agreement with Ralph. Yet it was as honest as he could make it. He didn't know what other answer there could be.
“I'm all right,” she said, clearing her throat and blowing her nose. “I'm sorry, I'm all right now.”
Sam turned back to her. She was looking up at him, smiling an apology for her weakness.
“This isn't something that we've mentioned to Joanna, by the way. She knows about the other baby, of course, the sister she might have had. But we haven't mentioned it in…” she made a vague, general gesture, “in this context. I thought maybe it would be best not to.”
“I think you're right,” Sam said with what reassurance he could muster. “I don't see that it would particularly help in any way.”
The door opened and Joanna came into the room. She wore jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and had her hair tied behind her head. She looked subdued and oddly fragile.
“Dr. Towne-thank you for coming. Please tell me what's happening.”
Before he could say anything, she caught sight of her mother furtively hiding the handkerchief with which she'd been dabbing at her face.
“Mom, you've been crying! Please don't.”
“I'm all right…it's just all so…strange and upsetting.”
Joanna went over and gave her a hug.
“Don't worry-I'm sure everything's going to work out now that Dr. Towne's here.”
Ralph came back into the room and stood quietly by the bedroom door. Joanna turned to Sam.
“Ralph says you're going to stay in the house for a few days.”
“That's what I'd like to do.”
She looked at him. The way she was dressed, and with her eyes wide and questioning and with no makeup, she looked more like a strangely solemn teenager than a grown woman.
“Who is she?”
Sam was aware of Ralph's gaze on him, but he didn't look away from Joanna. “I can't say,” he said.
“You can't say? Or won't say? Or don't know?”
“I…don't know.”
She looked at him as though trying to divine whether he was lying to her or not.
“Why did she say ‘Help me’?”
“I don't know-yet. Maybe I'll be able to find out.”
“We must try to help her, whoever she is.”
“We will.”
Nobody else in the room spoke or moved, sensing that this was somehow a private moment between the two of them.
“Do you think I'm an awful coward not to go back?” She asked the question with a childlike seriousness, and waited for his answer.
“No. I don't think you should go back. I think it would be a mistake.”
“Why?”
He moved his head as though to say the answer was obvious.
“Ralph tells me that you're pregnant. That's a very good reason for being careful.”
“Do you think there's any danger?”
“I don't know. Sometimes it's more sensible not to find out.”
She continued to look at him, tipping her head slightly to one side, as though the angle gave her some insight into his thoughts.
“Is there something I don't know, Dr. Towne? Something that you're not telling me?”
Sam shook his head and gave a gentle smile. “No, I promise you.”
It was a lie, yet somehow an easy one. There was something about her that enchanted him, a freshness and an innocence that were all too rarely found.
“You have a very active imagination. That's another good reason for staying away from psychic phenomena.”
He looked over at Ralph.
“Don't let her go back there, Ralph-not yet.”
“Don't worry, I won't.”
Bob Cross gave a snort of impatience. “Well, I certainly intend to go over and take a look.”
Sam knew at once and instinctively that he had to prevent this, although he didn't know why-or, for that matter, quite how.
“If you'll forgive my saying so, Mr. Cross,” he began, trying to sound as deferential as he could, “I don't think that's a very good idea.”
“Why not?” Bob Cross looked at him in a way that suggested he'd better have good reasons to back up his advice.
“Not really anything specific,” Sam said, hoping he wouldn't be forced to go into too much detail. “It's just that whatever's happening here is a family-linked thing- your family. I think you should stay together, support one another, and not expose yourselves unnecessarily to any influences that we don't yet understand.”
Bob Cross looked unconvinced. “I want to see that damn mirror for myself-the one with scratching on the back.”
“You will. Just give me a day or two-please?”
The older man's face took on an expression of reluctance, but he grudgingly agreed, “Okay, you're the expert. I guess we'd better listen to you.”
Sam felt an immense relief. “By the way,” he said, turning to Joanna and changing the subject, “I read your book. It's excellent.”
Her face lit up with pleasure. “Do you really think so?”
“It deserves to do well.”
“I really appreciate your saying that. Do you think we could discuss it sometime, at more length?”
“I'd be happy to.”
Things drew quickly to a close. Joanna's father, having been denied access to the “scene of the crime,” was impatient to be on the move, urging his two women to collect their belongings while he phoned down to the garage for his car. Sam said his formal good-byes to all three of them in the hotel suite, then Ralph accompanied them downstairs. When he returned, Sam was waiting for him.
“You handled that well,” Ralph said to him. “Thank you.”
“They're nice people. I hope this thing won't cause them any more upset than it has already.”
Ralph had taken a bunch of keys from his pocket, but kept them in his fist for the time being. “I don't know whether I should be giving you the keys to my house, or calling Bellevue and having you put under restraint,” he said. “But after last night, I guess I have to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
He held out the keys. Sam took them.
“Thanks,” he said. “If you move out of the hotel, let me know where I can find you.”
60
It took him several hours to write down the whole story. He wrote in longhand, sitting at the desk in the music room where Ralph composed his operas, which were mostly unperformed, although several orchestral pieces had been recorded on CDs that Sam found in a rack on the wall. He played a couple, and found them interesting but too obviously influenced by other composers to be memorable. He reflected, ungenerously perhaps, that it was the work of someone wealthy enough to indulge his passion, though not talented enough to earn a living from it. But he made no comment on the music in what he wrote, seeing no cause to offend the man who would most likely be the one to find and read the document.
It was only when that thought crossed his mind that Sam asked himself whether the words he was writing were in anticipation of his own death, a kind of valediction. He realized that they were. Although he did not assume
