“Who is it?”

“Mr. Grey?” a man’s voice said.

“You Mr. Grey too?” Ptolemy asked.

“No,” the man said patiently, “you’re Mr. Grey. Open the door, please.”

Ptolemy almost obeyed; the voice was that certain.

“Who are you?”

“Antoine Church, Mr. Grey. Your nephew, Reginald, applied to the social services office for a doctor for you a while ago. Is Reginald around?”

“Reggie’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Is someone else taking care of you?”

“I don’t need no one to take care’a me. Reggie’s dead and now there’s just me.”

The radio was playing a march and someone on the TV was laughing. Ptolemy pressed his ear against the door.

“I’ve found a doctor who wants to see you, Mr. Grey,” Antoine Church said. “He’s a memory specialist, and he has a grant, so his services are free.”

“I’m not sick. I don’t need no doctor.”

“Let me in, Mr. Grey,” the voice said. “Let me in and we can sit down and talk about it.”

“I don’t wanna talk. Go away and leave me alone.”

There came a spate of silence filled in by electronic babble.

“Mr. Grey?”

“Go on now.”

“I’m putting my card under the door. If Reginald or someone else comes by to help you—”

“Reggie’s dead. Drivebee killed him. Now, you go away.”

Again Ptolemy pressed his ear against the door. There came a soft rustling and then a sigh. After that he heard footsteps going away down the hall.

On the floor at the old man’s feet was a bright white card. Using the wall for support, he leaned down and picked it up. Putting Antoine Church’s business card in his pocket was reflex more than anything else.