But what? Again it was something she couldn't pinpoint, something she would need to think about.
“Well, I'm sure you're busy,” he said. “I won't keep you.” He sensed her awkwardness, she knew, and was trying to put her at ease. “I'm sorry again if this was a little early. But I did want to be sure you were, you know, all right.”
“Thank you. I'm fine, really. You're very kind.”
When she hung up she made an effort to put him and the banal little conversation they'd just had out of her mind. She was angry with herself for being so distracted when she had important things to do. She picked up the phone and dialed a number that she knew by heart. A woman's voice answered sleepily.
“Ghislaine? You sound like you're still in bed.”
“I was working half the night. Had a deadline.”
“Good-I hope that means you're free to start something for me.”
Ghislaine Letts was the best researcher Joanna knew. An academic highflier with an IQ off the charts, she lacked the discipline or aptitude to hold down any kind of routine job. By rights she ought to have been writing learned tomes or directing the fortunes of mankind in one arena or another; instead she was living in a cramped apartment in the Village and fighting an eating disorder that kept her weight seesawing between stick thin and hopelessly obese, and which would one day kill her if she didn't get on top of it. Meanwhile she was Joanna's friend and secret weapon whenever she needed to find out something that seemed beyond the limits of human ingenuity to discover.
“Shoot,” said Ghislaine, stifling a yawn.
“All I've got is a name, dates, and a graveyard…”
39
Ward Riley, Joanna realized as she entered his apartment for the first time, must be a very rich man indeed. He lived in the Dakota Building, a neo-Gothic pile on Central Park West, built toward the end of the last century and one of the most prestigious addresses in Manhattan. It was famous as the place where John Lennon was shot, and also as the location for the film Rosemary's Baby in the sixties. And to people like Joanna who liked to read occasionally, it was also the setting of Jack Finney's marvelous novel about time travel, Time and Again. A place, as she said to herself, with interesting associations.
A Chinese manservant showed her into a sitting room that was high ceilinged and light, with a commanding view over the park. The place had a distinctly oriental flavor, with everything in it-antique bronzes, carvings, lacquered work, and delicately colored paintings-giving the impression of having been chosen with fastidious and exquisite care.
Ward and Sam were already in conversation. They rose to greet her. Ward, with his usual formal courtesy, shook her hand and asked if she would like coffee, which they were drinking, or anything else. She said no thank you, and sensed rather than saw the manservant discreetly withdraw, leaving them to talk in private.
“Well,” she said, taking a seat on a long sofa with her back to the light, “I hear you were in Sweden. Did you find the man you were looking for?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly. “As I said, he's never hard to find when you need him. He was holding a symposium for a group of bankers and industrialists in a castle near Stockholm.”
“Just your average group of pilgrims on the hard road to enlightenment?” The remark was more ironic than malicious. Ward smiled faintly.
“Shahan says-that's his name, Shahan-Shahan says that self-denial has no meaning once the self is properly understood.”
“Well, maybe he's right,” she responded equably. “I wouldn't want to give him an argument right now.” She glanced at Sam. “Did you tell Ward about the grave?”
“Yes. But only just before you arrived.” He looked at the older man. “I'm not sure yet what his reaction is.”
Ward answered cautiously. “I'm not sure yet myself. It's not inconsistent with what's known of these phenomena.” He looked at Joanna. “I'll be curious to see what your research into this grave turns up.”
“Was Shahan familiar with ‘these phenomena’?” she asked.
“Indeed, yes. He has no personal experience, but he quoted texts on the subject written nearly three thousand years ago. As I think we were all aware, the phenomena are as old as recorded time.”
“And did he think,” she continued, “that Adam could have caused the deaths of Maggie, and Drew and Barry?”
Ward again hesitated over his reply. “ Caused, perhaps, is too strong a word. The phenomenon is powerful, and potentially destructive. But it's a destructiveness more of the kind that you and Roger talked about-an incompatibility more than outright malevolence. It's a thought-form, made of energy- our energy.
And energy is finite. It can't be in two places, doing two things, at once. In the end either the tulpa will exist, or its creators will. But not both.”
There was a silence as they absorbed the implications of Ward's somewhat apocalyptic statement. Sam sat staring into space, hands cupped beneath his chin in an attitude almost of prayer.
“What I'd like to know,” he said, “is why this has happened. To us. This group. This experiment. Why didn't Adam just fade out when we wanted him to? What's made him hang on to his existence like this?”
“I get the feeling he's not just hanging on to it,” Joanna said quietly, “he's fighting back.” She turned to Ward. “Did Shahan think there was anything at all we can do?”
Ward pulled a long white envelope from inside his jacket. Even though he had stepped off an international flight only hours ago, he wore, as usual, an impeccable suit, silk shirt, and tie.
“In here,” he said, “I have a mantra. It's a very particular form of mantra, called a partita: a protective rite. They're used widely throughout Tibet and eastern Asia to ward off danger and disease, and exorcise evil spirits.”
Joanna watched Sam as he listened to Ward. She could see that he was torn between the belief he wanted to have and the doubts he instinctively felt toward formal ritual.
“ Paritta? ” he said. “It sounds like something you might get in a Mexican restaurant. Do you think it can work in New York?”“Why not?” Ward said. “New York is where Adam was created.”
Sam pursed his lips and shrugged. “I'm open to anything…”
The ghost of a smile passed over Ward's face. “Fortunately this isn't something you have to believe in to make work. You simply have to perform the ritual in the correct way at the appropriate time. But there must be no deviation from the form laid down.”
“So what is this mantra?” Sam asked, glancing at the envelope in Ward's hand.
“I can't tell you-yet. After he wrote it down, Shahan sealed this envelope himself. It must not be opened, and what is written down must not be spoken, until all five of us are gathered in the place where we created Adam. Otherwise,” he returned the envelope to his inside jacket pocket, “whatever force the paritta has will be lost, and with it quite possibly our struggle against Adam.”
Sam spread his hands in a way that implied he would go along with whatever Ward wanted, regardless of his personal reservations. Ward inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“I'm sorry if these restrictions seem irritating or even naive, but I'm afraid they're an important part of the ritual. I've taken the liberty of calling Roger. He can get in from Princeton by six. If it's agreeable to both of you, and of course Pete, I suggest we meet in Adam's room at the lab.”
The phone in Joanna's purse buzzed. She excused herself and answered it. It was Ghislaine.
“You said this was a rush job, so I thought you'd like to hear what I've come up with so far.”
Joanna covered the mouthpiece and whispered to the two men watching her. “It's my researcher. She's got something.”
Ghislaine's voice continued in her ear. “It's just what I've been able to pull from various sources, mainly ones I can access on the Net. I'll have something fuller in a couple of days.”
“It's okay, just give me what you have.”
“It's probably easier if I e-mail it. Where do you want me to send it?”
