48
It was only when she asked for change in a magazine store that she realized the man in her office had given her fifty dollars-an act of surprising generosity that she wished she'd thanked him better for. Better still would have been not needing to thank him for anything.
She found a pay phone and tried Ward's number again. Still no reply. Next she phoned the lab. Peggy answered.
“Peggy, it's me-Joanna.”
“Joanna?”
“I wondered if you'd heard from Sam in the last half hour or so.”
“Sam's out right now. Actually I'm not quite sure where he is. Can I give him a message?”
“No, I…tell him I'll call back.”
“All right, Joanna, I'll make a note.”
The way she said “Joanna” didn't sound right. It wasn't the way you'd speak to a friend, or even to anyone you knew. Peggy was using the caller's first name out of politeness, not out of any sense of intimacy. “Joanna” was just a woman on the phone who could have given any name.
Joanna swallowed, forcing herself to accept what she knew was the truth. “You don't know who I am, do you, Peggy?”
“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I can quite place you. Would you like to remind me where we've met?”
“It doesn't matter,” she managed to say, and hung up.
The phone was one of a row in the subway at Columbus Circle. Nobody paid any attention to the woman who stood there with her face in her hands, leaning against the inside wall of the booth as though about to collapse. One or two people glanced her way as they passed, thinking maybe she'd just made a call and received some devastating news-the death of a loved one, perhaps, or the diagnosis of some illness more grave than she'd feared. None of them paused or came over to help. No one chose to get involved.
Joanna fished out some more coins and dialed the number she most feared calling. Her mother answered after three rings with her usual interrogatory “Hello?”
“Mom?”
A pause, then, hesitantly, “Joanna? Is that you?”
Joanna didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until it came out of her in a shuddering sob. “Mom…help me, Mom, I don't know what's happening…you're the only one who knows who I am…I've got to see you…I'm coming out there right now…”
“Who is this?”
The words cut like a knife through her brain. “Mom, you just said…I said ‘Mom’ and you said ‘Joanna’…”
“I said ‘Joanna, is that you?’ But you're not Joanna. Now whoever you are, this is not a very funny joke. Don't call me again.”
She hung up.
49
It was nearly three hours before Sam was finished with the police. Their questions had been probing and fueled by a deep suspicion-for which he couldn't blame them, given the circumstances. But they seemed satisfied in the end that Ward's death was suicide or conceivably an accident, but not murder.
He thought it wise not to tell them too much about Adam Wyatt and the whole experiment, saying merely that Ward took an interest in his work and had volunteered to take part in a series of experiments that were essentially statistical. The mention of statistics had deadened their interest sufficiently to let the whole topic of the paranormal slip by unexplored. Sam gave his personal details and said he'd be glad to make himself available for any further questioning.
Before leaving, and with the distraught manservant's approval, he made some calls from the phone in the apartment's main reception room. The first was to Joanna's mobile phone. He tried three times, each time getting a recording that told him there was some error in the number he had dialed, which was not currently allocated to any subscriber. He knew there was no error, but didn't persist.
He tried her number at Beekman Place, and listened to the phone ring out-until it was answered by a man with a Bronx accent.
“Fiedler's Deli.”
Sam checked the number with the man. He'd dialed correctly, but this was not Beekman Place and there was no Joanna Cross at that location, only an assortment of sandwiches and salads that could be delivered in the neighborhood at no extra charge. Sam apologized for troubling the man and hung up.
He called the Around Town office and asked for Joanna Cross. The request caused a flurry of excitement; he could hear muffled conversations around the phone, people being called, advice sought. Finally he was put through to Taylor Freestone.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Sam Towne.”
“Sam Towne? That's the second time I've heard that name today. The woman you're asking about, Joanna Cross, mentioned it when she was in here.”
“I'm trying to find her.”
“Well, you won't find her here. I don't know who she is, but security has orders to keep her out if she ever comes back. Who is she, anyway?”
Sam hesitated. “I'm not sure I can tell you that, Mr. Freestone. I'm sorry to have troubled you. Good- bye.”
When he hung up he waited a moment before dialing again. He was too afraid that he already knew what he was going to hear. All the same, he had to face it. If only as a scientist, he had to put his theories to the test. Peggy answered the phone.
“Any messages for me, Peggy?”
“There was a call from Carl Janowitz at that funding board you've been talking with. One from Bob Gulliver in the dean's office. And one from a Joanna Cross. She seemed to think we knew each other. Has she worked with us as some point?”
“Yes, actually she has, Peggy.”
“I can't quite place her. Anyway, she said she'd call back.”
He thanked her and hung up. He debated whether to try calling Joanna's parents. He didn't have their number, but could probably find it easily enough.
But what would he say? What could he?
There were other things he had to do first, things that would cause no unnecessary distress to others. Above all he had to keep a tight grip on himself and his own sanity, remembering that he was a scientist who must confront the situation he was in with as much emotional neutrality and clarity of mind as he could muster, asking questions and not hiding from the answers, whatever they might be and wherever they might lead.
Before leaving, he walked to the window and stood motionless for some moments, looking out. He remembered how the narrator in Jack Finney's story of time travel-he and Joanna had talked about it only yesterday-had stood at a window in this building and looked out on a New York of the past.
Sam knew that what he was looking out on now was something far more alien than the past.
50
