Passage (11 page)

Joanna nodded.

“Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know she was back in. She loves it when you visit her. God, it’s cold out here! My feet are freezing!” she said and headed off toward her Honda.

Joanna found the scraper and started in on the front windshield. The wait for a heart was frequently over a year, even if you were moved to the top of the list, a year during which the damaged heart continued to deteriorate, dragging the lungs and the kidneys and the chances of survival down with it.

And that was for an adult heart. The wait for children was even longer, unless you were lucky. And lucky meant a child drowned in a swimming pool or killed in a car accident or frozen to death in a blizzard. Even then the heart had to be undamaged. And healthy. And a match. And the patient had to be still alive when it got there. Had to have not gone into V-fib again and died.

“If we can figure out how the dying process works,” Richard had said, “that knowledge could eventually be used to revive patients who’ve coded.”

Joanna moved to the back windshield and began brushing snow off the window. Like the elderly woman she had seen from Coma Carl’s window. Heart attack weather, Vielle had said. Dying weather. Disaster weather.

She went back into the hospital and asked the volunteer at
the front desk if she could borrow the phone. She asked for Dr. Wright’s extension.

He wasn’t there. “Leave a message at the tone,” the message said. It beeped.

“All right,” Joanna said to the answering machine. “I’ll do it. I’ll work with you on your project.”

R
ICHARD CHECKED
his answering machine as soon as he got to work the next morning to see if Joanna had called. “You have twelve messages,” it said reprovingly. Which was what you got for spending all day running around the hospital looking for someone.

He started going through the messages, clicking to the next one as soon as the caller had identified himself. Mrs. Bendix, Mrs. Brightman. “I just wanted to welcome you to Mercy General,” she said in an ancient, quavery voice, “and to tell you how delighted I am that you are researching near-death experiences, or, rather, near-life experiences, for I feel sure your experiments will convince you that what these patients are witnessing is the life and the loved ones we will find again on the other side of the grave. Are you aware that Maurice Mandrake is also at Mercy General? I presume you have read
The Light at the End of the Tunnel?
”

“Oh, yes,” Richard said to the machine.

“We’re extremely fortunate to have him here,” Mrs. Brightman’s message continued. “I feel sure you two will have a great deal to say to each other.”

“Not if there’s a stairway handy,” he said and hit “next message.” A Mr. Edelman from the National Association of Paranormal Experiences, Mr. Wojakowski.

“Just double-checking about tomorrow,” Mr. Wojakowski said. “Tried to call you before, but couldn’t get through. Reminds me of these telephones we had on the
Yorktown
for sending messages up to the bridge. You had to wind ’em up with a crank kinda deal, and—”

Mr. Wojakowski, once started on the
Yorktown
, could go on
forever. Richard hit “next message.” The grants office, telling him there was a form he hadn’t turned in. “Wright?” a man’s voice said. Peter Davis, his roommate when they were interns. He never bothered to identify himself. “I suppose you’ve heard,” Davis said. “I can’t believe it about fox, can you? This isn’t some kind of virus, is it? If so, you’d better get vaccinated. Or at least call and warn me before you hit the star. Call me.”

He wondered what that was all about. The only Fox he knew was R. John Foxx, a neuropsychologist who’d been conducting research on anoxia as the cause of near-death experiences. Richard hit “next message” again.

Someone from the International Paranormal Society. Mr. Wojakowski again. “Hiya, Doc. Hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d try again. Wanted to make sure it’s two o’clock tomorrow. Or fourteen bells, as we used to say on the
Yorktown.”

Amelia Tanaka, saying, “I may be a few minutes late, Dr. Wright. I’ve got an anatomy exam, and last time it took the whole two hours. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mr. Suarez, wanting to reschedule his session for tomorrow. Davis again, even more incomprehensible than before. “Forgot to tell you where. Seventeen. Under phantom,” followed by an unrecognizable tuneless humming. Housekeeping.

“Dr. Wright?” Joanna’s voice said. He leaned alertly toward the machine. “This is Joanna Lander. A—Your machine is full,” the answering machine said.

“No,”
Richard said. Damn Davis. Damn Mr. Wojakowski, with his endless reminiscences of the
Yorktown.
The one message he really needed to hear—

He hit “repeat” and played the message again. “Dr. Wright? This is Joanna Lander. A—” Was that sound at the end “I,” as in, “I’d love to work with you on your project.” or a short “a,” as in, “After due consideration, I’ve decided to decline your offer” ?

He listened to it again. “Ah,” he decided. As in, “Ah, forget it” ? Or, “All my life I’ve wanted a chance at a project like this” ? There was no way to tell. He’d have to wait until ten o’clock and see if she showed up. Or try and locate her.

Or not, considering this hospital. That was all he needed, for her to be here waiting and looking at her watch, while he
tried to find his way back from the west wing. He picked up the phone and paged her, just on the chance she had her pager switched on, and then hit “repeat” again. There must have been something in her tone that would be a clue as to whether—

“All your messages have been erased,” the machine said. No! He dived at the machine, hit “play.” “You have zero messages.”

Richard grabbed for a prescription pad. “Wojakowski,” he scribbled. “Cartwright Chemical, Davis—” Who else? he thought, trying to reconstruct the messages in his mind. Mrs. Brightman, and then somebody from Northwestern. Geneva Carlson? The phone rang. Richard snatched it up, hoping it was Joanna. “Hello?”

“So, have you seen it?” Davis said.

“Seen what, Davis?”

“The star!”

“What star? You call and leave an undecipherable message—”

“Undecipherable?” Davis said, sounding offended. “It was perfectly clear. I even told you what page the article was on.”

Not a star. The
Star
, the tabloid newspaper. “What was the article about?” Richard asked.

“Foxx! He’s gone nutcase and announced he’s proved there’s life after death. Wait a minute, I’ve got it here, let me read it to you . . . ” There was a thunking sound as he dropped the phone, and a rattle of paper. “ ‘Dr. R. John Foxx, a respected scientist in the field of near-death research, said, “When I began my research into near-death experiences, I was convinced they were hallucinations caused by oxygen deprivation, but after exhaustive research, I’ve concluded they are a preview of the afterlife. Heaven is real. God is real. I have spoken to Him.” ’ ”

“Oh, my God,” Richard murmured.

“He’s leaving medicine to open the Eternal Life Institute,” Davis said. “So, my question is, is this something that happens to everybody who does NDE research? I mean, first Seagal claims he’s located the soul in the temporal lobe and has photos of it leaving the body, and now Foxx.”

“Seagal was always crazy,” Richard said.

“But Foxx wasn’t,” Davis said. “What if it’s some kind of virus that infects everybody who studies NDEs and makes them go wacko? How do I know you won’t suddenly announce that a picture of the Virgin Mary appeared to you on the RIPT scan screen?”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

“Well, if you do,” Davis said, “call me first, before you call the
Star.
I’ve always wanted to be that friend they interview, the one who says, ‘No, I never noticed anything unusual about him. He was always quiet, well mannered, something of a loner.’ Speaking of which, any babes on the horizon?”

“No,” Richard said, thinking of Joanna. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after ten. Whatever the cut-off “A—” in her message had meant, it wasn’t acceptance. She’d probably read the
Star
and decided working with anybody on near-death research was too risky. It was too bad. He had really looked forward to working with her. I should have offered her something more substantial than an energy bar, he thought.

“No cute little nurses, huh?” Davis said. “That’s because you’re in the wrong specialty. I got ’em lined up out the door.” Knowing Davis, he probably did. “Of course, there’s another explanation.”

“For having women lined up out the door?” Richard said.

“No,”
Davis said, “for everybody associated with NDE research suddenly becoming true believers. Maybe it’s all true, the tunnel and heaven and the soul, and there really
is
an afterlife.” He began humming again, the same weird nontune as he had hummed on the answering machine.

“What
is
that ungodly sound supposed to be?
The Twilight Zone?
”

Davis snorted. “It’s the theme from
The X-Files.
It’s a possibility, you know. The NDEers are right, and when we die we end up surrounded by Precious Moments figurines. In which case, I for one am not going.”

“Me neither,” Richard said, laughing.

“And I’d appreciate you calling and warning me so I can get started on immortality research right away.”

“I will,” Richard promised. There was a knock on the door.
Richard looked up eagerly. “Gotta go,” he said, hung up, and hurried across the lab to open the door.

“Ah, Dr. Wright,” Mr. Mandrake said, coming into the lab, “I was hoping you’d be here. We didn’t have a chance to talk yesterday.”

Richard resisted the impulse to look wildly around for an exit. “I’m afraid now isn’t a good time—”

Mr. Mandrake walked over to the RIPT scan. “Is this what you hope to capture the NAE with?” he asked, peering underneath its arch-shaped dome. “You won’t be able to, you know. The NAE can’t be photographed.”

Like ghosts? Richard thought. And UFOs?

“Any number of researchers have already tried to find a physical cause that can explain the NAE, you know,” he said. “Carbon-dioxide buildup, endorphins, random firing of synapses.” He gave the RIPT scan a dismissive tap and walked over to the EEG. “There are a number of NAE phenomena that science cannot explain.”

Name one, Richard thought.

“How do you explain the fact that every person who has experienced the NAE says that it was not a dream, that it really happened?”

Subjective experience is hardly proof of anything, Richard thought.

“And how could endorphins or CO
₂
buildup confer knowledge on the subject experiencing the NAE?” Mr. Mandrake asked. “Knowledge that scientists agree the subject could not have attained by normal means?”

What scientists? Richard thought. Dr. Foxx? Dr. Seagal?

“A number of my subjects have reported seeing a relative on the Other Side whom they thought was alive and being surprised to see them there,” Mandrake said. “When the subjects returned, they telephoned family members and were informed that the relative had just died. In each of these cases, there was no way the subject could have known about the relative’s death in advance.”

“Do you have a list of their names?” Richard asked.

“It would be highly unprofessional for me to release the names of the subjects of my studies,” Mr. Mandrake said disapprovingly,
“but there have been numerous documented instances of the phenomenon.”

“Really?” Richard said. “In which journals?”

“The scientific establishment is unfortunately extremely narrow-minded when it comes to publishing the results of near-death research,” Mr. Mandrake said stiffly. “Except for a few brave pioneers like Dr. Seagal and Dr. Lander, they cannot see the greater realities which lie around them.”

At the mention of Joanna’s name, Richard glanced at the clock again. Ten-thirty.

“ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” Mr. Mandrake said. “There have also been numerous cases of returned NAEers displaying paranormal gifts. One of my subjects—”

“This really isn’t a good time,” Richard said. “I have a phone call I need to make, so if you’ll excuse me—” He picked up the phone.

“Of course,” Mr. Mandrake said. “I must go see Mrs. Davenport. I’ll be eager to discuss your findings with you.”

He exited. Richard started to put the phone down and then picked it up again and began punching in Amelia Tanaka’s number as Mr. Mandrake reappeared. “I wanted you to have a copy of
The Light at the End of the Tunnel,”
he said, reaching for Richard’s pen. “No, no, don’t let me interrupt your call.” He waved to Richard to keep dialing. “It’s Wright with a
W
, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Richard said, punching in the rest of the number. It began to ring. Mandrake scrawled something on the title page. “Ms. Tanaka?” Richard said into the phone. “This is Dr. Wright.”