Passage

“I don’t think she’s wearing it.”

“Hospital regulations require all personnel to wear their pagers at all times,” she said disapprovingly and reached for a prescription pad as if to record the infraction.

Well, yes, he thought, and if she had it on, it would make his life a lot easier, but it was a ridiculous rule—he turned his own pager off half the time. You were constantly being interrupted otherwise. And if he got Dr. Lander in trouble, she’d hardly be inclined to work with him.

“I’ll try her pager again,” he said hastily. “You said she was interviewing a patient. Which patient?”

“Mrs. Davenport. In 314.”

“Thank you,” he said and went down the hall to 314. “Mrs. Davenport?” he said to a gray-haired woman in the bed. “I’m looking for Dr. Lander, and—”

“So am I,” Mrs. Davenport said peevishly. “I’ve been having her paged all afternoon.”

He was back to square one.

“She told me I could have the nurse page her if I remembered anything else about my near-death experience,” Mrs. Davenport said, “and I’ve been sitting here remembering all sorts of things, but she hasn’t come.”

“And she didn’t say where she was going after she interviewed you?”

“No. Her pager went off when I was right in the middle, and she had to hurry off.”

Her pager went off. So, at that point, at least, she had had it turned on. And if she had hurried off, it must have meant another patient. Someone who’d coded and been revived? Where would that be? In CICU? “Thank you,” he said and started for the door.

“If you find her, tell her I’ve remembered I did have an out-of-body experience. It was like I was above the operating table, looking down. I could see the doctors and nurses working over me, and the doctor said, ‘It’s no use, she’s gone,’ and that’s when I heard the buzzing noise and went into the tunnel. I—”

“I’ll tell her,” Richard said, and went back out into the hall and down to the nurses’ station.

“Mrs. Davenport said Dr. Lander was paged by someone while she was interviewing her,” he said to the nurse. “Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call CICU.”

The nurse handed him a phone and turned pointedly away.

“Can you give me the extension for CICU?” he said. “I—”

“It’s 4502,” a cute blond nurse said, coming up to the nurses’ station. “Are you looking for Joanna Lander?”

“Yes,” he said gratefully. “Do you know where she is?”

“No,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes, “but I know where she might be. In Pediatrics. They called down earlier, looking for her.”

“Thanks,” he said, hanging up the phone. “Can you tell me how to get to Peds? I’m new here.”

“I know,” she said, smiling coyly. “You’re Dr. Wright, right? I’m Tish.”

“Tish, which floor is Peds on?” he asked. “The elevators are that way, right?”

“Yes, but Peds is in the west wing. The easiest way to get there is to go over to Endocrinology,” she said, pointing in the other direction, “take the stairs up to fifth, and cross over—” She stopped and smiled at him. “I’d better show you. It’s complicated.”

“I’ve already found that out,” he said. It had taken nearly half an hour and asking three different people to get from his office down to Medicine. “You can’t get there from here,” a pink-smocked aide had said to him. He’d thought she was kidding. Now he knew better.

“Eileen, I’m running up to Peds,” Tish called to the charge nurse, and led him down the hall. “It’s because Mercy General used to be South General and Mercy Lutheran and a nursing school, and when they merged, they didn’t tear out anything. They just rigged it with all these walkways and connecting halls and stuff so it would work. Like doing a bypass or something.” She opened a door marked “Hospital Personnel Only” and started up the stairs. “These stairs go up to fourth, fifth, and sixth, but not seventh and eighth. If you want those floors, you have to go down that hall we were just in and use the service elevator. So how long have you been here?”

“Six weeks,” he said.

“Six weeks?” Tish said. “Then how come we haven’t met before? How come I haven’t seen you at Happy Hour?”

“I haven’t been able to find it,” he said. “I’m lucky to find my office.”

Tish laughed a tinkling laugh. “Everybody gets lost in Mercy General. The most anybody knows is how to get from the parking lot to the floor they work on and back,” she said, going ahead of him up the stairs. So I can see her legs, he thought. “What kind of doctor are you?” she asked.

“A neurologist,” he said. “I’m here conducting a research project.”

“Really?” she said eagerly. “Do you need an assistant?”

I need a partner, he thought.

Tish opened a door marked “5,” and led him out into the hallway. “What kind of project is it?” she asked. “I really want to transfer out of Medicine.”

He wondered if she’d be as eager to transfer after he told her what the project was about. “I’m investigating near-death experiences.”

“You’re trying to prove there’s life after death?” Tish asked.

“No,” he said grimly. “This is scientific research. I’m investigating the physical causes of near-death experiences.”

“Really?” she said. “What do you think causes them?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said. “Temporal-lobe stimulation, for a start, and anoxia.”

“Oh,” she said, eager again. “When you said near-death experiences, I thought you meant like what Mr. Mandrake does. You know, believing in life after death and stuff.”

So does everybody, Richard thought bitterly, which is why it’s so hard to get serious NDE research funded. Everyone thinks the field’s full of channelers and cranks, and they’re right. Mr. Mandrake and his book, The Light at the End of the Tunnel, were prime examples. But what about Joanna Lander?

She had good credentials, an undergraduate degree from Emory and a doctorate in cognitive psychology from Stanford, but a degree, even a medical degree, wasn’t a guarantee of sanity. Look at Dr. Seagal. And Arthur Conan Doyle. Doyle had been a doctor. He’d invented Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake, the ultimate believer in science and the scientific method, and yet he’d believed in communicating with the dead and in fairies.

But Dr. Lander had had articles in The Psychology Quarterly Review and Nature, and she had just the kind of experience in interviewing NDE subjects he needed.

“What do you know about Dr. Lander?” he asked Tish.

“Not very much,” she said. “I’ve only been in Medicine for a month. She and Mr. Mandrake come around sometimes to interview patients.”

“Together?” he asked sharply.

“No, not usually. Usually he comes and then she comes later.”

To follow up? Or was she working independently? “Does Dr. Lander believe in ‘life after death and stuff,’ as you call it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never talked to her except about whether a patient can have visitors. She’s sort of mousy,” she said. “She wears glasses. I think your research sounds really interesting, so if you do need an assistant—”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” he said. They had reached the end of the hall.

“I guess I’d better get back,” she said regretfully. “You go down that hall,” she pointed to the left, “and make a right. You’ll see the walkway. Go through it, take a right and then a left, and you’ll come to a bank of elevators. Take one down to fourth, turn right, and you’re there. You can’t get lost.”

“Thanks,” he said, hoping she was right.

“Anytime,” she said. She smiled up at him through her lashes. “Very nice meeting you, Dr. Wright. If you want to go to Happy Hour, just call me, and I’ll be glad to show you the way.”

A right to the walkway, and then a right and a left, he thought, starting down the hall, determined to get to