Lee told him the story of Eddie's involvement in the case.

"So he was the one who led you to that homeless guy?"

"Right."

Chuck got up from his chair and came around to lean on the front of the desk. "And you think he was pushed? Couldn't he have tripped and fallen? It happens, you know."

"No," Lee interrupted. "Eddie was afraid of subway trains. He would never have been waiting so close to the tracks."

"And suicide is out because he'd just won all this money."

"Right. Not only that, but I think the name of the horse he bet on is a clue."

"A clue to what?"

"To what he was going to tell me."

"So what are we going to do about it?"

"Well, the first thing you can do is to add another name to your list of victims when we catch this son of a bitch."

"Yeah-right."

"Look, Chuck, I could be wrong, but I don't think so. And if we can find out what Eddie knew, we could be that much closer to catching this guy."

Chuck rubbed his immaculately shaved chin. "Maybe he didn't know anything. Maybe this guy was just trying to send you a message by killing your friend."

"I thought of that, but I don't think so."

"He's one sick bastard." Chuck laid a hand on Lee's shoulder. "You sleep last night?"

"Not much."

"Look, I want to catch him just as much as you do," Chuck said. "Now, why don't you go home and get some rest? You look awful. Come back this afternoon, and we'll have a meeting with everyone. I'll call you if I find out anything-I promise."

As usual, Chuck was right. Lee was too tired to function, having been up half the night trying to unravel the mystery of what Eddie might have known. He went home, took a Xanax, and fell into a dead sleep.

He awoke to the wail of a car alarm in the street outside. The sound pierced his head and jolted his entire body into a state of alert. His stomach ground and twisted, and he felt the old, familiar warning signs of an attack. His head began to swim, as his mind began to cloud up, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. For days now he had awakened with his stomach clenched hard as a fist, a tight knot of tension that dissipated only gradually as the day wore on. His head was pounding, and his neck was sore, oddly stiff, as if he had pulled a muscle or something.

Stop this, he told himself. He tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing as he opened he eyes and saw the calendar on the wall above his bed. March fifteenth. Beware the Ides of March Beware the Ides of March. It was exactly five years since his sister had disappeared, slipping silently away from the world of the living like a drowning swimmer sinking into the recesses of the deep-blue ocean waves, leaving no trace behind.

She must have left some some trace-they just hadn't been able to find it yet, he told himself, but they would, they trace-they just hadn't been able to find it yet, he told himself, but they would, they had to had to-he needed to believe that. And yet, with every passing anniversary, the hope receded a little more.

The front door buzzer rang. Lee threw the covers off his body and sprang out of bed. His neck was so stiff he could hardly move his head. A wave of nausea rose up from his stomach as he headed for the door. Then he felt the blackness descend as he crossed the bedroom into the living room. He managed to call out, "Who is it?"

He heard the response as if in a dream.

"It's Butts."

But then the blackness draped itself over him, enveloping him like the wings of a great dark bird, bringing him to his knees. He struggled feebly toward consciousness, then surrendered to the pull of oblivion.

Chapter Fifty-five

He awoke to the sound of muffled, far-off voices. The air smelled of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented disinfectant. He could hear the low whirr of machinery, and footsteps sounded in the hall outside-the faint sucking sound of rubber soles on polished floors, the sharper click of leather heels, mingling with the rattle of carts being rolled along, and the occasional burst of laughter. Further down the hall, a phone rang insistently.

Even with his eyes closed, Lee knew that he was in a hospital. He postponed the moment of returning fully to consciousness, knowing that when he did, he would have to interact with the people attached to the voices all around him.

Meanwhile, footsteps came and went. The jumble of voices and machinery hovered in the halls. Lying in a state of semi-consciousness, eyes closed, he could distinguish between the steps of the visitors-clipped, quick leather shoes-and the soft, rubber-soled sound of the nurses as they moved from room to room, checking charts, dispensing drugs, taking temperatures.

He had the odd sensation that something was sitting on his chest. A large animal-a bear, perhaps. Yes, that was it-a bear was sitting on his chest. He wanted to ask the bear to move, and moved his lips to form the words, but he couldn't make any sound come out.

Bits of conversation drifted down the hall: "...excellent dental plan...she's a nice girl...you want something from the cafeteria?"

Some pieces of conversation didn't make much sense. "...number of Jews in Madison, Wisconsin." He tried to figure out why someone would be talking about the number of Jews in Wisconsin.

He focused on the bear again. It was just sitting there, draped over him, its paws on his shoulders. He didn't mind it being there, except that it was so heavy. He wanted to say something to the bear, but he couldn't move his mouth or even open his eyes. He could smell its fur-a damp, musty aroma like rotting logs and summer mushrooms-and he could feel its warm breath on his cheek. He felt the bear wished him well, that it was there to protect him in some way.

His own experience with bears was minimal. He had seen them in the wild only twice, once through a canopy of leaves too thick to make out anything other than a bulky, dark brown shape. The other time, the bear stared at him across a stream with eyes so wary and watchful that it was hard to resist anthropomorphizing the animal. He remembered feeling as though the creature was studying him with an almost human intelligence-that it was seeing into into him-but he dismissed the thought as fanciful. him-but he dismissed the thought as fanciful.

He tried to raise his arms to push the bear away, but he wasn't able to move them. He fought to open his eyes, but the effort was enormous-something kept pulling him back down into unconsciousness. He finally managed to open his eyes a little bit, but all he could see was a large white blur. The blur moved, and he realized it was the bear. He was surprised that the bear was white...a polar bear, maybe? But what would one be doing so far south? He was puzzling over the question when the bear spoke.

"How are you feeling?"

The voice was deep and resonant, just what you might expect from a bear. It sounded British. Were there bears in England? He tried to concentrate, to focus his thoughts. He tried to answer, but all that came out was a hoarse croaking sound, like the scraping of metal over concrete.

He tried again. This time his voice responded: "I'm okay...thanks." He wrenched himself away from the pull of sleep and opened his eyes. The bear came into focus, and to his surprise, it was wearing a white lab coat. A crooked blue and white plastic label on the lapel of the coat read: DR. PATEL.

"I'm glad you're back with us," said Dr. Patel.

Still confused, Lee looked around the room for the bear. Where had it gone?

Dr. Patel spoke again. "Mr. Campbell?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know where you are?"

Lee didn't answer at first. He was busy sorting out this new information. So Dr. Patel was the bear after all. Or, rather, there was was no bear; he had just thought there was-but why? The effect of drugs, maybe? no bear; he had just thought there was-but why? The effect of drugs, maybe?

"What did you give me?" he asked, his voice groggy.

"I'll be glad to review your chart with you later," Dr. Patel replied. "Do you know where you are?"

Lee looked around the room, and was struck by its familiarity. The pasty yellow walls had ancient stains showing through successive coats of paint like old scuffs on hastily polished shoes, and the crookedly hung landscape prints were bland reproductions of obscure paintings.

He realized he was back in St. Vincent's. What he didn't know was whether it was the psych ward or not.

He squinted up at the doctor's face. "St. Vincent's."

Dr. Patel's face brightened.

"Good," he said, like a teacher bestowing praise upon a promising student. "Very good."

Lee felt pleased with himself, and sank back into oblivion.

When he awoke again the light outside his window had faded into a twilight gray, and the blinds had been partially drawn. A suspended plastic bag dripped clear fluid into an IV line in his left arm. To his great relief, his right arm was unencumbered. He cleared his throat, startling the young nurse who was studying his chart at the foot of his bed. She let go of the chart and looked down at him. Her eyes were honey colored, just a shade lighter than her hair, which was the color of winter wheat, and very straight. It was pulled into an untidy ponytail fastened at the nape of her neck. She was very young, with a pointed chin and a sweet, heart-shaped face. The sound of his voice had startled her, but she tried to cover her surprise with a professional manner.

"Mr. Campbell, you're awake." She looked at him as if that were impossible. "How do you feel?"

"Well, let's see. Sort of like I've been run over by a large vehicle, then thrown down several flights of stairs, and finally, been used as a punching bag." His neck was so stiff he couldn't move his head, and his whole body felt heavy and exhausted. "Is this the psych ward?"

She looked puzzled. "No, of course not."

Relief flooded over him like rainwater. "Good. That's good. So what's wrong with me?"

The young nurse lowered her eyes. "I'd better let the doctor explain that to you."

"Okay, can I see him-or her?"

The whole conversation seemed to take place underwater-dreamlike, through a dim haze. The nurse looked at him wistfully and walked out into the hall. Her expression puzzled Lee-was he really that sick, or was he misreading something else for pity? He sank back into sheets smelling faintly of bleach and closed his eyes. He dreamed of swimming in the indoor pool at his high school, where the aroma of Clorox pervaded the air.

When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Patel was standing beside his bed. He wore the same crooked name tag, and he looked tired. He had a dolorous, basset hound face with sad dark eyes and a sagging jaw line. His skin was very dark, and his heavy lips had a bluish tinge.

"Do you know why you are here, Mr. Campbell?" he asked. His voice was very British, very correct, with only a graceful twist of his r r's and slight roundness of vowels to suggest his Indian origins.

"I'm sick?"

"What can you remember?"

Lee tried to think, but all he could recall was being at home. There was some bad news, very bad news. He remembered hearing Butts's voice outside his door, then falling-sinking?-to his knees on the living room rug.

"Eddie," he said.

Dr. Patel looked puzzled. "Eddie? Who's that?"

"I think I can help you, Doctor," said a familiar voice behind Patel.

Nelson stepped forward into view. He didn't look good. His blue eyes were rimmed with deep purple circles underneath them, and his skin was mottled and dull looking. He looked exhausted.

"You gave us bit of a scare, lad," he said, leaning over the bed. The smell of alcohol oozed from his pores.

"So who is Eddie?" Dr. Patel demanded, his voice petulant.

"He was a good friend who died," Nelson answered.

Dr. Patel reached for Lee's wrist to take his pulse. He looked overworked and impatient, but held his personal feelings in check behind a firm professional facade.

"Are you my doctor?" Lee asked.

"I'm Dr. Patel, your neurologist."

"Neurologist?"

"You have an infection of the brain," Dr. Patel continued. "For a while it was touch and go, but we believe we now have it under control."

The first thing Lee felt was relief. It wasn't depression It wasn't depression-an infection he could handle. He looked up at Nelson, and he wanted to tell him not to worry, that this was far better than mental illness, but he couldn't think of how to communicate that.

He caught the nurse looking at him again as she fiddled with an IV line. Was that longing in her eyes, or just compassion?

"We're treating you with a series of wide-spectrum antibiotics," the doctor continued, "and so far you've been responding well. How do you feel?"

Like my head has been used as a paperweight, Lee wanted to say, but he just shrugged.

"Fine."

Nelson snorted. "Okay, how do you really feel?"

"Not bad," Lee lied. The truth was that no matter how much his head throbbed, no matter how weak and confused he felt, it was better than those endless, mind-numbing days of depression, when his soul felt as if it were on fire, and consciousness itself was an unbearable burden.

"How's the investigation going? What have I missed?"

"Very well, that's enough for now," Dr. Patel intervened. "You mustn't wear yourself out."

"How long have I been here?" said Lee.

Nelson and Patel exchanged a glance.

"How long?" Lee demanded.

Finally Nelson spoke.

"Three days."

"Three days? What the hell was going on for three days?" What the hell was going on for three days?"

"You collapsed in your apartment three days ago with a cero-spinal meningitis," Patel said, his voice very clipped and brisk.