Bones (31 page)

Her brows drew together. "But they must have opened it, looked inside. Otherwise, how would they be able to say that the body was my mother's?"

"They did open it, but . . . but they didn't really want a reporter near the grave itself," I said quickly.

A false picture of events, my conscience argued.

True as far as it goes, I argued back, but knew I was on shaky ground.

"The anthropologists made their determinations," I said, "then they lifted the body, plastic and all, and put it inside a body bag."

That much, she seemed to handle okay. But again she asked, "How did they know it was my mother?"

"They aren't positive yet," I said. Seeing her growing skepticism, I added, "But there were other things that make it seem very likely that it was her. Other than the body itself."

Splitting hairs, that nagging voice warned.

"Like what?"

"In the grave, they found a ring that matches the one she wore, and clothing that matched your description of what she had on the day she disappeared."

She sat brooding for a moment, then said calmly, "Well, I guess I'll just have to be patient, then."

"Gillian, I know the past four years have been very hard on you and your family--"

"No, you don't really know, do you?" She said it calmly.

"No," I admitted.

"I've waited four years. I can wait a few more days, or weeks, or however long it takes the cops to give me some answers. Two years ago, a cop tried to tell me to give up, to quit bugging him, to face facts, he said. He said that they'd probably never find her--it was Thompson, the guy who died up there. He was wrong, wasn't he? So, you see, I can wait."

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.

I'm lucky.

** CHAPTER 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?"

"Yes, they lived together," she said, smiling, and seeming relieved that I had finally decided to enter the conversation.

"What didn't Camille understand?" I asked.

"About his work. The amount of time he devotes to it. And--and it gives some people the creeps, I guess. Too bad, really, because . . ." Her voice trailed off, then she said, "I probably shouldn't be talking about his personal life this way."

"I'm not trying to make you tell his secrets," I said. "I'm just concerned about him."

"Of course you are!" she said. "Even though you're a reporter . . . I mean . . ."

She went back to tearing at the cup.

"How long ago did he split up with his fiancee?" I asked.

"Camille? I don't know that it was ever actually an official engagement," she said.

I waited.

"It's been a while now," she said, scooping up the cup fragments and standing up again. "Back at the beginning of last semester--so this past January."

Jack, Frank, and I exchanged looks. "But that's only a few months ago," I said.

She shrugged, then said, "Yes, I guess it is only a few months." She walked to the trash can. When she came back, she stayed standing, staring at the door to Ben's room. She took off her daypack, opened it and took out a thick stack of bluebooks. She held them out to me and said, "Would you please do me a favor and give these to Ben?"

"What are they?"

"Final exams."

"I don't think he's in any condition--"

"Of course not. But--he should decide what he wants to do. I think I'm going to go. Please tell him I came by."

"Wait!" Frank said, as she set them on the table. "Don't you want to see him?"

"Yes," she said, "but while I was sitting here, I think I realized that Ben won't want to see me." She frowned again. "Maybe I should put it this way--he won't want me to see him. Not until he's had a little time to get used to the idea of--he's had a transtibial amputation, right?"

At our puzzled looks, she clarified, "Below the knee."

We nodded in unison, all fairly dumbfounded.

"Well," she went on, "I don't know everything there is to know about Ben, but I do know that he's not crazy about appearing vulnerable, and that he would really hate it if anybody pitied him, but it would make him stark, raving batshit to see someone he teaches pitying him."

More softly, she added, "I feel so sad about David and everything else that happened, and I'm afraid that Ben might mistake that for pity, and the truth is, I'm not sure what I will feel if I actually see Ben lying there hurt, or missing his foot, and so--so I think if you give him these papers to grade, it will help him--because, you know, he can do this without a foot--but I'd better not be here."

And before any of us could recover from hearing this speech, she was gone.

"Because he can do that without a foot?" I asked blankly.

Jack started shaking with silent laughter, and Frank held up a hand to hide a grin, then made a little snorting sound. When I scowled at them, and said I was sure she meant well, Jack laughed harder, wheezing with it, really--and in the way hilarity will strike when you least want it to, we all lost it then.

At that moment, Ben's doctors--a man and a woman--came down the hall to talk to us. We sobered instantly.

"No," the woman said, "don't worry." She was tall, dark-haired, smartly dressed. Both doctors appeared to be in their early fifties. "Laughter helps to let a little of the tension out," she said with a reassuring smile.

They introduced themselves as Greg Riley, Ben's surgeon, and Jo Robinson, a clinical psychologist.

"Have a seat," Dr. Riley said. "Let's talk for a minute."

When we were seated, Dr. Robinson said, "Ben has given us permission to discuss his case with you, but Ms. Kelly, knowing what you do for a living, of course I have to tell you that--"

"I'm not here as a reporter," I said. "Nothing you say to me will end up in the newspaper."

Riley nodded. "I appreciate that. The hospital administrators are going to have my hide if I don't get downstairs and help them conduct a press conference, so I'm going to leave a little of the job I'd normally do to Jo. She's heard everything I've had to say to Ben, and if you have any other questions, call my office--I'm in the book. I'd give you a card, but I don't have one on me at the moment."

For all their efforts to put us at ease, I realized I had tensed up from the moment I saw them. I had to own up to a fear of seeing Ben awake and in this altered state, of reacting in the wrong way, of doing or saying something that would hurt him. What if Ellen Raice had been the smartest one of us all?