And worse, to think such thoughts while I sat next to a young woman whose mother had been murdered, tortured hideously by the man who had let me go. Christ, what a jerk I was to be calling that luck! Gillian must have wondered why — why her mother was dead and I was still alive. I had no children waiting for me to return. I looked down at the table, unable to meet her eyes.
She was silent for a moment, then said, “I was hoping you could tell me about finding my mother.”
Instantly, I was staring at an uncovered, decaying corpse. Its smell filled the room.
“Irene?”
The tabletop came back into view. The room smelled of lemon furniture polish, and nothing worse. I drew a deep breath, then told Gillian a highly sanitized version of events up to the moment Bingle found the grave. I could not bring myself to talk about the coyote tree or the process of uncovering the grave itself.
She listened quietly, without comment, then said, “Was she . . . was the body . . . you know . . . just bones?”
Oh, Christ.
“No,” I said unsteadily. I swallowed hard and forged ahead. “Apparently, she was buried not long after she died.”
“But I’ve heard that animals sometimes—”
“No,” I interrupted sharply. Forcing myself to speak in more even tones, I said, “No animals damaged the body.”
“I know it sounds gross and weird to even be asking,” she said, “but they haven’t released her body to us yet, so — so I can’t really deal with it. Do you know what I mean? I keep thinking about her being up there, and wondering what he did to her, but no one will tell me. Do you know?”
The Polaroids in the bag.
The hot wax. Julia’s face twisted in torment, her mouth open on a scream.
I couldn’t breathe. “Excuse me,” I managed to say. “It’s stuffy in here. I just need to open the door.”
“I need someone to be honest with me,” she said to my back, as I stood at the door, leaning on its frame, trying to get enough air. Her voice was as close to pleading as I had ever heard it. “I have to know. All along, you’ve been honest with me. You know the truth, don’t you?”
I knew exactly. But damned if I was going to tell a child — even one who was now an adult child — what I had seen in those photos. I’d lie. She might think she wanted the truth, but she wasn’t ready for it. No one was ready for that kind of truth.
It would be inhumane to hit her with all the brutal facts of the matter. That wasn’t my job. Not even as a reporter. Newspapers of good repute didn’t publish gruesome accident photos, or recount every gory detail of a murderer’s work. One showed a certain amount of respect for the dead and their families.
Respect for the dead.
Julia Sayre — would you want me to tell her? This daughter of yours, who for four years has crucified herself over a flip remark? “I wish you were dead.” Any details I gave her would only add to her guilt.
I turned to face her, saw her waiting for my answer.
Could I lie to her?
“The police and forensic scientists will know more about what happened to her after they’ve had a chance to study her remains,” I began.
“But you saw the body,” she insisted.
“It was wrapped in plastic,” I said.
“Oh.” She thought for a moment, then said, “But plastic — could you see—?”
“Nothing. It was dark green — completely opaque.”
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.
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.