see?”
Joanna remained where she was for a moment, one hand on the door she had been about to push open. She withdrew it and took a couple of steps toward the desk, focusing on the two women behind it.
“Bobbie…Jane…” She looked from one to the other. “What is this?”
The two women exchanged a look. There was a hint of alarm in Jane's eyes, puzzlement and distrust in Bobbie's as she turned back to Joanna. “I'm sorry, is there some reason we should know who you are?”
Joanna stood before them. Her mouth worked as though she was about to speak, but she said nothing. She shook her head slowly, as though the movement could somehow make the situation go away like a bad joke that had outstayed its welcome.
“Don't do this to me, please. I don't think I can take this just now-all right?”
But it wasn't all right, and she could see in their faces that this was no joke. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Oh, my God…Oh, my God…no…no, this can't be…”
She turned and slammed open the door she'd been about to go through and ran down the corridor, barely hearing the angry shout of “Hey!” behind her. People she passed looked at her curiously, but she paid them no attention and ran on, turning right and left, past conference rooms and offices until she reached her own.
A man she'd never seen before sat at her desk. He looked up from the computer he was working at, frowned, and seemed about to ask a question.
She spoke first. “Who are you?”
“That's what I was going to ask you.”
“You're in my office. Do you mind telling me what you're doing in my office?”
“Now wait a minute…” He leaned back, looking at her more searchingly now. “I don't know what the problem is here, but this is my office and you're in it. Now if there's any way I can help you…”
He stopped. She had bunched her hands into fists and raised them to her temples as though to prevent her head from splitting open.
“This is insane…this can't be happening…I'm going mad…!”
The man got up from his chair, concerned now. “Look, maybe you'd better sit down. Can I call someone for you…?”
His tone was kindly, but when he reached out to guide her to the chair across the desk from his, she screamed. “Don't touch me! Get your hands off me!”
She turned and ran, this time wildly. People got out of her way, backing against walls to avoid collision or contact of any kind with her. Startled faces peered out from their offices to see what the commotion was about. Suddenly up ahead she saw Taylor Freestone about to go into his office. He was reading something and didn't register her presence until she was almost on top of him.
“Taylor…!” She was breathless, her hair wild, confronting him with her feet planted firmly apart and arms rigid at her sides. “For God's sake, Taylor, tell me you know me. Tell them who I am!”
He turned totally white. His eyes flickered nervously over the people who were gathering to observe them.
“What's all this?” he asked. “What's happening here? What's this about?”
“I'm Joanna Cross! I work here!” She screamed the words, as though by sheer volume she could force everyone to acknowledge their truth.
“You what…?” he said incredulously.
She made an effort to control the panic that was gripping her. “Joanna…Joanna Cross…Why don't you know who I am, Taylor? Why are you behaving like this…?”
Without realizing it, she had taken a step toward him and seized the lapel of his jacket. His eyes widened in fear and he pulled himself free, stumbling slightly as he did so.
“Somebody get security…!”
“They're on their way,” a man's voice called out.
“Now look, Miss,” Taylor Freestone stuttered, “whoever you are and whatever you want…”
“I'm not whoever…I'm Joanna Cross…I work for you, I write for this magazine…”
“I've never seen you before in my…”
“Camp Starburst. My story on Camp Starburst boosted circulation two percent…”
“Camp what…?”
“You said the one I'm writing now on Adam Wyatt is worth a Pulitzer…”
Taylor Freestone's eyes continued to widen with alarm and disbelief. “I have no idea what you're…”
“Sam Towne! You made a donation to his department at Manhattan University, for the story that I'm doing on the Adam Wyatt experiment.”
She became aware of a movement behind her. Two of the uniformed security guards who were normally on duty downstairs in the main lobby appeared at her side.
“Just come along with us, quietly now, please,” one of them said.
She felt their hands on her arms and tried to shake them off, but they gripped tighter.
“Wait a minute, let's at least try to find out what's going on here.” The man who spoke was the one who'd been occupying her office. He stepped forward now, prepared to defend her.
“Leave this to us, please, sir,” one of the security guards said.
“I will leave it to you-as soon as I'm satisfied we all know what we're doing.” He looked at her squarely. “Now who are you? What do you want?”
She realized she had to stay calm, or at least pretend to, let them see she could do it and that she was not demented, not a madwoman but somebody worthy of respect, their respect. “I'm trying to tell you,” she said, “I'm Joanna Cross…I'm a writer…”
“Is that why you've come here?” he asked. There was a strange gentleness in his tone. She realized that despite his gallantry he was still humoring her, doing the decent thing by a troubled woman rather than sensing a truth that he meant to uncover.
“I came here,” she said, her voice trembling, “because I work here…and because I needed money…”
“The magazine owes you money?”
“No…I found myself on the street with no money…I needed…”
The man reached into his back pocket and brought out a wallet.
“Don't give her anything,” Taylor Freestone said sharply. “We have no responsibility here, don't assume any.”
“Giving her a few bucks isn't going to hurt,” the other man said.
He held out some bills. She didn't know how many, she didn't look. She thought for a moment she was going to pass out. The sheer impossibility of it all was overwhelming, and unconsciousness, with its implied promise that maybe she'd wake up and things would be all right again, seemed like the only choice before her.
But some small part of her brain was telling her to hang on, not to let go, not now, not yet. This wasn't a dream and it wasn't impossible, because it was actually happening. She couldn't run or hide. She had to face this thing and see it through.
“Take it,” the man said, still holding out the money. “I'm sorry we can't help you, but if you need money…”
“No!” Taylor Freestone protested again.
“It's my money, damnit!” the man snapped back. “Please take it,” he said to her more gently. “Please just take it and go-all right?”
Very slowly, realizing there was nothing to be done, knowing that whatever happened, whatever she did next or wherever she went or tried to go, she would need money, she reached out and took it.
“Thank you.” Her voice was barely audible, but she sensed that her action, her acceptance of this stranger's gift, had somehow defused the situation.
“Just get her out of here,” Taylor Freestone said to the guards. “And make sure she doesn't get back in.”
This time she didn't shake off the pressure on her arm. She let herself be led along the familiar corridors, through the lobby where Bobbie and Jane's silent gaze followed her out, through the glass doors, then into the elevator, and finally onto the street.
There they let her go, and watched until she was safely out of sight.
