“I’m sorry, sir, but if you are not an invited guest—”
“I am an invited guest, young man,” he snapped. “Corrigan Bain is expecting me.”
“Yes, sir, so you’ve said. But Mr. Bain didn’t call down with any instructions—”
Ames leaned over the desk. “Son, look at me. Do you think I’m planning to burgle anybody? You suppose there’s some sort of weapon hidden in this cane?”
“I understand that, sir. But I’ve rung Mr. Bain twice, and he’s not answering. So—”
“Ring him again, then.”
“We have a policy—”
“Ring. Him. Again.”
The concierge stared at him. “All right, one last time. But you understand that the policy—”
“I’ve heard your damn policy.”
“Yes, sir. No need to be rude, sir.”
Dr. Ames could think of a thousand reasons to be rude. But he kept quiet, as the fellow at the desk had picked up the phone again.
“Mr. Bain. Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a gentleman . . . yes . . . right away.” He hung up the phone. “You can go right up, sir. Take the second elevator to the seventh floor; then take a right.”
“Thank you,” Ames said, trying out his gracious voice. “So what was the problem?”
The concierge sighed. “As I said, the policy is—”
“No, no, no. I’m not senile, dammit. I mean, what was Corrigan’s problem? Why didn’t he answer before, did he say?”
The man looked embarrassed. “I’m not—”
“Come on, son. I’m his doctor, you can tell me.”
“Well . . . he said he wasn’t entirely sure the phone was really ringing the first two times he heard it.”
“Ah. Of course. Happens to me all the time.”
“Uh, yes . . .”
“Second elevator, you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thank you.”
Two minutes later, after a ride on a lift so rapid it actually buckled his knees when it launched, Ames was standing outside the door to Corrigan’s apartment. He reached out to knock but saw it was ajar, so he just pushed his way in.
“Corrigan?” he called out. The door opened directly into a horizontal corridor, meaning he was facing a white wall that was just crying out for some kind of artwork. “Corrigan, it’s Dr. Ames. Are you here?”
“In here.” The call came from his left, so he hobbled over in that direction, past a small kitchen space and into a barely lit living room. Or dining room. It had a little of both. The only light in the room came from a muted television hung on the wall, and since the windows faced the east, there wasn’t much of the early evening sunlight to help things. But he could make out the figure on the couch all right.
“There you are,” Ames said. “Put on some lights in here for chrissake.”
“Sorry,” Corrigan said. He pulled himself off the couch and tiptoed awkwardly across the room, like he was dodging land mines on the floor trying to get to Ames, whom he greeted with a handshake. Ames looked up. He’d forgotten how tall the boy had grown. “Glad you could come.”
“That’s all right,” Ames said, the neediness in his host’s voice disarming him to the degree that he’d almost entirely forgotten he was grouchy. “It sounded important.”
“Shut up,” Corrigan said.
“I’m . . . sorry?” Ames asked.
“No, not you. The kid. Will, I think his name was. He said you look . . . well, he said something unkind. Let me get that light.”
Ames looked around the room as Corrigan adjusted the lighting. There was clearly nobody else there.
“He’s a ghost,” Corrigan explained. Ames had been about to ask him which kid he was talking about. “Bit of a brat, but he’s all right most times. At least when I’m awake he is. Oh. And Harvey says hello.”
“Harvey’s here,” Ames said levelly.
“Yeah. In the chair.”
“Then I won’t be sitting there. Why don’t you tell me which space is currently unoccupied?”
* * *
Maggie pulled into the parking garage of Mount Auburn Hospital at just before six, making what had to be a new rush hour land speed record. Parking in the lot adjacent to the main building, she half-jogged to the lobby entrance, her expensive little purse—which matched the dress and shoes very nicely—slapping up against her back thanks to the extra weight from the dangerous little handgun she’d shoved inside it at the last minute. She made a note to move the gun from the bag into the pocket of her jacket, an inexpensive knockoff of a London Fog that did not go with anything, as soon as she was by herself long enough to do so.
She was busy reviewing the room and floor number on the scrap paper in her hand when, heading through the lobby, she nearly bowled over a cameraman for a local news affiliate.
“Excuse me,” she said, smiling. The cameraman scowled, having almost dropped a very expensive piece of equipment, and then thought better of it when he saw Maggie.
“Not a problem,” he said, suddenly grinning. He appeared ready to say something else in an attempt to prolong the conversation at least long enough so that Maggie could take the coat off, but she was already past him by then and heading for the elevators.
“Please, please, please,” she muttered while waiting for the elevator to arrive and pulling out her phone. “Please don’t tell me they’re here for the same reason I am.”
* * *
As the first real human being Corrigan Bain had seen in about a week, Dr. Ames was something of a shock. He seemed to be occupying a full six seconds of time simultaneously, and the muscle, or whatever it was, Corrigan routinely exercised to distinguish the present and navigate his way through had apparently atrophied irreparably. It was as though he was five years old again and throwing snowballs out behind Bluff Commune.
“Why don’t you tell me why you haven’t been sleeping, Corrigan?” Ames was saying, over and over again, from the couch. He was sitting right where Emily had been a few minutes earlier, before Corrigan asked her to move.
“It’s complicated,” Corrigan answered, hoping he’d waited long enough first for the question to have actually been asked out loud.
“I’m sure it is. How long has it been?”
“I don’t know. Seven, eight days, maybe.”
Ames leaned forward, leaned forward, leaned forward. “What happens when you try to sleep?”
“The ghosts keep me up.”
“Hey, don’t blame us,” blue suit said. She was still on the floor, right near Corrigan’s feet, as he was still standing near the light switch. In a moment or two he’d be walking over to the couch. He was still standing near the light switch.
“Yeah,” said the kid. “We’re not even here, remember?”
“Quiet, both of you,” Corrigan said.
“Are the ghosts speaking to you right now?” Ames asked.
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“Just people,” Corrigan said. “The ones I didn’t get to save.”
“Ah. And have you always seen them?”
“I don’t know. Not always. Probably not always. I’ve been seeing them during the day here and there but . . . it wasn’t a big deal. Not like when they turned up at night. See, whenever I screwed up, I’d get a visit that evening, and it would be bad, but the next day I’d have new appointments, and things would work out, and they would go away again.”
“Why didn’t that happen this time?”
“I didn’t have any appointments,” Corrigan said. He headed for the couch and sat down. He headed for the couch.
“And why do you suppose that was?”
“I don’t know. Something happened at the last appointment that I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, he didn’t save me,” blue suit said.
“Shut up.” He sat down. “The timeline diverged or something. I picked the wrong one to follow.”
“Do you suppose that this . . . divergence is what’
s preventing you now from getting any new appointments?”
“I don’t see how. It’s not like I’m in control of that. You know how it works. I told you about it before.”
“Yes,” Ames said, smiling. “I remember it well. You said you were receiving messages from . . .”
“The universe,” Harvey said.
“. . . the universe,” Ames said. “That’s what Harvey told you would happen. Am I remembering correctly?”
“Yes.” Corrigan glanced at Harvey, who was nodding knowingly. Harvey had barely spoken while they were waiting for Ames to show, and had even appeared to doze off a couple of times, but now he looked engaged.
“Except,” Ames said, “I think we both know that’s not really the case, don’t we?”
* * *
“Get me Masterson,” Maggie barked as soon as she reached the door to Erica Smalls’s private room in ICU. The cop at the door did a double take, as he was not accustomed to taking orders from runway models. Then he recognized her.
“Where were you?” he asked. “Fashion show?”
“I was at a function,” she said. “And now I’m here. There are news teams downstairs from more than one station about to tape their preamble for the eleven o’clock broadcast. Wanna take a guess what they’re reporting?”
He blinked. “Masterson. Right.” He radioed into the station. Maggie paced outside the door and reviewed the defenses. They were standing in a wide corridor right around the corner from the ICU reception desk. Points of entry were three elevators with four sets of doors, where the unusual fourth set belonged to the elevator that came up in the middle of a split corridor, and the stairwells. There were three of those; one opening right next to the elevators and two fire-exit-only ones at the near and far ends of the floor. The entire floor itself was a warren of doors and walls, signs and walkways. None of the doors locked.
“He’s off duty,” the uniform said.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll get him at home.” She called his profile up on her phone.
“Miss, you’re not supposed to be using that here,” a helpful nurse said as she walked past, pointing even more helpfully at the sign on the wall that said the same thing in four colors and three languages.
“Arrest me,” Maggie growled, fingering the auto-dial.
* * *
“I don’t know where the messages come from,” repeated Corrigan. “I just wake up knowing where to go.”
“I’m aware that this is what you believe is happening. Let’s examine that for a moment.”
“This is getting interesting,” Harvey said.
“Quiet,” Corrigan shot back.
Ames, who was doing an admirable job ignoring the ghosts in the room, continued. “You got that letter from Harvey when you were twenty-one, yes?”
“Yeah. I showed it to you.”
“You did. Do you still have it? I’m just curious.”
“I don’t remember,” Corrigan lied. It was locked up in a strongbox in the bottom drawer of his office, along with his bankbooks and a few clippings that were meant to someday become part of a scrapbook.
“Young Master Bain.” Harvey began to recite his own letter. “I imagine this has all come as something of a shock, and for that I apologize.”
“Will you stop that,” Corrigan snapped.
“Is that Harvey now?” Ames asked.
“He’s reading his own letter back to me. Third time today.”
“Ah.” Ames smiled.
“There were many times in the years since our last encounter when I considered attempting to contact you, but the truth is, I am not a brave enough man. I could not bring myself to face the likely prospect of your scorn. This letter, then, like much of my life, is the coward’s way out.”
“As I was saying,” Ames said, “when you got that letter you were working as a fry cook in some god-awful place.”
“As my lawyers have undoubtedly explained in painful detail, using dozens of unnecessarily large words, I have decided to give all of my money to you. This is a gift, but it does not come without a price.”
Ames went on. “Suddenly, at twenty-one, you became one of the richest men in the city, but to keep that money, you had to swear an oath to a dead man.”
“Understand that, much like yourself, I did not begin my life with great wealth. The money I am forwarding in your name was earned through many years of hard work and dutiful cheating. By that I mean I put the curse you and I both share to good use—and often shamefully so. It was not until many years later that I even knew to feel guilty about it.”
Corrigan was having a hell of a time paying attention to both of them at once. It helped only a little bit that he could keep up with Ames by listening to him twice, and that he already knew what Harvey was saying by heart. Still, it was a lot to take in.
“I didn’t have to do anything,” Corrigan said. “The money was mine either way.”
“True. But you felt obligated to, as Harvey well knew you would.”
“And so, here is the price. I have given you enough money to ensure that you never want for the rest of your life. In return, I am asking you to do what I never could—help people. How you do that is up to you.”
Ames said, “Despite being insane, Harvey was a very good judge of people. He knew you would do what he wanted. But the question for you became, how?”
“This may sound to you like the foolish decision of an old man who is trying to get into heaven. But I am not a religious person, and if I were, I would know that no amount of last-second penitence would affect my ultimate destination. Having said that, I do think you and I were given this talent for a reason. Now, if you are asking yourself how you can possibly apply your curse toward the greater good, I say the universe will provide a way.”
“The universe will provide a way,” Corrigan repeated.
“Just so,” Ames agreed.
“I am taking quite a risk, giving you this money. I have no way of knowing if you have, in the intervening years since that awful day, grown into the man I saw you on the way to becoming. I can only hope you have.”
“And when a way was provided,” Ames said, “you didn’t ask yourself how or why, you just followed along. You’re still just following along, because you believe you must.”
“Please, take seriously what I am asking of you. And if in the future, you find you’ve lost your way, think back to that young man and the day he tried to be a hero. That boy saw something wrong with his world and had to fix it, and he was braver than most adults could ever hope to be. Don’t lose sight of your potential, young Corrigan. Even if you hate me, you can at least do me the honor of being a better man than I was.”
Harvey finished his recitation and lowered his head, as if this had been his whole reason for being in the room. Ames, who Corrigan was nearly positive couldn’t hear Harvey, picked up the conversation as if he had been tag teaming with the old ghost the whole time.
“But here is the question you should have been asking yourself, Corrigan. Why did you not get these messages before Harvey gave you all of his money?”
“That’s easy,” Corrigan said. “It wasn’t my job before then.”
“All right . . .” Ames said, shifting in his seat. “A dodge, but all right. Try this then. Why do you suppose it is that the universe wishes you to save these people, and not some other people?”
“I dunno. Never thought about it.”
“I imagine there are those worth saving who happen to come under risk at, say, two in the morning. Do you get messages about them?”
“No.”
“How about people who live outside the Commonwealth? Or ones who are murdered or die of natural causes? Why does the universe ignore them?”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Corrigan said.
“Yes, you do,” Harvey said.
“Quiet, Harvey.”
“My point is that everyone you save is within your limits. Physically, geographically, and temporally. Y
ou never have a scheduling conflict, you never have to travel great distances, and you never end up facing a situation that you cannot resolve.”
“The ghosts would disagree with that last part,” Corrigan said.
“The ghosts come from the same place your messages do. In here.” He tapped his own head. “You, my boy, are a disaster area of misplaced guilt and misinterpreted cause and effect. You’ve convinced yourself that the only way to keep these manifestations of failure from haunting you is by working harder, and that conclusion has prevented you from dealing with your real problems. Now you’re in a hell you’ve constructed for yourself, and the reason you cannot get out of it is that you refuse to recognize an important truth. Something happened to you nine days ago that upset your apple cart. Until you figure out what that was and why it had such an effect, you will continue to block the messages, the ghosts will continue to haunt you, and I will be calling my friends at McClaren to reserve a room.”
Corrigan took all of that in a couple of times. Harvey, who was nodding through the whole thing, said in regards to the conclusion, “Stay the hell away from McClaren, boy. I was fine before they sent me there.”
Corrigan ignored him. “That’s a lot to absorb,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry. Under normal circumstances I would try and lead you to the point where you arrive at these conclusions on your own, but these are not normal circumstances.”
“Meaning I’m a hair away from getting committed?”
“Meaning I’m old and expect to die soon.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Now
It had been quite a strange day for Erica. It started with her waking up from a coma and discovering that (a) she was still alive, (b) she’d lost nine days, and (c) her parents were in town. (A) was probably the biggest shock of all, although (c) came close. One does not often survive the experience of being stabbed, as far as she knew, when there was nothing preventing her assailant from stabbing her a few more times—other than a screaming Tanya. And why would that have stopped him, really?
The coma was a weird experience. She had vague recollections of conversations taking place in her presence—of people speaking to her sometimes—but the details of those conversations were lost to her. Still, she recalled the confusion well. It had been as if someone had shut the world off but forgotten to hit the volume button. At one point she had decided everyone thought she was dead and these were people speaking at her own funeral. And she kept trying to tell them it wasn’t true, that she was still in herself somewhere and they had to try and find her, because someone had obviously made some sort of horrible mistake.
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