“Now you get to read about us,” North said, handing him the paper. “We made page one.”
Three patients escaped from the male floor of United General Psychiatric Hospital yesterday. Names are being withheld to spare the feelings of their relations, but Dr. Jonathan Pille, a hospital official, describes one as dangerous. “He is a male Caucasian of medium height,” Dr. Pille told this reporter. “With receding dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a black mustache. We were treating him with electric shock and lithium, and we felt we were making progress. He was transferred from the Violent Ward to our General Treatment Facility ten days ago, but without treatment he is liable to relapse.”
The second is said to be a short, slightly built man of forty-five, almost totally bald. He is reported to have an ingratiating manner, and to be capable of appearing fully sane for extended periods. He is not thought dangerous, but should be confined for his own safety.
The third is young, below medium height, with curling brown hair and brown eyes. He is reported to be friendly with the patient above, and it is believed they may be together.
The present episode is the only instance of escape from United General in the current decade. Security measures are being tightened.
North said, “Not a word about her, you notice? They’re afraid they’ll make them quit using nurses on the men’s floor.”
“The nurse who helped you? Maybe they don’t know about her.”
“Sure they do, if they’ve got any brains. Whose car was gone? Whose—” North bit off the sentence, struck by an idea. “That’s Eddie Walsh. It’s got to be.”
“He wasn’t with us.”
North grinned. “But we left the door unlocked. Remember Door C? That was always locked. The guys had him up on their shoulders when we went out, and he must have seen us. Eddie’s one sharp little bastard.”
“He didn’t have any street clothes. My God, he must have frozen to death.”
“He took his chances just like we did.”
If North said anything more, he did not hear it. He saw his mother’s face and heard his mother’s voice, the face and voice as each had been toward the end, when they were about to lose the house:
“They don’t carry much in the way of ID here,” North said. “According to what he tells me, a driver’s license will get you just about anywhere. Here’s yours.”
A square of stiff paper sailed through the air and landed in his lap. It seemed to him that a driver’s license should be cased in plastic and carry a picture; this looked more like an elaborate theater ticket, although a name was printed on it (as if he himself were the show tonight) and there was a space for his signature.
North said, “I’m going to take a shower and change. You too, if you want to. Then we’ve got things to do.”
He nodded, still seeing his mother’s face, her face as it had perhaps been when she was much younger, on the television screen. Or Lara’s. The woman turned and was only an actress who presented her back to him while the camera peered over her shoulder at the handsome, vapid man she spoke to. His mother had been Lara, he felt—Lara in a way that fluttered off when he tried to grasp it. Not quite the Lara who had lived with him, yet they were both …
He shook his head. Was it possible to catch insanity like measles? What was it anyway? Was anyone who denied the facts insane, like poor Eddie Walsh? He shook his head once more and picked up the paper, a tonic for the madness that threatened to drown him:
Eddie Walsh’s features threw him a cocky challenge from the sports section.
Popular pugilist Joe Joseph has concluded an agreement to fight World Heavyweight Champion “Sailor” Sawyer, Joseph’s manager, Edward E. Walsh, announced today. “Joe’s already the champ,” Walsh cracked. “He’s just going to defend his title.” A date for the bout has not yet been announced, but under the terms of the agreement it must be held within the year.
Joseph has scored convincing victories in his last five outings, KOing Ben MacDonald in the third last night. The match with Sawyer will be his first appearance in a main event. Walsh, who has been hospitalized with a stomach complaint, is returning to his post to ready Joseph for the big fight.
He dropped the paper. Poor Eddie—they would find him now. Even doctors read the sports. He tried to remember the Oriental doctor’s name but could think only of Sheng; the elderly Chinese had sold patent medicines in his little curio shop. Would it be possible to call Walsh and warn him? Surely he had already seen the story in the newspaper, yet a warning might do some good.
There was a thick gray-and-yellow directory under the stand between the beds, but no Walsh, Edward E., was listed there. He tried to remember the name of Walsh’s company, the company that Walsh had named when they had first met. Walsh Promotions, that was it—and there it was in heavy, black type a little way down the column. He dialed the number.
No twittering voices this time. The telephone (he imagined a dingy little office two flights up in a brick building near a gym) rang twice, and a marvelously familiar voice said, “Hello?”
“Lara!”
“Yes, this is Laura. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Lara, it’s me.”
“I think you probably have the wrong number, sir,” Lara said cautiously. “This is Walsh Promotions. I’m Laura
