23/25, 6/30/97,

Oncology, CA, Liver,

Breyer's Mortuary

Some of the names she recognized. Some of those spare statistics could still ignite melancholy or delight or frustration, like surprising scent from long-pressed flowers. Some just made her sad.

William R. Porter, 8,

11/1/88, 8/15/97, ER,

MVA, Head Trauma,

hold for coroner