Passage

“Partner?” Dr. Lander wheeled to face him. “Who told you I was his partner? Did he tell you that? First he steals all my subjects and ruins them and now he’s telling people we work together! He has no right!” She stamped her foot. “I do not work with Mr. Mandrake!”

Richard grabbed her arm. “Wait. Whoa. Time out. I think we need to start over.”

“Fine,” she said. “I do not work with Maurice Mandrake. I am attempting to do legitimate scientific research on near-death experiences, but he is making it absolutely impossible—”

“And I’ve been attempting to contact you to talk to you about your research,” he said, extending his hand. “Richard Wright. I’m doing a project on the neurological causes of the near-death experience.”

“Joanna Lander,” she said, shaking his hand. “Look, I’m really sorry. I—”

He grinned. “You’ve had a bad day.”

“Yes,” she said, and he was surprised by the bleakness of the look she gave him.

“You said this was a bad time to talk,” he said hastily. “We don’t have to do it right now. We could set up a meeting tomorrow, if that would be better.”

She nodded. “Today just isn’t — one of my subjects — ” She recovered herself. “Tomorrow would be good. What time?”

“Ten o’clock? Or we could meet for lunch. When is the cafeteria open?”

“Hardly ever,” she said, and smiled. “Ten is fine. Where?”

“My lab’s up on six-east,” he said. “602.”

“Tomorrow at ten,” she said, and started down the hall, but before she had gone five steps she had turned and begun walking back toward him.

“What — ” he said.

“Shh,” she said, passing him. “Maurice Mandrake,” she murmured, and pushed open a white door marked “Staff Only.”

He glanced back, saw a pin-striped suit coming around the corner, and ducked in the door after her. It was a stairway, leading down.

“Sorry,” she said, starting down the gray-painted cement stairs, “but I was afraid if I had to talk to him right then, I’d kill him.”

“I know the feeling,” Richard said, starting down the stairs after her. “I already had one encounter today.”

“This’ll take us down to first,” she said, already down to the landing, “and then to the main elevators.” She stopped short, looking dismayed.

“What is it?” he said, coming down to where she was standing. A strip of yellow “Do Not Cross” tape stretched across the stairway. Below it, the stairs gleamed with shiny, wet, pale blue paint.

3

“Oh, shit.”

—Last words on majority of flight recorders recovered after plane crashes

“Maybe the paint’s dried,” Dr. Wright said, even though it was obviously still wet.

Joanna stooped and touched it. “Nope,” she said, holding her finger up to show him the pale blue spot on the tip.

“And there’s no other way out?”

“Back the way we came,” she said. “Did Mr. Mandrake happen to tell you where he was going?”

“Yes,” Richard said. “In to see Mrs. Davenport.”

“Oh, no, he’ll be in there forever,” she said. “Mrs. Davenport’s life review is longer than most people’s lives. And it’s been three hours since I saw her last. She’s no doubt ‘remembered’ all sorts of details in the meantime. And what she hasn’t, Mr. Mandrake will manufacture.”

“How did a nutcase like Mandrake get permission to do research in a reputable hospital like Mercy General anyway?” he asked.

“Money,” she said. “He donated half the royalties of The Light at the End of the Tunnel to them. It’s sold over twenty-five million copies.”

“Proving the adage that there’s one born every minute.”

“And that people believe what they want to believe. Especially Esther Brightman.”

“Who’s Esther Brightman?”

“The widow of Harold Brightman of Brightman Industries and the oldest member of Mercy General’s board of trustees. And a devout disciple of Mandrake’s, I think because she might cross over to the Other Side at any moment. She’s donated even more money to Mercy General than Mandrake, and the entire Research Institute, and when she dies, they get the whole kit and caboodle. If she doesn’t change her will in the meantime.”

“Which means allowing Mandrake to pollute the premises.”

She nodded. “And any other project connected with NDEs. Which is what I’m doing here.”

He frowned. “Isn’t Mrs. Brightman afraid legitimate scientific research might undermine the idea of life after death?”

She shook her head. “She’s convinced that the evidence will prove the existence of the afterlife, and that I’ll come to see the light. I should be grateful to them. Most hospitals won’t touch NDE research with a ten-foot pole. I’m not, however. Grateful. Especially right now.” She looked speculatively up at the door. “We might be able to sneak past him while Mrs. Davenport’s telling him the riveting story of her third-grade spelling test.” She tiptoed up the stairs and opened the door a silent crack.