Some of the stores in the mall a couple of blocks from the school were closed, with for lease signs and whited-out windows, but the Farm Griddle steak-and-pancake restaurant that Jarrow had frequented for over three years didn't seem to have changed. He approached it across the parking lot, walking quickly and glancing back as if he expected to have been followed. He had escaped from the school on the pretext of using the bathroom, and then left via a side entrance.
He wasn't conscious of having walked the two blocks, or of making any decision to come here, but driven by pure habit had stumbled in a fog of confusion, too stunned by what Shafer had said to know what he was doing. But once at the door, he hesitated. Would Shafer have dismissed him as just a crank and told the others to forget about it? Or might he have taken a more serious view and called the police? They could already be scouting the vicinity. Jarrow wavered irresolutely, wondering if he should widen the area farther before he stopped moving. Then the familiar sight of the food counter, the row of booths inside the window, and the large menu board by the door brought home to him that apart from a modest lunch on the plane, he hadn't eaten all day. And in any case, he told himself, if anyone was out looking for him, he'd be less conspicuous inside than on the street. He went in.
The girl taking an order from a table at the far end was Mandy from seven months ago, but the others that he could see were new. Eamon, the assistant manager, was still there and conducted Jarrow to a booth by the window, but with no sign of recognition. Jarrow was past feeling any surprise.
The menu seemed to have lost a few items since he was last in, particularly from the range of pancakes, waffles, and desserts. He noticed that the syrup dispensers had -disappeared from the tables. There had been talk of banning excessive-sugar foods from public places, he remembered. Egg, beef, pork, and chili dishes now carried health warnings, as well as regular coffee, alcoholic drinks, and chicken, which had done so before. Jarrow settled for a tuna salad with wheat crackers. As the waitress left with the menu, he caught the eye of Eamon, standing near the cash desk, and raised a hand to summon him over.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
"Oh, sure. I just wanted to ask you something. Tell me, do you happen to know of a Dick Jarrow who used to come in here?"
"Dick?" Eamon's face clouded. "I guess it's been a while since you were in here, eh?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Why?"
"You mean the guy who used to teach at the school just along from here, right?"
"Used to? Did he leave or something?"
Eamon shook his head. " 'Fraid it's worse than that. He died . . . gee, it must have been sometime early in summer. A stroke, somebody said it was."
"Oh." Jarrow had been ready for it, and accepted the statement woodenly. "That's too bad."
"He was kinda quiet, but okay. Were you a good friend of his?"
"Not that much, really. You know, bumped into him every now and again. I guess you don't realize how time flies. Scary isn't it?" On impulse Jarrow added, "What reminded me was, earlier today somebody mistook me for him. Would that seem likely to you?"
Eamon looked down and shook his head disbelievingly. "No way. Did the guy have dark glasses on, and a dog?"
"That's what I thought. I just wondered if he still came in here, that's all."
"Well, sorry I had to be the first to tell you. Is there anything else I can do?"
"I guess not. Thanks."
"Enjoy your meal."
Halfway through his salad, Jarrow's digestion was ruined when he saw a city police department cruiser drawing up outside, and two winter-jacketed officers came into the restaurant; but they sat down at the far end without giving the place a second glance. Jarrow returned to his meal, his chest thumping like a basketball being bounced. He wasn't sure how long he could go on like this; and there was no way of telling how long he might have to, because he had no idea what he was going to do. But Gordon's money would only last for so long, and that set a real limit, whatever other ideas might occur to him. He'd need to sit down tonight, back at his hotel, and do some budgeting.
Nothing made sense. If his appearance had been changed through some elaborate process—by whom? for what purpose?—why, apart from the oddities among his recollections that he was unable to explain, did he seem normal to himself? And it wasn't simply a question of appearances. The woman in the hotel room in Atlanta, the drink, the guns in the briefcase—all pointed to his having been somehow transformed into literally a different person, physically and psychologically, for over half a year. And then somehow, since this morning, the mental part only of that person had apparently reverted to its former self. It sounded impossible, but what explanation was there?
Yet even that didn't account for all of it. If he was transformed, who was dead? The only trail he had to follow was the memory of an ordinary, everyday routine that ended abruptly in April. What, then, had happened in the last visit to Valdheim?
He checked himself right there. Why did he assume that whatever had happened to him had anything to do with Valdheim? Only because it was the last thing he remembered. But the cause could have been something that happened after that, but with some kind of retroactive effect—as when people knocked out by a blow on the head supposedly lost all recollection of what went before. So, the first thing to find out more about was what had happened immediately after that visit. Had he acted normally? Had something else happened at a later date that might have led to the predicament he was in now? The last person he'd talked to, other than Valdheim, Valdheim's receptionist Marje, and Nurse Callins, had been Larry Banks, when Larry dropped him off outside. And Larry, he now recalled, had promised to catch him in the afternoon to pick up a book that Jarrow had borrowed from the staff library. Larry, then, would have been looking for him later. It would be interesting to know if Larry had found him. That would be as good a place as any to start, he decided.
Jarrow finished his meal and went to one of the phone booths by the door to consult the directory. It showed that Larry Banks still lived at the same address in Champlin. But after pondering the matter, Jarrow decided against calling him right away. He was still too shaky and mixed up to know, really, what he wanted to say. If people thought he was dead, and if the reaction of Shafer and the others at the school was anything to go by, he would need to have a better line prepared than simply blundering in and saying he was Jarrow. Hopefully he'd have things clearer in his mind by tomorrow.
He brought a local Champlin area map onto the screen to check the location, paid a quarter for a hard copy, and put it in his pocket. Then he went back to the desk to pay the check, nodded a good night to Eamon, who was back at his post near the desk, and went back out. It was getting dark, and the evening was already chillier. He went to the Kmart a short distance along the mall and bought himself some warmer socks, a scarf, and a couple of thick sweaters. The clerk there told him that a bus would be leaving the mall in twenty minutes that would take him back to Minneapolis center. That left the question of what to do with the rest of the evening. It was one of those rare occasions in his life, Jarrow decided, that he could use a drink.