DESPITE THE TANGLE OF TUBES and wires attached to him, Eddie Garcia looked better than he had in the ER fourteen hours before. His nausea and diarrhea had subsided, and ordinary fatigue had replaced panic as the predominant look on his face.
“You look pretty good,” I said. “You sure it wasn’t just something you ate?” Miranda elbowed me by way of a reprimand, then reached out and gave Garcia’s arm a squeeze. I felt a flash of panic when she did that—could that increase her exposure?—then I remembered the scene with the fearful ER nurse, and I felt ashamed. Garcia wasn’t contaminated or dangerous, I reminded myself; just exposed and endangered. Amazing, I thought, how easily fear trumps logic. I introduced Thornton, who shook hands with Garcia and then whipped out copies of the handy pocket guide for him and Miranda.
“Swell,” said Miranda. “Now I feel better.” Thornton glanced at me, but I just smiled. Apparently most people didn’t react to the pamphlet with the same pessimism Miranda and I had shown. She fluttered her fingers in the general direction of Garcia’s attachments. “What are all these things they’ve fastened to you since we were here a few hours ago?”
“The wires are EKG leads so they can monitor my heart,” he said. “One of the drips is saline and electrolytes, to replace what I’ve been losing from both ends. I have a line they can tap for blood without sticking me every time. So far, I’ve managed to fend off the nurse with the urinary catheter.”
“Pick your battles,” I said. “As good as you look, Eddie, I bet you’ll be out of here by this time tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “Appearances are deceiving with radiation sickness,” he said. “And you heard Dr. Sorensen; once the symptoms disappear, it’s just a matter of time before they come back with a vengeance. Sorensen’s seen a lot of cases of radiation sickness; if he’s worried about me, I’m in trouble.” I winced at his unsparing realism, though I admired the courage it took to face his situation squarely.
Miranda wheeled to face Thornton. “Who would have done this, and for God’s sake, why? It makes no sense. Why not just shoot the old guy, or strangle him? Why not just let him die of old age?” Her voice shook with anger and sorrow.
“Our people in Behavioral Sciences—the profilers—are asking exactly those questions now.” He looked as if he were about to add something, then changed his mind and kept quiet.
Miranda saw the hesitation, and she pounced. “What?”
“Nothing, really,” he said. “It’s just…you know the riddle of the albatross?”
She looked perplexed. “Uh, something to do with a sailor who shoots a bird and brings bad luck down on a whole ship?”
“No, that’s a poem,” said Thornton. “This is a riddle. A man who has returned from a voyage walks into a restaurant, sits down, and orders the albatross. The waiter brings it, the guy takes one bite, then rushes out of the restaurant and goes home and kills himself. Why?”
“Seems a bit of an overreaction,” I said. “It must have been really, really bad albatross.”
“It’s a guessing game,” said Thornton. “You have to guess what happened earlier, before he walked into the restaurant. You can ask me yes-or-no questions.”
“Was it really, really bad albatross?”
“No,” laughed the agent.
Miranda: “But his reaction had something to do with the albatross?”
“Yes.”
Me: “Was it fairly bad albatross?”
“Irrelevant.”
“That’s not yes or no,” I pointed out.
“But it’s helpful,” said Miranda, “and we need all the help we can get. Had he ever had albatross before?”
“No.”
Garcia: “Was there special significance to the fact that it was albatross?” Yes. “Did the man feel guilty about eating an albatross?” No.
A series of questions from me: “Was the man already depressed before he tasted the soup?” Yes. I thought of Jess. “Had the man lost someone he loved?” Yes. “And was an albatross somehow connected to that loss?” Yes. “Was it his wife he’d lost?” Yes. “Did she die on the voyage?” Yes.
Miranda: “Was there a shipwreck?” Yes. “Did she perish in the shipwreck?” Yes. “Was the man marooned on a desert island?” Yes. “All alone?” No. “Were other survivors with him?” Yes. “Did any of the others die?” No. “Were they marooned for a long time?”
“Depends on how you define it,” he said. “Ask more specifically.”
Me: “More than a month?” No. “More than a week?” Yes.
Garcia: “Did they have food from the ship?” No. “Did they catch fish?”
“No. Not enough, anyway.” Thornton was cheating slightly, maybe because we were slow.
Miranda: “Did they eat other food on the island?” Yes. “Albatross?” No. “Did the man think it was albatross?”
Thornton began to smile. “Yes, he did.”
“Bless his heart,” she said. “No wonder he killed himself.”