Parrish was heavily armed.
As the helicopter landed at St. Anne’s, we were greeted by a team of doctors and nurses, and Tom Cassidy. Frank had asked him to meet us. Cassidy is a master at staying calm in the midst of high pressure, chaotic situations — he’s in charge of the Las Piernas Police Department’s Critical Incident Team. The big Texan’s work ranges from negotiating a hostage’s freedom to talking a potential jumper off a ledge, and his skills were being put to the test that day.
“Everybody’s mad as hellfire at me,” Cassidy drawled, grinning with pride, “but y’all will have a little time to yourselves and the doctors.”
Jack and Travis and Stinger took a dog each — Stinger the only one who could get Bingle to leave Ben — and met with Travis’s lawyer, who had helped us on previous occasions. Between his efforts and those of Cassidy, it looked as if no one was going to face charges, or receive department reprimands, or lose a job or a pilot’s license.
J.C. and Frank were the first to spend time answering questions from the D.A. and the police. I got my turn, as Cassidy stood unofficial guard over me. I found myself answering as if from a distance, perhaps not always coherently. I tired quickly, and Cassidy shooed the others away.
He had to leave soon after — he was busy coordinating crisis efforts that extended further than I could have imagined at that moment.
I asked the doctor who was looking at my various scrapes and bruises about Ben. He hesitated, then said, “He’s been taken into surgery. The leg is severely damaged and infected. We’re going to give him antibiotics, but—”
“What sort of antibiotics?” I asked.
“A combination of cephalosporin — you might have taken it at one time or another as Keflex—”
“Keflex,” I interrupted, turning pale. “Keflex? That might make a difference?”
“Yes, at a high dosage,” he said, studying me. “Are you feeling faint?”
“A little,” I admitted.
I wanted to go home, but the doctor asked me to stick around for a few hours because I was suffering from dehydration. I was placed in a bed, given an IV and a light meal, and fell quickly asleep.
I awakened a couple of hours later to see Mark Baker and John Walters standing near my bed. Mark is an old friend and the crime reporter for the
A nurse tried to usher them out, but I told her it was all right, that I’d talk to them for a while.
After a few expressions of concern, which for all my exhaustion, I didn’t take too seriously, John said, “You know why we’re here.”
“You want the story.”
“You see?” he said to Mark, “I told you she’s a pro.” He turned back to me. “I figured you wouldn’t mind Mark writing it up — this first one, anyway — you’ll definitely get on the by-line, but Mark’s already been doing a lot of work on it, so—”
“I don’t mind,” I said dully.
“You come in tomorrow — catch up on your sleep, but come in by, say, eleven.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I am,” John said forcefully. “You don’t need me to tell you how big this story is — and you were right in the middle of it. Your buddy Cassidy has already cordoned off your street, which hasn’t stopped five big TV crews setting up their trailers at the end of the block. Your neighbors are complaining about helicopter news crews buzzing the area. You
I didn’t bother arguing with him. I understood that nothing — my sanity least of all — was more important to him than that story. That’s the problem with the news. It won’t wait.
So Mark wrote notes and asked questions, but soon my mind was wandering. Mark kept glancing at John.
“You aren’t making a hell of a lot of sense,” John finally complained.
“No. Shouldn’t Morry be here?” I asked. Morry was acting news editor.
“While you were gone, he left the paper. So I’m wearing both hats for the moment.”
Under other circumstances, this announcement would have startled me, and led to dozens of questions of my own. But I just yawned and said, “Oh.”
The two men exchanged looks again.
Mark started to ask about the men who had died. But every time I said much more than their names, I seemed to forget what I was talking about. Again and again, I heard the explosion, saw bits of flesh and bone scattered everywhere, smelled blood and smoke and earth.
As vivid as these images were to me, I couldn’t speak of them to Mark and John. It was as if there were some blockade between my mind and my mouth simply could not form the words to carry such things. And soon, my mind learned to jump from the image Mark wanted to talk about to something else, such as what the sky had looked like when I sat among the boulders, how my homemade spear had felt in my hand, how cool the water in the stream was.
Mark asked, “How did Parrish get the gun away from his guards?”
“Merrick and Manton,” I said.
“Yes, did you see him shoot them?”
There was a silence.
“Do you think I’ll get
