“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that with your friend being an attorney, there might be things you want to discuss with him before you talk to the police.”
He opened the folder wherein he had somewhere jotted my age, raised his pen, furrowed his brow, and said, “What’s the date, anyway?”
I wanted my Trumps. I imagined my belongings would be in the drawer of the bedside table, but getting at it involved too much twisting and I did not want to put the strain on my sutures. It was not all that urgent, though. Eight hours’ sleep in Amber would come to around twenty hours here, so everyone should still have been respectably retired back home. I wanted to get hold of Random, though, to come up with some sort of cover story for my not being there in the morning. Later.
I did not want to look suspicious at a time like this. Also, I wanted to know immediately whatever Brand had to say. I wanted to be in a position to act on it. I did a quick bit of mental juggling. If I could do the worst of my recovering here in Shadow, it would mean less wasted time for me back in Amber. I would have to budget my time carefully and avoid complications on this end. I hoped that Bill would arrive soon. I was anxious to know what the picture was in this place.
Bill was a native of the area, had gone to school in Buffalo, come back, married, joined the family firm, and that was that. He had known me as a retired Army officer who sometimes traveled on vague business. We both belonged to the country club, which was where I had met him. I had known him for over a year without our exchanging more than a few words. Then one evening I happened to be next to him in the bar and it had somehow come out that he was hot on military history, particularly the Napoleonic Wars. The next thing we knew, they were closing up the place around us. We were close friends from then on, right up until the time of my difficulties. I had occasionally wondered about him since. In fact, the only thing that had prevented me from seeing him the last time I had passed through was that he would doubtless have had all sorts of questions as to what had become of me, and I had had too many things on my mind to deal with them all that gracefully and still enjoy myself. I had even thought once or twice of coming back and seeing him if I could, when everything was finally settled in Amber. Next to the fact that this was not the case, I regretted not being able to meet him in the club lounge.
He arrived within the hour, short, heavy, ruddy, a bit grayer on the sides, grinning, nodding. I had propped myself up by then, already tried a few deep breaths and decided they were premature. He clasped my hand and took the bedside chair. He had his briefcase with him.
“You scared the hell out of me last night, Carl. Thought I was seeing a ghost,” he said.
I nodded.
“A bit later, and I might have been one,” I said. “Thanks. How have you been?”
Bill sighed.
“Busy. You know. The same old stuff, only more of it.”
“And Alice?”
“She’s fine. And we’ve got two new grandsons — Bill Jr.’s twins. Wait a minute.” He fished out his wallet and located a photo. “Here.”
I studied it, noted the family resemblances.
“Hard to believe,” I said.
“You don’t look much worse for the years.” I chuckled and patted my abdomen.
“Subtracting that, I mean,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“God! Where haven’t I been!” I said. “So many places I’ve lost count.”
He remained expressionless, caught my eyes and stared.
“Carl, what kind of trouble are you in?” he asked.
I smiled.
“If you mean am I in trouble with the law, the answer is no. My troubles actually involve another country, and I am going to have to go back there shortly.”
His face relaxed again, and there was a small glint behind his bifocals.
“Are you some sort of military adviser in that place?”
I nodded.
“Can you tell me where?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“That I can sort of understand,” he said. “Dr. Bailey told me what you said had happened last night. Off the record now, was it connected with whatever you have been doing?”
I nodded again.
“That makes things a little clearer,” he said. “Not much, but enough. I won’t even ask you which agency, or even if there is one. I have always known you to be a gentleman, and a rational one at that. That was why I grew curious at the time of your disappearance and did some investigating. I felt a bit officious and self-conscious about it. But your civil status was quite puzzling, and I wanted to know what had happened. Mainly, because I was concerned about you. I hope that doesn’t disturb you.”
“Disturb me?” I said. “There aren’t that many people who care what happens to me. I’m grateful. Also, curious what you discovered. I never had the time to look into it, you know, to straighten things out. How about telling me what you learned?”
He opened the briefcase and withdrew a manila folder. Spreading it across his knees, he shuffled out several sheets of yellow paper covered with neat handwriting. Raising the first of these, he regarded it a moment, then said, “After you escaped from the hospital in Albany and had your accident, Brandon apparently dropped out of the picture and —”
“Stop!” I said, raising my hand, trying to sit up.
“What?” he asked.
“You have the order wrong, also the place,” I said. “First came the accident, and Greenwood is not in Albany.”
“I know,” he said. “I was referring to the Porter Sanitarium, where you spent two days and then escaped. You had your accident that same day, and you were brought here as a result of it. Then your sister Evelyn entered the picture. She had you transferred to Greenwood, where you spent a couple of weeks before departing on your own motion once again. Right?”
“Partly,” I said. “Namely, the last part. As I was telling the doctor earlier, my memory is shot for a couple of days prior to the accident. This business about a place in Albany does sort of seem to ring a bell, but only very faintly. Do you have more on it?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “It may even have something to do with the state of your memory. You were committed on a bum order —”
“By whom?” He shook the paper and peered.
“‘Brother, Brandon Corey; attendant physician, Hillary B. Rand, psychiatrist’,” he read. “Hear any more bells?”
“Quite possibly,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“Well, an order got signed on that basis,” he said. “You were duly certified, taken into custody, and transported. Then, concerning your memory…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know that much about the practice and its effects on the memory, but you were subjected to electroshock therapy while you were at Porter. Then, as I said, the record indicates that you escaped after the second day. You apparently recovered your car from some unspecified locale and were heading back this way when you had the accident.”
“That seems right,” I said. “It does.” For a moment, when he had begun talking, I had had a wild vision of having been returned to the wrong shadow — one where everything was similar, but not congruent. Now, though, I did not believe this to be the case. I was responding to this story on some level.
“Now, about that order,” he said. “It was based on false evidence, but there was no way of the court’s knowing it at the time. The real Dr. Rand was in England when everything happened, and when I contacted him later he had never heard of you. His office had been broken into while he was away, though. Also, peculiarly, his middle initial is not B. He had never heard of Brandon Corey either.”
“What did become of Brandon?”
“He simply vanished. Several attempts were made to contact him at the time of your escape from Porter, but he could not be found. Then you had the accident, were brought here and treated. At that time, a woman named Evelyn Flaumel, who represented herself as your sister, contacted this place, told them you had been probated and that the family wanted you transferred to Greenwood. In the absence of Brandon, who had been appointed your guardian, her instructions were followed, as the only available next of kin. That was how it came about that you were sent to the other place. You escaped again, a couple of weeks later, and that is where my chronology ends.”