The young man frowned at him. "Daughter? Are you saying there was someone else in there with the three of you and those other men?" He stood and leaned out of the curtain to say something to someone. Joseph took the opportunity to try to get up again, but discovered his legs were shackled to the rolling stretcher.

"I told you to lie down," the young man said. "If your daughter's in there, they'll find her."

"No, they won't. She in a big tank. And her friend, too. He is one of the Small People, you know that? Do you know the Small People?"

The man looked at him doubtfully. "In a . . . tank."

Joseph shook his head. It was hard to explain and it hurt him to talk. His neck felt like it had been squeezed in a vise. Another thought struck him. "Why am I arrested? Where you people come from?"

The doctor, if that was what he was, looked at Joseph even more doubtfully. "You have been caught trespassing on a military base. There are some people who are going to want to talk to you about that—and about the armed men who were chasing you." He showed Joseph a small, tight smile. "Since I don't think any of those gentlemen are going to be talking."

"What about my friends?"

"They're alive. The young man—Chiume, is that his name? He lost some fingers to a dog bite. And the older man had a bullet wound in his leg. You all have other injuries as well, but nothing life-threatening."

"I want to talk to them."

"Until the captain says you can, you don't talk to anyone. Well, perhaps an attorney." The young doctor shook his head. "What were you playing at?"

"We were not playing," Joseph said sullenly. He wanted to sleep again, but could not—not yet. "You tell them my daughter and her friend are still down in that basement, in those tanks full of electric jelly. You tell them to be very careful when they take her out. And tell them not to look—she have no clothes on."

The doctor's expression said quite clearly that he thought Joseph was out of his mind, but he went and told someone anyway.

She woke up to see Stan Chan sitting at the other end of a long tunnel. She thought it was a tunnel, but she also thought it might just be that the room was dark and he was sitting under a small light.

She wasn't quite sure where she was. She made a noise and Stan saw her, jumped up, and came over. He was harder to see when he was standing next to her than when he was far away. She asked him for water because her throat was dry and it was hard to talk, but for some reason he only shook his head.

"You should have taken me with you, Calliope," he said quietly. "I called back, but you were already gone."

It was more than hard to talk, it hurt like hell. There was some kind of pipe in the corner of her mouth which kept her from closing her jaw. "Didn't . . . want . . . spoil . . . your . . . weekend," she told him as best she could.

He didn't make a joke in return, which struck her as odd. As she slid back into sleep she suddenly realized he had called her by her first name. That frightened her. That meant there was a very good chance she wasn't going to make it.

"You look okay, Skouros. Not too tan and a little thin, but you had enough of both to burn."

"Yeah. Those are beautiful flowers. Thanks."

"I've been here every day. You think I'm still bringing you flowers? Those are from your waitress friend."

"Elisabetta?"

"How many waitresses you know well enough to send you flowers and a Sherlock Holmes teddy bear?" He shook his head. "Teddy bears. I'm not sure about that one, Skouros."

"I guess I'm going to live, eh?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Because you're calling me by my last name again," She fumbled some ice into her mouth, wincing at the pain of moving her arm. The stitching on her back went layers deep—sometimes she thought she could feel it all the way to her breastbone—and she felt fragile as spun sugar. She wondered if she'd ever feel normal again. "You've been stonewalling me, Stan. Tell me what happened. He got away, didn't he?"

He looked surprised. "Johnny Dread? No, he didn't. We've got him and we've got his files. He's the Real Killer, Calliope. Why do you think I've been sitting here every day? Just because I'm your partner and I love you?"

"It wasn't because you love me?"

"Well, maybe. But every tabnet reporter in New South Wales is trying to get in here. No, every reporter in Oz. Somebody even snuck a camera-drone in under the cover of your fruit cup. You were sleeping, so you didn't hear me chasing the damn thing around until I could swat it with a magazine."

"I heard it." She could not hold down the growing sense of joy—stitches, punctured lung, breathing tube be damned! "We got him?"

"Bang to rights. You know how the Real Killer kept blanking the surveillance cameras? Well, he didn't—not exactly. Somehow he rerouted the images to his own system. Damn smart. We still don't know how he did it. And he saved all of them—his own little Hall of Fame." Stan shook his head. "Sick bastard played games with the images, too—added music to them, even edited in his mother's old booking photo at the end of one of the murders. Guess which one."

"Which murder? Merapanui."

"In one."

"But we've got him, right? And we've got good evidence." When she laughed it felt like someone was twisting a sharp stick into her back muscles but she didn't care. "That's wonderful, Stan."

"Yeah." There was something in his face she didn't like. "If he ever comes out of it, he's clocked, docked, and locked."

"Comes . . . out of it? What are you talking about?"

Stan rested his chin on his steepled fingers. "He's catatonic. Doesn't move, doesn't talk. Kind of an open-eyed coma. The unit that responded to your emergency call found him that way."

"What?" Her exhilaration had turned into something quite different. She felt a breath almost of terror, a cold tingling at her neck. "It's not true, Stan—he's faking. I swear he is. I know that bastard now."

"He's been examined by doctors. He's not faking. Anyway, he's under top security until the boys and girls upstairs decide what to do with him. Twenty-four-hour guard. Strapped to a schizo-ward restraint bed." Stan Chan stood and brushed the wrinkles out of his pants—even micro-weaves could be depressed by being in a hospital, it seemed. "He was online when they found him. They think it might be some kind of serious charge damage, one of those new China Sea blasters or something, but gone badly wrong," He saw the look on her face. "Honestly, Skouros, don't worry. He's not faking it, but even if he is, he wouldn't be going anywhere. He's the biggest arrest in years." A smile flickered across his face. "You're a bit of a hero, Skouros. That why you didn't take me with you?"

"Yeah." She tried to follow his mood, but she wasn't really feeling it. "Yeah, I said, 'If I can just stiff my partner, get stabbed in the lung and almost die, then call in an ambulance while I'm puking my blood out on the floor, I'll be famous.' "

"I was joking. Calliope."

"So was I, believe it or not." She reached for another piece of ice. "What about the American woman?"

"Touch and go, but she's still alive. Bad spinal injuries, lost a lot of blood. She should have been wearing a flakkie. Like you, Skouros."

"Like me." She smiled to show him they were still friends. "If you're going, who's keeping out the tabnet flacks?" But it was not reporters she was thinking about.

"Couple of street blues just outside. Worry not."

When he was gone she tried to watch the wallscreen. There was mention of the case on many of the information nodes, spy-camera footage on the comatose killer, even once a shot of her—the picture was an old one, and she felt a bump of despair at how chunky she looked—but she could not concentrate and eventually she flicked it off. Instead she watched the narrow wedge of light at the bottom of the door, wondering what she would do if the door swung open and he was standing there, the shadow with a knife, the devil-devil man, grinning at her.