They’d all memorized the story told within the three composition books, looking for some clue as to what might have happened to Lara in Le Cirque Secret, not that anyone in the hospital would have believed them if the answer had been spelled out in its pages.

In fact, Ben could hardly believe it himself. While the journals were fantastic tales of another dimension, part of him still had to consider that this was entirely fiction. The Ouija board that had led him to Desmond “Dez” Bennett was something he couldn’t explain away, though; nor did he have a rational answer for the ritual killings in Kerrigan Falls. At heart, Ben Archer was a rational man, so buying into this whole otherworldly answer was challenging, and without talking to Lara he couldn’t make that leap. There was a distinct possibility that Lara had been kidnapped by the same person who had chased her—a human person. Only Lara could clear this up, and the only way she could do that was to wake up.

“She said it was hard on the body, traveling back and forth.” Barrow pointed to the line in the notes.

Gaston was back and slid into the seat beside him. “Yeah, but while that circus operated for two years, hundreds of people traveled to and fro without harm.”

“Not for three days they didn’t,” said Ben, interrupting the theory-building going on between the two.

“Do we think he would come if we called him?” said Barrow. He turned to the men, and it was clear from the steady gaze that met their eyes that he was serious. “When Giroux was dying, Cecile called him. We could try to call him.”

“And Giroux died anyway, and all Cecile got was a fucking carousel.” Gaston put his head back and studied the ceiling.

“I hate waiting.” Though exhausted, Ben couldn’t relax and was in and out of his chair, pacing.

“That won’t help, you know,” said Gaston. “Unless you want to polish the floor with your shoes.”

Ben Archer felt powerless. He was a man who needed control over his environment. Now here he was, in Paris of all places, waiting for Lara to wake up and considering that, as time went on, the possibility of her recovering was becoming smaller and smaller. Over the PA system, a woman’s voice called for doctors and the occasional code bleu in French. He hated the fact that he didn’t even understand the fucking language in this country. He rubbed his neck, which was aching. His entire body felt sick, flu-like. He hadn’t slept for more than forty-eight hours.