do?”
You’ve already done it, Joanna thought, looking enviously at them, all those mothers, all those children, you gave up your place and your life and saved them.
“The end can’t come yet,” Mr. Funderburk said. “There is supposed to be a Life Review first.”
And this is it, Joanna thought, looking at Edith, at Yates, this is the Life Review, knowing you failed where others succeeded. Being tried in the balance and found wanting. Maisie, she thought despairingly. Maisie is the important thing. And I didn’t do it.
“I call,” Yates said, and Joanna laid down her hand.
“Two pair,” she said. “Aces and eights.” The dead man’s hand.
The doors banged open and Greg stormed in. “Half of C Deck’s underwater,” he announced, “and the whole First-Class Dining Saloon.”
Ms. Grant stood up, wringing her hands. “How long before the end, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Joanna said. “Irreversible brain death occurs in four to six minutes, but synapses continue to fire for several minutes after that—”
“It’s been longer than that,” Ms. Grant said hopefully. “Maybe—”
Joanna shook her head. “Time doesn’t—”
“The last regular lifeboat was launched at 1:55 a.m.,” Mr. Briarley said. “The lights went out at 2:15, and five minutes later the ship went down. That means there was approximately twenty minutes betwee—”
“Time doesn’t what?” Ms. Grant asked.
“There were also four collapsible boats with canvas sides,” Mr. Briarley said, “but only two of them were launched. Collapsible A was washed off the deck and swamped, and Collapsible B capsized. The men who managed to climb aboard her bottom had to—”
“Where are they?” Greg said to Joanna.
“Greg—” Joanna said.
“Time doesn’t what?”
Greg grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, knocking cards and poker chips onto the floor. “Where did they keep the collapsibles?”
“On the roof of the officers’ quarters,” Mr. Briarley said.
“Where are the officers’ quarters?” Greg demanded.
“You don’t understand,” Joanna said. “This isn’t the
Greg’s grip tightened viciously on her arm. “Where are the officers’ quarters? Which deck?”
“Even if they
“The Boat Deck,” Joanna said.
“Where on the Boat Deck?”
“On the starboard side,” Joanna said. “Between the wheelhouse and the wire—” The wireless shack. Where Jack Phillips had kept sending out SOSs long after the boats were gone. Where he had kept sending out signals to the very end.
“Between the wheelhouse and the what?” Greg demanded, but she had already wrenched free of his arm, was already running.
48
“Hold tight!”
Mrs. Davenport told Richard she had spoken to Joanna only yesterday. “She has a message for you,” Mrs. Davenport said. “She said to tell you she is happy and doesn’t want you to mourn her, because Death is not the end. It is only a passage to the Other Side.”
“I need to know when the last time you saw her on this side was,” Richard insisted. “Did you see her on the day she was killed?”
I’m wasting my time here. Mrs. Davenport doesn’t know anything, Richard thought. But too much was at stake to turn on his heel and walk out. “Did you see her on the day her
“Yes,” Mrs. Davenport said. “I saw her walking toward a bright light, and in the light was an angel, extending his hand to her, leading her to the light, and I knew then that she had crossed over, and I was glad, for there is no fear or sorrow or loneliness on the Other Side, only happiness.”
“Mrs. Davenport,” Richard said, and her psychic powers must have told her his patience was at an end.
“I did not see her in her earthly body that day,” she said. “I hadn’t seen her for several weeks, even though I’d paged her a number of times.” She smiled beatifically. “Now I speak with her nearly every day. She said to tell you that you cannot find the truth of death, or life, through science. Instead, you must seek the light.”
“Did she also say, ‘Rosabelle, believe’?” Richard asked.
“Yes, now that you mention it, I do remember her saying that,” Mrs. Davenport said eagerly. “She said, ‘Tell Richard, “Rosabelle, believe.” ’ What does it mean?”
That you’re just as in touch with the Other Side as all those bogus spiritualists Houdini’s wife consulted, Richard thought. “I have to go,” he said.
“Oh, but you can’t,” Mrs. Davenport said. “You have to tell me what ‘Rosabelle, believe’ means. Is it some kind of secret code? What does it mean?”
“It means it isn’t Joanna you’ve been getting messages from, it’s Houdini,” he said.
Richard escaped while she was reaching for the phone, and went back up to the lab and science. He called up Amelia Tanaka’s scans, and then, after a moment, deleted the command. The secret, if there was one, lay in something Joanna had experienced, something Joanna had seen. He called up Joanna’s.
Her scan appeared on the screen, a pattern of purple and green and blue. Telling him something. “Is it some kind of secret code?” Mrs. Davenport had asked. It was, and like Houdini’s mind-reading code, it had to be deciphered a little at a time. He began going through her scans, analyzing the patterns grid by grid, mapping the areas of activity, the receptors, the neurotransmitters.
The last time he’d talked to Joanna, he’d told her about the presence of DABA in her and Mrs. Troudtheim’s scans. Could she have discovered something about—? But she didn’t know anything about inhibitors, and DABA was present in other NDEs.
Still, it was a place to start. He checked for its presence in each of Joanna’s sessions. It was present in high levels in her last three sessions and at trace levels in her first one. He went through Mr. Sage’s scans. No DABA at all, but high levels in all but one of Amelia Tanaka’s, and trace levels in the template scan. Wonderful.
He started through each session’s data, graphing the neurotransmitters. Cortisol in 60 percent, beta- endorphins in 80 percent, enkephalin in 30 percent. And a long list of neurotransmitters present in only one blood panel: taurine, neurotensin, tryptamine, AMP, glycine, adenosine, and every endorphin and peptide in the book.
All right, combinations of neurotransmitters, he thought, and started looking for endorphins in tandem, but
