EIGHTY-FIVE.

Woman's body found in Rock Creek Park POSTED: 4:55 p.m. EST August 21 UPDATED: 7:33 p.m. EST August 21 WASHINGTON (The Washington Post)-A woman was found dead in Rock Creek Park near Walter Reed Hospital on Thursday. Police familiar to the case confirm that it was a homicide from gunshot wounds.

The body was found by a jogger at 9:12 a.m. It was about 30 yards off Sherill Drive near 16th and Aspen streets in Northwest.

Police said the woman appeared to be in her late 50s and was of European descent. She was wearing a tan raincoat and appeared to have a valid pa.s.sport from a South American country.

"A possibility is that the individual came into the woods to walk and was met by a robber. There were no other signs of trauma other than the gunshot. Her purse was open and there was no money or identification in it, other than her pa.s.sport," DC Police Inspector Jerome Myles said. "We just don't know any more at this time."

Police said they are awaiting further results from the medical examiner and are attempting to locate any relatives of the woman. Her name has not yet been publicly disclosed.

EIGHTY-SIX.

On the morning of the next day, the doctors at the American hospital moved Alex out of critical care into a private room on a regular ward. Late that same afternoon, a nurse came in with a name on a piece of paper to see if she would recognize, to see if a prospective visitor would be allowed.

She recognized the name and was very pleasantly surprised. "Oui, bien sr," Alex answered.

"Cinq minutes seulement," the nurse said, limiting the visit to five minutes.

"Oh, mais pour lui, dix?" she asked. For him, ten? "S'il vous plait?"

The nurse rolled her eyes, gave a slight smile, and shrugged, which meant, yes, okay.

The nurse left. A moment later the door eased open. A large man with a slight limp entered the room, carrying a huge bouquet of fresh flowers and a small shopping bag. He wore a dark suit and a dress shirt open at the collar and was a day or two unshaven. More importantly, he was walking very well on one real leg and one fake one.

Alex sat up in the bed and thought of pickup games of basketball back in Washington for the first time in several days, not to mention the dark in March when this same man had deterred her suicide.

"Oh my," she said. "You sure show up at the strangest times."

"Hope you don't mind," Ben answered.

"Not at all."

Impetuously, he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She accepted it. They exchanged as much of a hug as IV tubes would allow. He stepped back and placed the flowers at her bedside table.

"You sure know how to find trouble, no matter where you go," he said.

"It finds me. What are you doing here?"

"Right now," he said, "I'm visiting you in the hospital."

She laughed for the first time in days. It hurt.

"I can see that much," she said, "but why are you in Paris?"

"I'm visiting you in the hospital," he repeated.

"I don't follow," she said.

It was very simple, he explained. The group that she played basketball with back in Washington, the family at the gym, had heard that Alex had been hospitalized in Paris.

Critical condition, but improving.

"Who did you here that from?" she asked.

"Laura. Laura Chapman."

"Ah. Of course." It made sense. Laura would know through government channels.

"Did Laura mention what happened?" she asked.

"No," he answered hesitantly. "What did happen? Some sort of accident in the subway?"

"You could call it that," Alex said. Then she shook her head. "Long story, actually. For another time, okay?" She motioned to a chair.

"Okay," he answered.

"Well, anyway," he continued, sitting down. "There are about fifteen of us regulars who you play with. Dave. Matt. Eric. Laura. A couple of guys whose names you don't know but who you'd recognize. We all sat around talking a couple of nights ago after a game. I said someone should go visit. So we each dropped a hundred bucks into someone's sweaty gym bag."

Alex could feel herself smiling.

"We called it our 'Alex fund,' " he said. "We put everyone's name in another bag. Whoever's name got drawn would make the visit, the 'fund' covering the expense of the trip, time lost from work, and so on. Since it had been my idea, I was selected to make the draw."

She laughed. "And you drew your own name?"

Hesitantly, he said, "Yeah. I drew my own name."

"The hand of G.o.d?" she asked.

He smiled. "Nope. I cheated. I palmed the slip of paper with my own name. I wanted to make the trip."

She laughed. "Good of you," she said.

"Look at this," he said, reaching into the bag.

He pulled out a miniature basketball hoop and a foam ball. The hoop was about six inches across, the ball about four inches in diameter. It was one of those $4.98 toys that one sees in offices or children's rooms.

She laughed again when she saw it, and laughed harder when he stuck it up to the wall and flipped her the ball.

"Should I pa.s.s to you so you can dunk it or should I shoot?" she asked.

"Oh, by all means," he said, "go for the three pointer."

Her arm hurt too much to raise it. So she threw a random underhand shot up against the wall, about six feet away. It hit the front of the hoop, flew upward, then dropped straight down.

It swished.

"Whoa!" he said. "The hand of G.o.d?"

"I'm sure G.o.d is too busy to busy to worry about three-point shots in hospital rooms," she said.

She looked across the room. "See that window over there?" she asked.

"I see it."

"I'd like to get to it. Will you help me?"

"I'd be honored."

She slid her legs around so she could slide off the side of the bed. Ben helped her stand, steadying her as she stood. She ached all over. She was again conscious of how she must have fallen because there were bad bruises on her legs and elbows. In a hospital gown she could still see the scratches on her legs from the brambles in the Venezuelan mountains, as well as the hard fall in the French subway.

She looked as if she had been beaten up.

"I don't know how many individual injuries I have," she said, "but you know all about stuff like that, right?"

"We're all wounded in some way. We're all mutilated. You know that old Paul Simon song, 'An American Tune'? Goes something like, 'Don't know a soul who ain't been battered, ain't got a friend who feels at ease ...'"

"I know it," she said.

"One step at a time," he said, helping her walk. "This is great. You're doing fine." He helped the IV-pole trail her.

She nodded and continued the faint tune as he acted as her support. "Don't know a dream that's not been shattered," she sang softly. "Or driven to its knees."

They sang together. "But it's all right, it's all right."

She hung on his arm, got stronger with each pace, and traveled the dozen steps to the window. She gazed out on the courtyard. Over the roof of the hospital, in the distance, she could see part of the Parisian skyline.

"Well, I'm alive," she said.

"You're alive," he answered. "Against the odds, we both are."

She nodded. He helped her back to the bed. She sat down, then lay down. Her energy was already gone.

He sat in the chair by the bed for the remaining minutes of his visit. She felt weak but inside she started to feel good. He looked at a small object in a dish by the bedside.

He reached to it. "May I?" he asked.

"Sure."

He picked up the remains of the stone pendant that had saved her life. It was in three pieces. The center of it had been smashed into dust by the ricocheting bullet so that, if the pieces were pushed back together, one could see, right where the engraved cross came together, a deep gouge. Aside from that, the three pieces fit together perfectly, as if designed by a master carver.

"What's this?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you," she said.

He put the pendant back into the dish and then back onto the table. The pieces fit themselves back together. She admired the small cross that Paulina had carved in the stone, thousands of miles away-the small carving that had saved her life.

Distantly, she thought of Paulina.

"It's a deal," Ben said. "I'll come back tomorrow. And you can tell me."

A few minutes after Ben left, Alex's strength again ebbed. She settled again into a comfortable sleep.

EIGHTY-SEVEN.

The following morning, for the first time since her arrival at the hospital, Alex felt good enough to sit up and read. Her physician pa.s.sed by at about 8:00 a.m. There were newspapers in French and a few books at her bedside. Ben's bouquet sat at her bedside, and now a second one did too, from her former coworkers at Treasury in Washington. Word either traveled fast or not at all these days.

She reached for the papers and began to glance through them. A nurse came by shortly after ten.

"Il y a encore un visiteur," the nurse announced. Another visitor.

"C'est qui?

" Alex asked.

"Un medecin etranger, je crois," the nurse answered. A foreign doctor.

Alex shrugged. "Bien. Pourquoi pas?" she said. Well, why not? The more medical advice, the better. Or, she wondered, was the opposite true? Well, she would listen.

She set aside her newspapers and leaned back in her bed. She drew a deep breath as the nurse left the room.

She reached to the side table and pulled out a hand mirror. She glanced into it. To her mind, she looked tired. But, she now realized, she would survive.

Ben's visit the previous day and the gifts he had brought from America had done more to rally her spirits than she could have imagined. For the first time since arriving there, she began to entertain a restless spirit. How long would she be in the hospital? How long before she could be discharged and go home? How long before she could resume a normal life?