“J.C.? What’s the matter, man?”
One of the pilots.
“Just needed some air,” he said, not too steadily.
“Come inside,” the pilot coaxed.
J.C. stared out into the rain.
“Come on inside, man.” The pilot paused, then added, “They’ll be okay. Just camping out in the rain. We’ll pick them up first thing tomorrow. Come on in — nothing you can do tonight.”
He followed the pilot in, ignoring the uneasy glances the others exchanged. He made his way to his closet and took out another set of clothes. He went into the bathroom and stripped to take a shower. His third one tonight, and the others were probably already talking about it, but he didn’t give a shit. He could still smell the stink of that body on him and he needed to get clean.
He scrubbed until his skin was raw, let the water beat down on him, rinsed his mouth, his nose. He stood there letting the sound and feel of the water drown out everything else, until it just got too cold to stand it any longer. He toweled off and changed clothes again, then stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t know the man who stared back at him, even though he recognized the face.
He didn’t want to go to sleep. Not with this shit running around in his head. He was spooked when he was wide awake — what the fuck would happen in his dreams?
Yes, he would get help.
But until then, what the hell could he do?
22
FRIDAY, MAY 19, 2:00 A.M.
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
“David, tell those two they can’t work in here without masks,” he said.
He had said something before that. The sound of his voice had awakened me before I could make out what it was.
“Ben?” I asked in the darkness.
“Oh, good — you’re here,” he said.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said.
“Can’t something be done about the heat in this place?”
“In the tent?”
“The air-conditioning — we’ll lose the computers.”
“Ben, it’s Irene,” I said, sitting up. “Wake up, Ben.”
He didn’t answer. I had just decided that my voice had stirred him from his nightmare, allowed him to sleep more peacefully, when he said, “Need a postmortem dental.”
Bingle, I soon realized, was sitting up, too. I scooted closer to Ben, reached over to try to rouse him. He had moved around in his sleep, and had pushed the upper sleeping bag off. Patting carefully around the tent, my hand found his hand — hot and dry.
“Note the development of the muscle attachment areas on this long bone,” he said. “This fellow might have been a southpaw.”
He was burning up. I risked using the flashlight, praying that Parrish wasn’t outside watching for it, that the rain was keeping him in for the night. I took in Ben’s glazed look, the sheen of perspiration that covered him. I found water and a neckerchief and the Keflex. Berating myself for not giving him more of the drug from the start, I managed to get his attention long enough to give him four of the pills now. How much would be dangerous?
I dampened the cloth and began the work of trying to cool him down.
“Camille?” he asked, frowning as he looked at me.
“Not even Garbo,” I said. “No deathbeds in this tent, understand? You fight this, Ben. Stay with me.”
“It’s so hot,” he said, pushing the sleeping bag lower. He remained restless, and his ramblings became less coherent. He would lie quietly, then suddenly shout something, often making me jump. Before long, he began thrashing around and I soon became worried that he’d reopen the bullet wound or worse if I didn’t get the fever down.
I opened the tent and went outside long enough to gather some water from the rain catcher; it was nearly full. I managed to get him to drink some of it, and to give him some aspirin. I didn’t have much faith that the aspirin would help at this point, but I wasn’t going to pass up a chance that it might lower his fever.
Ben seemed calmer when he heard my voice, so I talked to him as I worked. I took the sleeping bag off him, and when I saw him tearing at his shirt, unbuttoned it and helped him take it off, running cool cloths over his skin. Eventually I cut his pants off, too, afraid that his occasional delirious efforts to pull them off would do more harm to his injured leg. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind keeping his briefs on.
I kept on talking, kept changing the cloths. It seemed to me that he was feeling cooler, but I couldn’t be certain — my hands were beginning to feel numb from the cold rainwater.
“Thirsty,” I heard him say, in not much more than a whisper. One look at his face told me that he was no longer out of his senses — but he was in pain.
I propped his head up, gave him more Keflex, and let him drink from the water bottle as long as he could.
“Thanks,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Do you want some more aspirin? I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
