Passage. Part 63

Maybe she didn't hear him, Joanna thought, maybe she just came down the stairs and saw him holding the phone, and knew it wasn't true, that she had heard every word. And how many times?

Dozens? Hundreds?

"Joanna?" Kit said. "Was there something else you wanted to know about the t.i.tanic?"

"Yes," Joanna said, trying to sound as calm as Kit. "Do you know if there were fires on board?"

"You mean accidental fires or regular fires?" Kit said.

"Regular fires?"

"I mean, like the fires in the boilers and the fireplaces."

"There were fireplaces on the t.i.tanic?" Joanna said and then remembered the woman with the piled-up hair saying, "We'll ask the steward to light a fire."

"Yeah," Kit said, "in the smoking room, I think, and some of the first-cla.s.s cabins." Started because the pa.s.sengers had gotten cold out on deck, Joanna thought, and then left burning when they went up to the Boat Deck, and, when the deck began to list, the wood and ashes sliding out onto the carpet, catching the curtains, filling the cabin with smoke.

"Is that the kind of fire you meant?" Kit was asking."I don't know what I mean," Joanna said. "I'm looking for any kind of fire that might have produced a lot of smoke. Or steam."

"I remember Uncle Pat talking about a fire in one of the boiler rooms," Kit said, "in the coal bin.

It had been smoldering since they left port, but I don't think there was any smoke. Or steam, you said?"

"Yes."

"I was just thinking of that scene in the movie where there's that deafening blast, and steam swirls around everybody on the Boat Deck. I'll see what I can find. Did you call before and get a busy signal?"

"Yes," Joanna admitted.

"I was afraid of that. Uncle Pat's started taking the phone off the hook. I keep checking it, but-"

" ' "Oh, father, I hear the sound of guns," ' " she heard Mr. Briarley say.

"I'll call you as soon as I find anything," Kit said.

"I need the information as soon as-"

" ' "Oh, say, what may it be?" ' " Mr. Briarley said.

"-as soon as possible," Joanna finished, and Kit said okay, but Joanna wasn't sure she'd really heard her because of Mr. Briarley, declaiming in the background, " ' "Some s.h.i.+p in distress that cannot live." ' They speak to us!"

Joanna hung up the phone and then stared at it, thinking about the possibility of the fog being steam. But none of the NDEers had said anything about the fog swirling, or moving at all, and Maisie had said she'd been inside, not out on the Boat Deck.

Or had she? She called up the first interview she'd had with Maisie. "I was inside this place, I think it was a tunnel, only I couldn't see 'cause it was dark and all foggy," she'd said, and she'd talked about walls that went up on either side of her. "They were really tall. The top was so high I couldn't see it."

No room had high ceilings on a s.h.i.+p, even a luxurious one like the t.i.tanic. She must have been out on the Boat Deck, and the noise she'd heard was the funnels letting off steam. She had said a roar. But there was nothing on the Boat Deck that was narrow with high walls on either side. On the other hand, smoke had a distinctive smell. Steam didn't.

Joanna typed in "steam" and "mist" and "swirling" and ran global searches on each of them, wis.h.i.+ng Kit would call back. At eleven, she did. "Hi," she said excitedly, "I've got it."

Joanna gripped the phone. "There was a fire on the t.i.tanic?""A fire?" Kit said blankly. "Oh, no, I haven't found anything yet. The only reference in any of the indexes was to the fires in the boilers and the stokers working to put them out before the water reached them and caused an explosion. Nothing about smoke either, but I'm still looking. That isn't why I called. I found the book!"

Now it was Joanna's turn to answer blankly. "The book?"

"Mirrors and Mazes! Finally. I've been turning the house upside down. The kitchen looks as bad as it did when Uncle Pat dismantled it. You'll never guess where it was. In the refrigerator. The crisper drawer, so it's sort of damp and chilly, but at least I've got it, and I put it in a safe place, so Uncle Pat can't hide it again. Can you come over? I can fix you lunch."

"No, I'm busy. I..." I already know what the t.i.tanic is. I don't need the book anymore. I need proof.

"I'm not sure when I'll be able to get over. Things are crazy around here."

"I can bring it to the hospital," Kit said. "Eldercare is supposed to come over this evening, but I could call and see if they can change to this afternoon."

"No," Joanna said, and tried to put more enthusiasm in her voice. "I'll come get it."

"Great," Kit said. "I can't wait for you to see if the connection's in it. I'll bake cookies."

"Oh, don't go to any trouble. I don't know exactly when-"

"It's no trouble. I've already got all the ingredients out anyway," Kit said. "And the heat from the oven will help dry out the book. I'll see you this afternoon," she said, and hung up before Joanna could remind her to call her if she found any fires.

She won't, Joanna thought, because there weren't any. If there had been a fire, it would definitely have been in the movie with Hollywood's penchant for special effects, and the one she had envisioned, the burning logs sliding out of the fireplace as the s.h.i.+p tilted, catching the carpet on fire, would have been put out almost immediately by the encroaching water. It has to have been steam, she thought, but Mrs. Katzenbaum had said smoke, and so had Coma Carl.

The phone rang. It's Kit calling back, Joanna thought. She reached for it and then pulled her hand back and let the answering machine click on. And a good thing, too. It was Mr. Mandrake.

"I cannot understand why I haven't heard from you. I have paged you and been by your office numerous times," he said, his voice vibrating with irritation. "I have evidence..."

Evidence, Joanna thought contemptuously. What? Something else Mrs. Davenport's remembered to order for you? Leading questions? Data twisted to fit your theory, with the facts that don't fit left out?

And what do you call what you have? How is your evidence any different from Mr.

Mandrake's? So you've got dozens of references to the t.i.tanic. It doesn't prove anything except that you can find proof of anything you want if you look hard enough. Because it's still all subjective, nomatter what percent of the accounts are consistent. There isn't any outside verification. I need a red tennis shoe, she thought, or a map of the South Pacific.

And how am I supposed to get that? Mr. Wojakowski's a compulsive liar, Mr. Briarley can't remember, Amelia Tanaka refuses to talk, Coma Carl-"Coma Carl," she said out loud. She wasn't the only one who had heard him. Guadalupe had, too, and his wife. If there was something in his ramblings that pointed clearly to the t.i.tanic- She called up his file again. He had said, "smoke" and "ohhh... grand," but neither were definitive. She scrolled down the screen. "Water... have to..." Guadalupe had written, "...gone..." The boats are gone?

Someone knocked on the door. Mr. Mandrake, Joanna thought, and froze. "Joanna?" Richard called. "Are you in there?"

"Just a minute," she said. She cleared the screen, laid Mr. Wojakowski's file on top of the transcripts, and opened the door.

"Hi," Richard said, "I just wanted to tell you I'm going to be out of the lab for a while. I'll be up in Dr. Jamison's office on eighth if you need me for anything. I'm hoping she'll be able to look at Mrs.

Troudtheim's scans and see something I can't."

"Cortisol wasn't present in Mrs. Troudtheim's other NDEs?" Joanna said, leaning against the door so he wouldn't come in.

"No, it was there in spades." He raked his hand through his hair. "Unfortunately, it and DABA were also present in one of Amelia Tanaka's, two of yours, and three of Mr. Sage's, including his record-breaking twenty-eight-minute one."

"So you're not going to send Mrs. Troudtheim under?" Joanna asked hopefully.

"No, I've still got a couple of other ideas. One's the theta-asparcine."

"I thought you said it wasn't an inhibitor?"

"It's not, but it might abort the NDE some other way. And you kicked out when I lowered the dosage. That may mean Mrs. Troudtheim's NDE threshold is higher than normal, so I'm going to raise the dosage and see if that keeps her in. That's why I came down. I wanted to make sure two o'clock would work for you. I'm meeting with Dr. Jamison at one, but I'll be back in plenty of time, and I told Tish to be here at one-thirty in case Mrs. Troudtheim shows up early. So," he said, slapping the doorjamb with the flat of his hand. "See you at two o'clock."

"Yes," she said, "I should be finished by then," and some of the regret in her voice must have come through because he leaned back in and said, "You know what? We've both been working way too hard. What do you say, when this is all over, we go out to dinner. Not Taco Pierre's. A real restaurant."

When this is all over. "I'd like that," Joanna said."So would I," he said, and smiled at her. "I've missed you these last few days."

"Me, too," Joanna said.

"Oh, and I'd keep your door shut if I were you. Mandrake was just up in the lab looking for you. I told him you were in the cafeteria."

"Thank you," Joanna said.

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' "

he intoned, grinning, and disappeared into the elevator.

Joanna shut and locked the door and went back to searching through Guadalupe's reports.

"...have to... can't... patches..." Patches?

I need to look at Guadalupe's actual notes, Joanna thought, and got out the sheaf of prescription-pad forms and sc.r.a.ps of paper that Guadalupe had jotted them down on. The first one, written on the back of a patient menu form, said, "Vietcong POW again. No intelligible words. Pulled IV out." "...smoke..." The next one, on a sheet from a prescription pad, said, "...can't... two..." Or "too," as in "too far for her to come"? Or was he trying to say "have to..." again? Have to what?

Most of them were short. "Boating on the lake" or "mumbled a lot. Nothing intelligible," or the ominous "very quiet all day." Here was a long one, on the back of a pharmaceutical-company ad.

"Nothing I could make out on my s.h.i.+ft yesterday. Sub on the three-to-eleven and Paula forgot to tell her, so no record of that s.h.i.+ft. I asked her today if he said anything, and she said no, just humming.

She couldn't make out the tune either, but said it sounded like a hymn."

A hymn. Coma Carl droning, long, long, short, short, long. She flipped back to the computer and typed in "humming," looking for her own notes. "Long, long, short, short," she had written.

"Descending scale."

"Hmmm, hmmm, hm, hm, hm, hmm," she hummed, trying it out. "Half note, half note, quarter note..."

"Nearer, My G.o.d, to Thee."

On tape. Outside confirmation. She leaped up and grabbed the box of tapes. It was on the day she'd met Richard, when was that? January the ninth. She clattered through the pile of tapes, looking for the date. Here it was. She jammed it in the recorder and hit "play."

"It was dark..." Mrs. Davenport droned. She fast-forwarded. "And then I saw myself at my eighth birthday party. I was playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and..." Fast-forward. "...my wedding..." Fast-forward. "And the angel handed me a telegram."

She fast-forwarded again, too far, there was only silence. She rewound, and here it was. Coma Carl humming, agonizingly slowly. She played it through, making notations on a memo pad, lines for the length of the note, arrows for pitch-long, long, the pitch dropping with each note, short, long-wis.h.i.+ng she could read music. Did the tune of "Nearer, My G.o.d, to Thee" go up or down?She hummed the opening bars, trying to stretch the notes out to match Coma Carl's glacial humming, but it was no good. The tune could have been anything. I need to speed it up, she thought.

She rewound to the beginning and then fast-forwarded, but it was just a whir, and there was no way on her little recorder to control the speed.

I need a fancy stereo, she thought, and tried to think who might have one. Kit? If she had one, Joanna could go listen to the tape and pick up the book at the same time, but she couldn't remember any stereo equipment in Mr. Briarley's library, not even a record player. Kit might have one up in her room, though. She called Kit, but the line was busy.

All right, who here in the hospital? Maisie's tape player was a pink plastic affair, probably worse than her minirecorder. Vielle? No, all they had in the lounge in the ER was an eight-track player, "because n.o.body's been in here long enough to listen to any music since 1974," Vielle had complained one hectic night.

She squinted at the minirecorder, trying to remember where she'd seen a tape recorder. In one of the offices, where they listened to music while they were working. Billing or Personnel. Records, she decided. She snapped the tape out of the minirecorder, jammed it in her pocket, and ran down to Records.

And her memory had been accurate. On the far wall, above the cubicles, was a bank of sophisticated-looking stereo equipment. But first she would have to get past the woman at the front desk, who looked solid and dedicated to following the rules. Almost before Joanna had gotten her name out, the woman had swiveled so she was facing a rack of printed papers and was holding her arm up in preparation for grabbing the appropriate form.

"I don't think there's a form for what I need... Zaneta," Joanna said, reading the name off the sign on the woman's desk. "I need a tape recorder that can play a tape at different speeds," but Zaneta had already swiveled back to face her.

"This is Records," Zaneta said. "You want Equipment next door."

"No, I don't want to requisition a tape recorder. I just want to borrow yours for a couple of minutes to listen to a tape," she said, pulling the tape out of her pocket to ill.u.s.trate. "My recorder doesn't have a fast-forward that lets me control the speed, and I need-"

"Do you work here?" Zaneta said.

"Yes, my name's Joanna Lander," she said. "I work with Dr. Wright up in research," and Zaneta swiveled to face her computer terminal. "All I want-"

"Lander?" Zaneta asked, typing. "L-a-n-d-e-r?"

"Yes," Joanna said. "I need to transcribe this tape, but a section of it needs to be listened to at a faster speed, and I wondered if I could-"

Joanna's beeper went off. No, she thought, and reached in her pocket to turn it off, but Zaneta was already pus.h.i.+ng the phone toward her. "You're being paged," she said severely.Joanna gave up. Please don't let it be Mr. Mandrake, she prayed, and called the operator.

"Call the fourth floor nurses' station, stat," the operator said. "Extension 428."

Fourth floor. Coma Carl, she thought, and realized she had known this call was coming.

Zaneta was pus.h.i.+ng a memo pad and pencil toward her. Joanna ignored it and punched in the extension. Guadalupe answered. "What is it, Guadalupe?" Joanna said. "Is it Coma Carl?"

"Yes, I've been trying to reach you. You haven't seen Mrs. Aspinall, have you? We can't find her anywhere," and her stunned and shaken voice told Joanna all she needed to know.

"When did he die?" she said, thinking of him, all alone out there in a lifeboat, humming.

"Die?" Guadalupe said in that same stunned voice. "He didn't. He's awake."

38.

"...Morse... Indian..."

-The only two distinct words in the last sentence Henry David Th.o.r.eau spoke.

Guadalupe was at the nurses' station, talking on the phone, when Joanna arrived. "Is he really awake?" Joanna asked, leaning over the counter.

Guadalupe put a hand up, signaling her to wait. "Yes. I'm trying to reach Dr. Cherikov," she said into the receiver. "Well, can I speak to his nurse? It's important." She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. "Yes, he's really awake," she said to Joanna, "and wouldn't you know it, we can't find his doctor. Or his wife. You didn't happen to see Mrs. Aspinall on your way up here, did you?"