they walked, a hundred little things and yet no one thing in particular.
As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a soft knock on the door, and Kathy's face appeared between the parted curtains in the hall outside.
'Come in!' Lee called, and struggled to sit up in bed. The effort caused a wave of dizziness.
Kathy entered the room and sat on the chair Chuck had vacated. She put a hand on Lee's arm. Her fingers were cool and soft.
'How are you feeling?'
'Not bad. Hungry.'
'That's a good sign.' He could tell she was trying to camouflage any concern she felt, so as not to frighten him.
'I'm going to be fine,' he said.
'I never doubted it for a minute,' she replied too quickly. 'Oh, I brought you a proper suitcase,' she said, holding up a leather satchel. 'For when you come home. It's a girl thing,' she added with a laugh. 'We love shoes and suitcases-very Freudian, right?'
'Right,' he agreed. Just having her in the room cheered him up.
'Oh, and I also brought you something even more useless,' she added, digging through a tan rattan shoulder bag on her lap.
He watched her, noting the familiar renegade curl of dark hair falling over her eyes. The mystery of desire was part of the greater mystery that Lee had come very close to during his descent into depression. In the midst of damnation, he had sensed the possibility of salvation. And maybe this was why he felt he could relate to the tortured soul of this young killer, caught as he was in the cycle of damnation. There were no maps showing the way through the dark thicket Lee had found himself in. But he had learned that salvation and damnation were very close, the line separating them thin as the band of winter twilight separating earth and sky.
'Here it is,' Kathy cried triumphantly, pulling a dog-eared piece of newspaper from her bag. 'This week's Tuesday crossword puzzle in the Times is all about forensic science. I thought maybe we could do it together.'
'Okay,' he said. 'I'm not that good at crossword puzzles. I don't do them often enough. My mother's a real whiz. Does double crostics.'
'Well, this is only Tuesday's puzzle, so it shouldn't be too hard.'
'Good.'
She handed it to him, and he studied it. The title was 'Criminology.' He looked at the first clue: 'FBI Profiling guru.' There were seven spaces. 'Ressler,' he said. 'Robert Ressler. Or it could be Douglas-John Douglas.'
'You bite your left lower lip when you're concentrating,' she said. 'Did you know that?'
He looked up. 'I never thought much about it. Here,' he said, handing the newspaper back to her. She took it, but let it fall in her lap.
'Oh, hell,' she said. 'Damn.'
'What? What's wrong?'
'Damn.'
'What? What is it?'
She tossed the newspaper on the bed in a gesture of surrender. 'I'm in love with you.'
A laugh burst from his throat, taking him by surprise. She cocked her head to one side and raised her right eyebrow.
'That's funny?'
'Well, it was the way you said it.'
She smiled only on one side-it was her rueful look, the nearest expression she had to looking apologetic.
'Maybe you just feel sorry for me,' he suggested.
'I didn't mean anything by it, really. It's just that-well, I wasn't planning on it right now.' She looked irritated, but her voice was soft.
He laughed again. It felt good, like something inside him was unfreezing. 'Sorry to upset your plans.'
'You don't laugh very often, you know.'
'I know. I used to-before.'
'Oh. Right.' Her face went slack, then assumed a holding pattern, as if she wasn't sure what the proper expression was.
'I guess it means I'm feeling better,' he said, then winced at how much the tone of forced cheer reminded him of his mother. God, get a grip, Campbell.
'Are you?' she asked. 'Feeling better, I mean?'
'Yes, much.' He looked around the room. 'It's weird to be back here again. I haven't been here since-'
'Right. Is that-uh, is that better?'
'That? Yes. I mean, it comes and goes at times, but mostly I'm better.'
She smiled. 'Oh, good. I've never had…that'-(funny how both of them were reluctant to say the word 'depression')-'but I've had friends who did. I didn't realize how bad it was until one of them committed suicide.'
Lee swallowed once, hard. 'How did she-' he began, then realized he didn't want to hear the answer.
'He, actually. Carbon monoxide. Sat in his car in the garage with the engine on. His mother found him.'
'How old were you?'
'It was a few years after college.'
'Close friend?'
'Close enough that I asked myself for years afterward what I could have done or said to change things. I didn't even know he was depressed-we'd sort of lost touch, I guess. I found out from mutual friends.'
'I'm sorry.'
She looked out the window and put her right forefinger to her forehead. 'I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm sorry-after what you've been through.'
'Well, I am a trained psychologist,' he said. 'If people can't talk to me, who can they talk to?'
She smiled at his attempt to lighten the conversation.
'What I learned from that was how…irreplaceable everyone is. Once you lose someone, that's it. There's really no replacing them.'
'That's true. I just never thought of it exactly that way.'
Chuck returned with hamburgers from the coffee shop next door. Lee thought he saw a flicker of irritation on his friend's face when he saw Kathy.
'Hi,' Chuck said, 'nice to see you again.'
'Yes,' Kathy replied. 'Good to see you too.'
Fortunately, Chuck had bought three hamburgers, so they each had one. Lee liked the way Kathy ate, with a hearty, unself-conscious appetite. But as soon as they had finished, Dr. Patel appeared, wagging his stethoscope at them.
'Time to rest,' he said sternly, herding Chuck and Kathy out of the room.
'Does he ever sleep?' Kathy whispered to Lee as she kissed him good-bye.
'He's a resident,' he whispered back. 'They never sleep.'
Dr. Patel did one more quick check of Lee's blood pressure and pulse, nodded grimly, muttered something to himself, made a notation on the chart at the foot of the bed, and left the room. Lee lay back on the pillow, feeling an odd sense of contentment. Sleep dragged at his eyelids, and he sank into its dark and welcoming arms.
Chapter Fifty-seven
The church was vast and empty, its dark marbled interior cold as the grave. A chill wind swept over Lee as he walked down the long corridor toward the altar. The pews were empty, but he could hear whispering, tongues slithering over consonants like so many snakes. The click of his heels on the hard stone floors was like a rhythm track underneath the wall of whispering. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but felt that they were talking about him in the dimly lit chapel, illuminated only by flickering votive candles lining the walls. He strained to
