Passage. Part 68

"Is Dr. Lander badly hurt?" Richard demanded, plunging down the stairs.

"I don't know. There was all this blood. The security guard shot the guy."

Down the stairs, through the walkway, across Medicine.

"Nurse Howard said to page you, and I did, but you didn't answer, so then she said go get you.I came as fast as I could, but I went to the wrong wing-"

A metal ladder straddled the hallway, yellow tape barring the way in front of it.

"We can't go this way," Nina said. Richard burst through the tape and ran under the ladder and down the hall, sidestepping paint buckets and trampling the plastic drops.

"You're not supposed to walk under a ladder," Nina yammered right behind him. "It's bad luck."

Into the service stairs, down to first, along the hall. And what if they'd already taken Joanna upstairs to ICU?

He burst through the side door, into the ER. Police everywhere, and the sounds of sirens in the distance, coming closer. Two black officers by the door, another officer talking to a man in pink scrubs, two more kneeling on the floor over by the desk, next to a body.

Not Joanna's, Richard prayed. Not Joanna's. She's in one of the trauma rooms, he thought, and started across the ER. A security guard raised his gun, and a police officer stepped in front of Richard. "No one's allowed in here."

"He's Dr. Wright. Nurse Howard sent for him," Nina said. The officer nodded and stepped back, and Nina led the way quickly across the floor and into a trauma room. She pushed open the door.

He didn't know what he'd expected to see. Joanna, sitting on an examining table, having her arm st.i.tched up, turning her head to smile sheepishly at him as he came in. Or noise, activity, nurses hanging bags of blood, inserting tubes, doctors barking orders. And Vielle, stepping away from the examining table to explain Joanna's condition, saying, "She's going to be fine."

Not this. Not a dozen people in blood-spattered scrubs, blood-covered gloves, standing back from the table, stunned and silent, none of them saying anything, no sound at all except the flatline whine of the heart monitor.

Not the resident, handing the paddles back to a nurse and shaking his head, and Vielle, clinging to Joanna's limp white hand, saying, her voice rising sobbingly, "No, she can't be! Hit her again!"

Calm, professional Vielle sobbing, "Do something! Do something!"

The resident pulled his mask down. "It's no use. We couldn't save her."

Couldn't save her, Richard thought, and finally, finally looked at Joanna. She lay with her hair fanned out around her head, like Amelia Tanaka's, but her brown hair was matted with blood, and there was blood on her mouth, on her neck, on her chest, blood everywhere. It stood out black-red against her white skin.

An airway had been inserted in her mouth, and there was blood on that, too. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.

"I brought Dr. Wright," Nina said inanely into the silence, and the resident turned to look at him, his face solemn."I am so sorry, Dr. Wright," he said. "I'm afraid she's gone."

"Gone," Richard repeated stupidly. The resident was right. She was gone. The body lying there, with its white, white skin and its unseeing eyes, was empty, abandoned. Joanna had gone.

Gone. Through a tunnel and into the pa.s.sage, where a golden light shone from under a door.

And pa.s.sengers milled around out on deck in their nightclothes, wondering what had happened. And the mail room was already inches deep in water, the boiler rooms already full, and water was coming in on D Deck, the decks beginning to list, beginning to slant. "If the boat sinks," Joanna had said, unseeing behind her sleep mask, reaching blindly for his hand, "promise you'll come and get me."

"It's real," she'd said. "You don't understand. It's a real place." A real place, with staircases and writing rooms and gymnasiums. And terror. And a way back, if it wasn't blocked, if he could get to her in time.

"Start CPR," Richard said, and Vielle let go of Joanna's hand and moved forward as if to comfort him. "Vielle, don't let them unhook anything!" he said, and, to the others, "Start CPR. Keep shocking her," and took off running.

"Richard!" Vielle called after him, but he was already through the door, down the hall, up the stairs. Four minutes. He had four minutes, six at the outside, and why the h.e.l.l couldn't Mercy General have stairways that went more than two flights, why the h.e.l.l didn't it have walkways at every floor?

He sprinted across the third-floor walkway, thinking, What's the fastest way up to the lab?

Joanna would know. Joanna! He shoved open the doors like a runner breasting a tape and raced through Medicine. Not the elevator. There's no time to wait for an elevator. I have four minutes. Four minutes.

He clattered up the service stairs, rounding the landing. Fourth. It would take at least two minutes for the dithetamine to take effect, even using an IV push. There isn't time, he thought. But once he was under, time wasn't a factor. Joanna had explored the entire s.h.i.+p in eight seconds.

Joanna-Fifth. Thirty seconds for Tish to find a vein, another thirty for her to start the IV and inject the dithetamine. What if Tish wasn't there? There was no time to find her, no time to- He burst through the door to sixth, raced down the hall. Tish had to be there. Mrs. Troudtheim's session was scheduled for two. She had to be there. "Tis.h.!.+" he shouted and flung open the door to the lab. "Tis.h.!.+"

Tish looked up from where she was hanging the bag of saline. "You need to call the ER. They've been calling every two minutes," she said. "And there's a message for you from Dr. Lander. You turned your pager off again, didn't-" She stopped when she saw his face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Start an IV," he said, striding over to the medicine cupboard. "Saline and dithetamine."

"But Joanna isn't here," Tish said. "I checked her office, and she's not there."

"She coded," he said, grabbing a vial of dithetamine and a syringe."Joanna coded?" Tish said blankly, coming over to the cupboard. "What do you mean? Was she in a car accident?"

"She was stabbed," he said, filling the syringe.

"Stabbed? Is she okay?"

"I told you, she coded," he said. He walked rapidly back to the examining table. "We're going to have to use an IV pus.h.!.+"

Tish looked at him blankly. "An IV push? But-how can she go under if she-" she stopped, horrified. "She didn't die, did she, and you're going to record her NDE?"

"She didn't die, and she's not going to," he said. He wrenched off his lab coat and flung it over a chair. "Because I'm going after her."

"I don't understand," Tish said bewilderedly. "What do you mean, you're going after her?"

"I mean, I'm going to go get her. I'm going to bring her back." He rolled up his sleeve.

"But you said the NDEs weren't real," she said, looking frightened. "You said they were hallucinations. You said they were caused by the temporal lobe."

"I said a lot of things," he said, laying his arm flat on the examining table with the hand palm-up.

"Start an IV."

"But-"

"Start the IV," he said fiercely, and Tish picked up the length of tubing and wrapped it around his upper arm. He made a fist, and she began probing for a vein.

"Hurry!" he said. "We've only got four minutes." Tish pushed the needle in, clipped it to the IV line, adjusted the feed. She began taping down the needle. "You can do that later," he snapped. "Start the dithetamine. IV push."

"Dr. Wright, I don't think it's a good idea to do this while you're so upset," Tish said. "Why don't I call Dr. Everett or somebody, and-"

"Because there's no time," Richard said. "Never mind. I'll do it myself." He grabbed the syringe with his free hand and injected it into the line. "Start the white noise," he said and reached for the headphones.

"Dr. Wright-" Tish said uncertainly and then went over to the amplifier.

Richard picked up the headphones and looked around for the sleep mask. He couldn't see it anywhere, and there was no time to look for it. He put on the headphones and lay down. "Put the cus.h.i.+ons under my arms and legs," he said, unable to tell if Tish could hear him. He couldn't hear anything through the headphones. "Put the-" he began, but she must have heard him. She was lifting his left arm and sliding the cus.h.i.+on under it and then under the other.She placed the cus.h.i.+ons under his legs and then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"Don't bother with that," Richard said, but Tish wasn't listening to him. She was putting electrodes to his scalp.

"I don't need an EEG," he said, but she didn't look up, he was trying to talk to the top of her head. "Tis.h.!.+" he shouted, and realized he was too far away for her to hear him. He was above her, above the examining table on which he lay, his arm hooked to an IV. He was drifting slowly up to the ceiling. He looked across to the top of the medicine cupboard. It was polished and bare, except for a glint of silver at the very back. He drifted closer, trying to see.

The silver object was tucked all the way back in the corner, where Joanna had put it, behind the raised edge of the cupboard. Out of sight except for someone having an out-of-body experience. He drifted still closer. It was a toy tin zeppelin.

Of course, he thought. The Hindenburg. I'll have to tell Joanna I saw it. But she wouldn't believe him. She would think he had climbed up on a chair to see what it was. Joanna would- "Joanna!" he said, abruptly remembering. This was an out-of-body experience. But there wasn't any time for it. "Send me through!" he shouted down to Tish. "Send me into the tunnel!"

He continued to float slowly upward, wafting slowly back and forth, like the Hindenburg drifting in its moorings. "Hurry!" he shouted, and looked down at Tish. She had found the sleep mask and was placing it over his eyes. He lay stiffly under the RIPT scan, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"Let go!" he shouted. The noise echoed loudly, reverberating as if he were in an enclosed s.p.a.ce, and then stopped, and everything went dark.

I'm in the pa.s.sage, he thought. He put out his hand in the pitch blackness and felt hardness, paint. The wall of the pa.s.sage. There should be a light at the end of it, he thought, straining to see.

Nothing. No light at all. It must be very late, after the lights had gone out. When had they gone out?

Only a few minutes before the end.

It's because she's going down, he thought. Because there are only four minutes left. "Joanna!" he called. "Where are you?"

There was no answer. He fumbled for a book of matches in his lab coat pockets, but they were empty. He reached in his pants pocket. The pager. He drew it out. It was turned off. He fumbled for the switch in the darkness and turned it on. The face lit up-Joanna's number-but the LED numbers gave no light.

He began to grope his way along the corridor, feeling his way with a hand on each wall, trying to hurry. Because there's no time. But if it were that late, then the s.h.i.+p should be at a sharp angle, so tilted that he'd be having trouble standing, and he wasn't. The floor felt perfectly level.

"Joanna!" he called again, and saw a light ahead of him. It was a thin line of white, from under a door, and that must be what he had heard-the sound of the door slamming shut. He groped his way toward the door and felt for the doork.n.o.b, thinking, Don't let it be locked, don't let it be locked. He found the rectangular metal plate, found the k.n.o.b, turned it. And opened the door onto another corridor. A brightly lit corridor, so bright it was almost blinding, and he s.h.i.+elded his eyes and stoodthere, blinking.

This wasn't the pa.s.sage Joanna had come through. Hers had opened onto the outside, onto a window-lined deck. This was an inside pa.s.sage, with a series of shut doors and light sconces on the walls between them. The lights had not gone out. They shone strongly all along the corridor, and the wooden floor was dry and perfectly level. It must be much earlier, before anyone realized it was sinking, and maybe the sound he'd heard was the same one Joanna had heard-the iceberg sc.r.a.ping along the side-and it had sounded different because he was in a different part of the s.h.i.+p.

Which part? Second cla.s.s? The bra.s.s light sconces were elaborate enough for it to be first cla.s.s, but the walls were unadorned, and there were no. windows, no portholes. It must be an interior corridor, or belowdecks. Steerage?

Where was it? On C Deck, she had said. But where was C Deck? Above this? Below it? Did they count the decks down from the top or up from the bottom?

He remembered Joanna talking about climbing up to the Boat Deck. How many decks had she said she'd climbed? He couldn't remember. I should have paid more attention, he thought, starting down the pa.s.sage at a run. I should have listened to her when she said it was real.

Because it was real. She had tried to tell him. She had said she saw colors, heard sounds, felt staircase railings under her hand, had tried to describe the reality of the s.h.i.+p, but he had been convinced it was a hallucination, that it was something happening in long-term memory and the temporal lobe, even when she'd tried to tell him, even when she'd said, "It's a real place."

I should have listened to her, he thought, looking for a stairway, or a door to the outside. I should have told her where I was going. I shouldn't have turned off my pager.

All the doors were shut, locked. "Hey!" he shouted, banging on them, rattling the old-fas.h.i.+oned k.n.o.bs. "Anybody there?"

The third door opened under his hand. Inside, a man wearing headphones was sitting bent over a wireless key, listening. Dot-dash-dot-dot, he wrote on a pad. "Hey!" Richard said. "How do I get to C Deck?"

The man didn't look up.

"C Deck," Richard said, coming to stand over him. "Which deck is this I'm on now?"

The man went on writing, his face intent on the key, dash-dash-dot-dash-dot-dot-dot- SOS, Richard thought. Of course. He's calling for help. When had they sent the first SOS? Not until after midnight.

"What time is it?" Richard asked him loudly. "How long have you been sending?"

A gray-haired woman appeared in the door, in a high-collared blouse and a long black skirt.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said, her hand on the doorjamb."I'm looking for-"

"How did you get in here?" she interrupted sternly. "Unauthorized persons are not allowed in this part of-"

"I'm looking for Joanna Lander," he said. "I have to find her."

"Yes, sir, I know, sir," she said, leading him out of the wireless room, "but this part of-"

"You don't understand. It's urgent. She's in danger. She'd be on C Deck. Or on the Boat Deck-"

"I know, sir," she said, and her voice had, surprisingly, softened. "If you'll just come with me, sir." She led him back down the pa.s.sage the way they'd come, her hand gently on his arm.

"Her pa.s.sage is on C Deck," he said. "It opens onto the deck."

"Yes, sir." She opened a door and led him down a flight of stairs.

"She's about five foot six," he said. "Brown hair, gla.s.ses. She was wearing a cardigan sweater and-" He stopped. He didn't know what else. A skirt? Pants? He tried to envision the heap of clothes at the end of the table, but he couldn't tell what they were for the blood, the blood. "I have to find her immediately."

"Yes, sir," she said, and continued to walk slowly, sedately down the corridor.

"You don't understand!" he said. "It's urgent! She-"

"I understand that you're upset, sir," she said, but didn't quicken her pace.

"She's in danger!"

The woman nodded and walked him slowly down the hall and around a corner.

Bong! He looked up, alarmed. It was a clock, a large wooden wall clock with Roman numerals and a pendulum. A quarter to two. And the t.i.tanic had gone down at 2:20.

"You don't understand!" he said, clutching the woman's arms and shaking her. "There's no time!

I have to find her and get her off. Just tell me how to get to C Deck!"

Her eyes widened and filled with tears. "If you'll just come this way, sir," she said pleadingly.

"Please, sir."

"There's no time!" he said. "I'll find her myself!" and ran down the pa.s.sage and through the door at the end of it. And into a ma.s.s of jostling, gesturing people.

The Boat Deck, he thought, but this was an inside room, too, with large double doors along one side. Everyone was pus.h.i.+ng toward those doors. The Boat Deck must lie beyond them, and they were waiting here for their chance to board. He stretched his neck, trying to see over the top hats ofthe men, the feathered hats of the women, looking for Joanna's bare head. He couldn't see her.

Joanna had said the pa.s.sengers out on the deck had had no idea what was happening, but these people obviously did. They looked frightened, the men's faces strained and worried, the women's eyes rimmed with red. A young girl clung to an elderly man, sobbing helplessly into a black-edged handkerchief. "There, there," the old man said. "We must not give up hope." Did that mean all the boats were already gone? When had they launched the last one? Not until the very end, Joanna had said, but it couldn't be the very end. The deck wasn't slanting at all.

If he could get through the crowd. He pushed forward, looking for Joanna, craning his neck, trying to see over the sea of hats, trying to move forward, but the crowd was packed in tightly, and as he tried to push in, they blocked his way.

"Excuse me," he said, shoving past a young man in a brown coat and hat. He had a newspaper under his arm. At a time like this, Richard thought. "I have to get through. I'm looking for someone."