I almost missed what must have caused the distressing dream. It was in the Times for 2 May, 2001, Tuesday’s withdrawals listed in Wednesday’s paper: “Riverside Sanctuary . . . F. V. Heinicke.”
“F. V. Heinicke!”
“Heinicke” was Ricky’s grandmother’s name … I knew it, I was certain of it~ I didn’t know why I knew it. But I felt that it had been buried in my head and had not popped up until I read it again. I had probably seen it or heard it at some time from Ricky or Miles, or it was even possible that I had met the old gal at Sandia. No matter, the name, seen in the Times, had fitted a forgotten piece of information in my brain and then I knew.
Only I still had to prove it. I had to make sure that “F. V. Heinicke” stood for “Frederica Heinicke.”
I was shaking with excitement, anticipation, and fear. In spite of well-established new habits I tried to zip my clothes instead of sticking the seams together and made a botch of getting dressed. But a few minutes later I was down in the hail where the phone booth was-I didn’t have an instrument in my room or I would have used it; I was simply a supplementary listing for the house phone. Then I had to run back up again when I found that I had forgotten my phone credit ID card-I was really disorganized.
Then, when I had it, I was trembling so that I could hardly fit it into the slot. But I did and signaled “Service.”
“Circuit desired?”
“Uh, I want the Riverside Sanctuary. That’s in Riverside Borough.”
“Searching . . . holding . . . circuit free. We are signaling.”
The screen lighted up at last and a man looked grumpily at me. “You must have the wrong phasing. This is the sanctuary. We’re closed for the night.”
I said, “Hang on, please. If this is the Riverside Sanctuary, you’re just who I want.”
“Well, what do you want? At this hour?”
“You have a client there, F. V. Heinicke, a new withdrawal. I want to know-”
He shook his head. “We don’t give out information about clients over the phone. And certainly not in the middle of the night. You’d better call after ten o’clock. Better yet, come here.”
“I will, I will. But I want to know just one thing. What do the initials `F. V.’ stand for?”
“I told you that–”
“Will you listen, please? I’m not just butting in; I’m a Sleeper myself. Sawtelle. Withdrawn just lately. So I know all about the `confidential relationship’ and what’s proper. Now you’ve already published this client’s name in the paper. You and I both know that the sanctuaries always give the papers the full names of clients withdrawn and committed . . . but the papers trim the given names to initials to save space. Isn’t that true?”
He thought about it. “Could be.”
“Then what possible harm is there in telling me what the initials P. V.’ stand for?”
He hesitated still longer. “None, I guess, if that’s all you want. It’s all you’re going to get. Hold on.”
He passed out of the screen, was gone for what seemed like an hour, came back holding a card. “The light’s poor,” he said, peering at it. ” `Frances’-no, `Frederica.’ `Frederica Virginia?”
My ears roared and I almost fainted. “Thank God!”
“You all right?”
“Yes. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Yes, I’m all right.”
“Hmm. I guess there’s no harm in telling you one more thing. It might save you a trip. She’s already checked out.”
CHAPTER 9
I could have saved time by hiring a cab to jump me to Riverside, but I was handicapped by lack of cash. I was living in West Hollywood; the nearest twenty-four-hour bank was downtown at the Grand Circle of the Ways. So first I rode the Ways downtown and went to the bank for cash. One real improvement I had not appreciated up to then was the universal checkbook system; with a single cybernet as clearinghouse for the whole city and radioactive coding on my checkbook, I got cash laid in my palm as quickly there as I could have gotten it at my home bank across from Hired Girl, Inc.