She started to leave, then turned back toward me. “I’m not angry with you, you know. I’m glad you’re writing about this. That’s the main thing. Maybe people will realize that when someone goes missing, it’s important to find out what happened. My mother’s death was important. You have to make everybody know that.”
I slowly made my way upstairs. Frank looked up from his book and said, “Jack just called. They’re starting to allow Ben to have visitors. Do you want to go over there?”
Ben. That’s who I needed to concentrate on now. The living, not the dead. “Yes, I just need to clear off my desk.”
He gently lifted my chin and studied my face. “Don’t push yourself too hard right now, okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, pulling back.
32
SATURDAY, EARLY EVENING, MAY 20
Las Piernas
The walk to the hospital wasn’t a long one, but it did me some good; my muscles had grown a little stiff and sore, and I was glad for the chance to stretch. We walked in companionable silence, but caused a commotion when we neared the hospital lobby, for which I was sorry.
There was a group of reporters standing just outside the hospital, smoking. One of the smokers recognized me, and she tried to quickly make her way over to us before the others saw our arrival. No luck. Rarely can one reporter move off from a group of other reporters without being seen. Anyone who has ever dropped a bag of popcorn near a flock of pigeons might have some idea of what this is like — you are not going to feed just one bird.
We made it into the lobby slightly ahead of our unwelcome entourage, only to run into a slightly larger group — restless people who had grown tired of waiting in the large room the hospital had set up for the press, and who were no doubt devising plans to get up to Ben’s room or, failing that, a chance to talk to his nurses, an orderly, or anyone who might have glimpsed him after his arrival there.
With no respect for nearby patients or their families, they started shouting questions at me, hurrying nearer.
Frank shielded me from the pushier ones, and fortunately, he was recognized by the officers who were providing the first line of security. We got through with only a little jostling, then made it into an elevator without much more trouble.
On Ben’s floor, there were guards posted outside the elevator, and along the hallways. I had seen them the night before, but I didn’t feel especially comforted by their vigilance. I realized that in some part of my mind I was now convinced that no guards would ever be able to stop Parrish — he was some combination of Houdini and the Terminator. He had escaped, and would be back. Not everyone in local law enforcement believed that Parrish would return to Las Piernas — most seemed to think that he would seek refuge where he was less well known — but there seemed to be universal agreement that Ben needed protection from the press.
Jack sat on one of a group of chairs near the nurses’ station, reading a travel magazine. He looked up as we arrived, tossed the magazine down on the low glass table in front of him and invited us to have a seat. “There are a couple of doctors in with him now,” he said.
There were a water fountain and some foam cups nearby. Frank, keeping in mind the orders I received from the doctors about fluid intake, filled a couple of cups and brought them back. “See if you can drink me under the table,” he said.
We heard the bell of the elevator and saw a young woman step out. She looked as if she was in her early twenties. She was of medium height, slender and tanned, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were dark brown, and she had short, straight blond hair. She was wearing jeans and carried a blue canvas daypack on her back. She spoke to the officer at the elevator, apparently identifying herself to him. She turned and studied us for a moment, frowning, then went to the nurses’ desk. There was a solemnity in her that made me wonder if one of her relatives was being cared for on this floor. Then I heard her clearly say the name “Ben Sheridan.”
The three of us glanced at one another, then watched as the nurse nodded toward us.
The woman hesitated, then walked over to where we sat. “The nurse tells me you’re waiting to see Dr. Sheridan.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Would you like to wait with us?”
She blushed and said, “Thank you. I’m Ellen Raice. I’m one of Dr. Sheridan’s teaching assistants.”
We introduced ourselves and she said, “Oh. You were there — I mean, you rescued—”
“We were there,” I said, looking down at my hands.
We fell into an awkward silence. She looked from the floor to the ceiling to the table, hummed to herself, drummed her hands on her thighs for a few minutes, then stood up and got a cup of water.
When she came back, Jack and Frank began to make small talk with her; she told them that she had known Ben for six years.
“I took a physical anthropology class from him — physical, not cultural — you know the difference? I took the class just to meet a general ed requirement,” she said, tearing little chunks off the lip of the now-empty foam cup. “Before the first midterm, I changed my major. A lot of his students end up doing that — maybe not so quickly,” she added, blushing, then rushed on. “He’s a fantastic teacher. The two best teachers in the whole department are Ben and David Niles—” She stopped, drew in a sharp breath, set the cup down, and pressed her fingers to her eyes. She murmured, “Excuse me,” and stood up and paced.
She apparently won her struggle not to cry. When she decided to sit down again, Jack asked, “Do you know who Ben’s other friends are?”
She frowned, then said, “He has some friends at other universities. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of time for a social life. He — everybody thought he was going to get married, but it didn’t work out — I don’t think Camille really understood, you know.”
“Camille?” I repeated, remembering that Ben had spoken this name during his delirium. “Her name was Camille?”
