Superstition (33 page)

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.

47

S
he emerged from the elevator and turned right, toward the glass double doors with
Around Town
engraved on them in the same lettering as on the cover of the magazine. She passed through them and headed diagonally across the lobby, passing the reception desk and giving a somewhat abstracted nod of greeting to Bobbie and Jane behind it. She was about to go through the pale wooden door that led back to the part of the floor where her office was situated, when she heard, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

The words were spoken in the officious and slightly indignant tone of someone whose presence has just been deliberately and insultingly ignored. She turned to see Bobbie, a slim and efficient woman around forty whom she'd known for several years, glaring at her.

“I'm going to my office.”

Bobbie continued to glare, and now rose to her feet.

“You're going where…?” She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head to one side as she asked the question. It was a challenge that demanded a response.

“Bobbie, what's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I don't know how you know my name, but I'm afraid I don't know yours. If you don't mind, it's customary for visitors to come to the desk when they enter this office, and not just go barging on through. Who are you here to see?”

Joanna remained where she was for a moment, one hand on the door she had been about to push open. She withdrew it and took a couple of steps toward the desk, focusing on the two women behind it.

“Bobbie…Jane…” She looked from one to the other. “What is this?”

The two women exchanged a look. There was a hint of alarm in Jane's eyes, puzzlement and distrust in Bobbie's as she turned back to Joanna. “I'm sorry, is there some reason we should know who you are?”

Joanna stood before them. Her mouth worked as though she was about to speak, but she said nothing. She shook her head slowly, as though the movement could somehow make the situation go away like a bad joke that had outstayed its welcome.

“Don't do this to me, please. I don't think I can take this just now—all right?”

But it wasn't all right, and she could see in their faces that this was no joke. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Oh, my God…Oh, my God…no…no, this can't be…”

She turned and slammed open the door she'd been about to go through and ran down the corridor, barely hearing the angry shout of “Hey!” behind her. People she passed looked at her curiously, but she paid them no attention and ran on, turning right and left, past conference rooms and offices until she reached her own.

A man she'd never seen before sat at her desk. He looked up from the computer he was working at, frowned, and seemed about to ask a question.

She spoke first. “Who are you?”

“That's what I was going to ask you.”

“You're in my office. Do you mind telling me what you're doing in my office?”

“Now wait a minute…” He leaned back, looking at her more searchingly now. “I don't know what the problem is here, but this is
my
office and you're in it. Now if there's any way I can help you…”

He stopped. She had bunched her hands into fists and raised them to her temples as though to prevent her head from splitting open.

“This is insane…this can't be happening…I'm going mad…!”

The man got up from his chair, concerned now. “Look, maybe you'd better sit down. Can I call someone for you…?”

His tone was kindly, but when he reached out to guide her to the chair across the desk from his, she screamed. “Don't touch me! Get your hands off me!”

She turned and ran, this time wildly. People got out of her way, backing against walls to avoid collision or contact of any kind with her. Startled faces peered out from their offices to see what the commotion was about. Suddenly up ahead she saw Taylor Freestone about to go into his office. He was reading something and didn't register her presence until she was almost on top of him.

“Taylor…!” She was breathless, her hair wild, confronting him with her feet planted firmly apart and arms rigid at her sides. “For God's sake, Taylor, tell me you know me. Tell them who I am!”

He turned totally white. His eyes flickered nervously over the people who were gathering to observe them.

“What's all this?” he asked. “What's happening here? What's this about?”

“I'm Joanna Cross! I work here!” She screamed the words, as though by sheer volume she could force everyone to acknowledge their truth.

“You
what
…?” he said incredulously.

She made an effort to control the panic that was gripping her. “Joanna…Joanna Cross…Why don't you know who I am, Taylor? Why are you behaving like this…?”

Without realizing it, she had taken a step toward him and seized the lapel of his jacket. His eyes widened in fear and he pulled himself free, stumbling slightly as he did so.

“Somebody get security…!”

“They're on their way,” a man's voice called out.

“Now look, Miss,” Taylor Freestone stuttered, “whoever you are and whatever you want…”