Superstition

46

Sam stood in the middle of the main reception room. “Joanna?” he called out for the third time. There was no reply.

Puzzled and growing concerned, he returned to the hallway. The door of the apartment still stood open just as it had when he came out to look for her. He was about to step outside when something moved on the edge of his vision. He stopped and looked to his right, but it was only his own reflection, the whiteness of his raincoat caught in a mirror at the far end of a dark corridor off the hallway.

“Mr. Towne, sir…?”

The Chinese manservant appeared from somewhere behind him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Have you seen “Miss Cross? She was looking for you.”

The manservant frowned. “Miss Cross? No, sir, I no see Miss Cross.”

“I just came out of the bedroom and found the apartment door open. Why would she…?”

He stepped out into the corridor and looked both ways, but there was no sign of her. He came back in.

“Why on earth would she disappear like that?”

The Chinaman bobbed his head to confess that he had no answer. “I'm sure she come back, sir.”

“Let's hope. Meanwhile get some medical help up here, and find me some more blankets-before your employer dies from hypothermia.”

She had tried to scream, but the sound was choked off in her throat by sheer terror.

Ralph Cazaubon made no move. There was nothing overtly threatening about him. On the contrary, there was a sadness in his face, a tenderness even.

All the same she turned and ran for her life. She looked back once to see if he was following, and saw him unhurriedly, almost casually, descending the steps after her.

At the ground floor she wrenched open a door and found herself in a corridor with green-painted brick walls and no way out except by a double door with a push bar across it at the far end. She sprinted toward it, again looking back over her shoulder. Ralph still followed her in the same relaxed fashion, as though confident that there was no way she could escape him.

Praying it would work, she slammed both hands down on the bar. The door sprang outward, and she found herself in a kind of courtyard in the center of the building. She looked around for a way out, and saw a gap that seemed to lead to the street. But there were gates-which was all right, because this was a secure building, and that meant guards.

She ran on, glancing back just once, and being surprised to see that Ralph had not emerged yet. Did he imagine she'd go back in there with him waiting for her?

Or had he really been there at all? Was it possible she'd imagined him? Had he been some kind of illusion, some projection of her mind, like his ancestor Adam Wyatt?

But why was he wearing Sam's coat, or something very like it? Was he becoming somehow confused in her head with Sam Towne? Why should that be? What was happening here? She had gone too far in this peculiar adventure to doubt that there was a pattern in events, a meaning and a purpose, however indiscernible.

The armed guard at the gate accepted her story about getting lost in the building; at least, he looked at her less suspiciously when she said she'd been visiting Ward Riley. He unlocked the gate and told her the best thing was to take a right and right again, then go in the main entrance and take the main elevator back up to Mr. Riley's apartment.

She walked briskly along the sidewalk, keeping close to the building, reassured by the noise and energy of normal street life. She turned right at the corner as she'd been told to…and stopped.

Ralph Cazaubon was standing between her and the entrance, casual, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, watching her.

“Have you got those extra blankets yet?”

Sam stepped out of Ward's bedroom and looked around impatiently for the manservant.

“Right here, sir. Got them right here.” He hurried up the dark corridor where Sam had glimpsed his own reflection earlier. “And paramedics on way.”

“Good. His pulse is a little stronger-we may be just in time.”

He grabbed a couple of the blankets and ran back through Ward's bedroom and on into the meditation room where he had left him. The manservant was right behind him when they got there, and they both stopped.

The room was empty, and one of the windows had been opened.

“Oh, no…Oh, my God…!”

Sam let the blankets drop and ran to look out. Before he got there his fears were confirmed by a screech of brakes and the sound of vehicles colliding in the street below. People screamed. He looked out.

Ward Riley's body lay spread-eagled on Central Park West.

She had crossed the road quickly, dodging traffic, and was hurrying now in the direction of Columbus Avenue. At the corner she stopped and looked back. There was no sign of him. She debated whether to return to the Dakota, but some instinct warned her otherwise. As though in confirmation of its rightness, she suddenly spotted his light raincoat on the far side of the street. He was strolling casually as ever, but looking in her direction, watching her. She turned left, heading south, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

Sam, she knew, would be worried, wondering what had happened to her. She must talk to him, tell him how she had been tricked, ask him what she should do now. It was absurd that they had been separated in this way. Had that been the purpose of this whole thing?

But why? And was she now running from something, or being driven toward something?

She stopped and reached into her coat pocket. To her relief her cellular phone was still there. She didn't have Ward's number in her head, but the phone would automatically redial the last number called, which had been Ward's. She stepped into the recessed doorway of a building and tried it.

Nothing happened. She tried again and held the phone to her ear. There was a faint crackle of static, but nothing more. When she looked at the tiny display panel it bore the words “CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”

What the hell did that mean? She tried again, with the same result. “CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”

She experienced the surge of impotent fury she always felt whenever some dumb machine refused to function the way it was supposed to. Resisting an urge to shake it or bang it on the wall next to her, she tried again.

“CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”

If the damn thing wasn't working, she would have to use a pay phone. It was only then she realized that her purse, with all her credit cards and money, was in Ward's apartment. She didn't have a cent with her. That meant she had no choice: she would have to go back.

Or perhaps not. She became aware that the building she was standing in front of was a bank-the same bank, though not the branch, that she used. But they could check out her name and account number and give her some money.

A minute later she was seated before the desk of a pleasant young woman who said she would see what she could do, although it was unfortunate that Joanna was carrying no identification whatsoever. But when Joanna mentioned the names of two people with whom she dealt regularly at her bank and who she was sure would be willing to identify her over the phone, the young woman made the call.

One of the people Joanna had mentioned was, it appeared, out sick. The other was called to the phone, and Joanna waited patiently while the young woman before her explained the problem. Joanna watched as her face clouded with concern.

“I'm sorry,” the young woman said, covering the phone with her hand, “he says he doesn't recognize your name.”

“That's impossible. Can I speak to him, please?”

She held out her hand for the phone. “Hello? Is this Ray? Ray, it's Joanna Cross.”

His voice was hesitant. “Joanna…Cross?”

“Is this Ray Myerson?”

“This is he.”

“Well, for heaven's sake, Ray-it's me! I need some cash.”

“Could you give me your account number, Miss Cross?”

She supposed that his formality was part of some kind of security procedure. Luckily she knew her account number by heart and gave it to him without hesitation. There was a pause.

“I'm sorry, Miss Cross, but none of this appears on my computer. Are you sure you have the right bank?”

“Of course I'm sure. Look, Ray, I don't know what's going on here, but I need you to help me out.”

He asked to be handed back to the young woman who had called him. Joanna gave her the phone, then watched with growing unease as the young woman listened for several moments, nodding her head and saying “Yes” and “Mm-hm” while carefully avoiding eye contact with Joanna.

She began to have a hollow, guilty feeling, as though she had attempted something improper and had been found out. At the same time she was angry at Ray Myerson's and the bank's obtuseness in making such heavy weather out of such a simple request.

The young woman finally hung up and turned to her with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion in her face. “I'm sorry, Miss Cross, there seems to be some mistake. There's no record of any account in that name in the bank, nor in fact any account of that number.”

“That's impossible.”

The young woman gave a nervous shrug, as though half afraid that Joanna might turn out to be some kind of dangerous lunatic despite her respectable appearance and apparent normality.

Whatever the reasons for this farce, Joanna realized there was nothing to be done. “Okay,” she said, “forget it. Thank you for trying, I appreciate your help. Would you mind if I ask one more favor? I need to make a phone call. I've left my purse and everything in a friend's apartment, and I need to talk to them.”

“Please-go ahead.”

“I'll have to call four-one-one for the number.” She did so, praying that Ward was listed. He was. A moment later she was listening to the phone ring unanswered. She hung up. “They must have left. Thanks anyway for your help.”

She got up and started out, half fearing now that she would be stopped before she reached the door and accused of some kind of attempted fraud. She felt the young woman's eyes on her back all the way, but nothing happened.

On the street she looked both ways in search of Ralph.

There was no sign of him. She debated returning to the Dakota, but quickly decided against it. If, as seemed likely, Sam and the Chinese manservant had accompanied Ward to the hospital, she wouldn't even be able to get into the apartment. And above all she didn't want to risk running into Ralph Cazaubon again.

She had decided to walk to the Around Town office, which would take about half an hour, when her fingers closed on something that felt like coins in the bottom of her coat pocket. She pulled out a couple of subway tokens.

For the first time in a while, she felt lucky.