Superstition (36 page)

“What is this, Sam?” Brad Bucklehurst said. “Some kind of obituary game or what? Why are you asking about all these people who've died?”

Sam held up a hand. “Please…I warned you I wouldn't say why I was asking. Just tell me about Pete, who he was, when and how he died.”

“He joined us about two years ago,” Brad said. “Worked as your personal assistant for six, seven months, then got knifed in some street fight. We never did get to the bottom of it. I was here when the police called. You went to the morgue to identify him. You can't have forgotten that.”

Again Sam made no comment. “Finally, Adam Wyatt,” he said, and looked around at them one by one. “Does the name Adam Wyatt mean anything to any of you?”

Blank faces gazed back at him, lips were pursed, heads shaken. The name meant nothing.

Sam was silent a moment. Then he pushed himself up off the arm of the chair where he'd been perched. “All right, that's it—thank you, everybody.”

True to their agreement, nobody asked questions or pressed for explanations. They all went back to what they had been doing, though full of curiosity and speculation among themselves.

Sam walked over to his office. As he turned to shut the door, he caught Peggy's gaze on him, questioning and concerned. He made an effort to give her a thin smile of reassurance, but he knew she sensed that something was deeply wrong. He closed the door, then slumped into the chair behind his desk.

There was, he told himself, an inescapable if insane logic to the situation. The world in which Adam Wyatt existed was no longer the world in which they as a group had created him. By imagining him into existence they had imagined themselves out of it—at least in the form in which they had previously existed.

It was, as Joanna and Roger had both said, a problem of compatibility. There were mathematical principles, descriptions of the fundamental laws of nature, underscoring that truth. Pauli's Exclusion Principle or Bell's Theorem could surely apply in some form. Or GÖdel. Wasn't there something here of closed systems and self-reference…?

He pulled himself up short. He was doing the very thing that orthodox science contemptuously accused people like him of, and that he himself strove to avoid in all his work: he was taking the hard-won results of scientific experiment and theory and turning them back into the kind of magic that men believed in before the dawn of reason drove out the crippling superstitions that had governed man's early evolution.

Or was science itself the dead end? He thought of what Joanna had told him of her last conversation with Roger. Could that really have been what a man like Roger thought? That in the end, as the Eastern mystics taught, there was only the eternal dance, with Western thought and scientific rationalism no more than one of the forms it took from time to time, no nearer to a final truth than the caveman's belief that the sun rose only because he sacrificed the life of some animal or fellow human being on the altar of his tribal gods?

His hand closed on something in the bottom of his jacket pocket. He pulled out the square of paper torn from Joanna's notepad, the one he'd picked up in her apartment the night before on which she'd written down the address and phone number of Ralph Cazaubon.

He looked at it awhile, and wondered. He'd tried the number last night to no avail. Could there be any point in trying it again? He hesitated only for a moment, then reached for his phone and dialed.

After three rings a man's voice said, “Hello?”

Sam was aware suddenly of his heart beating in his chest.

“Is this Ralph Cazaubon?” he asked.

“Yes it is. How can I help you?”

“I'm trying to get in touch with someone called Joanna Cross.”

“Joanna Cross,” the voice on the other end repeated the name with a note of curiosity. “That's my wife's name—or was before we married.”

52

T
he rain had lightened by the time she reached the road and started walking toward the station. Each time she heard a car approaching she slipped into the trees and hid in case it was the police, but she knew she was going to have to risk hitching a ride sooner or later. Eventually she heard a truck coming up behind her. She turned, blinded by its massive lights, and raised a thumb. It shuddered to a halt with a hiss of air brakes.

She ignored as far as she could all the driver's standard conversational gambits, saying only that her car had broken down and she had to catch a train. He offered to let her use his phone to call a garage, but she said she'd already taken care of that. He looked at her doubtfully, bedraggled and exhausted as she was, but something about her discouraged him from asking further questions.

When they approached the station she asked him to stop about a hundred yards short. He did so, merely nodding his acknowledgment of her thanks as she climbed down from the cab, then leaning over to pull the door shut. He was glad to be rid of her. She was a good-looking woman, and for a moment when he'd seen her in the road back there he'd thought he might get lucky. But something about her had given him the shivers. She felt like bad luck—not, he told himself, that he was a superstitious man.

She approached the station carefully, hugging the fence on the far side of the road where it turned and doubled back on itself and into a narrow, quiet road on a slight hill. Standing there, she could observe the station forecourt without being seen herself.

Her caution was rewarded when she saw the police car parked right outside the main entrance. These cops were neither subtle nor particularly smart; at least she had that much going for her. Her only worry was that they'd stay there indefinitely and she'd never be able to get on a train. But after a couple of minutes they came out, gave a perfunctory check around the forecourt, then drove off.

She started to cross the road, but stopped as a thought occurred to her. There was every chance that the cops would have given her description to whoever was in the ticket office and told them to look out for her. Luckily she had a return ticket in her pocket and so didn't need to show her face at the window. Also she knew there was a way onto the platform that only the local commuters were aware of—a gate at the far end that was supposedly for freight and heavy goods, but which was a godsend for anyone cutting it too tight and arriving just as their train was about to pull out. She headed for it and waited in the shadows until her train arrived.

Minutes later she was settled in a window seat watching the night rush by outside, and wondering if the wraithlike creature staring back at her could really be her own reflection.

53

S
omething impossible had happened.

“Darling,” Ralph Cazaubon had said as his wife entered, “this is Dr. Sam Towne of Manhattan University. He's been telling me a rather odd story…”

He stopped because Sam had gasped audibly. Both he and the woman who had just entered turned their gaze toward the man who stood with his mouth slightly open and his pale blue eyes staring, unblinking, at her. His face was white and he looked to be on the verge of passing out.

Sam Towne had not been ready for this. The Joanna Cross who stood before him was the same age and physical build as the one he knew; but she was quite distinctly someone else. Her hair was lighter and worn shorter. Her eyes, too, were lighter—blue instead of the green that he was used to. The contours of her face were subtly changed. They could have been sisters, but they were different people.

“Is something wrong, Dr. Towne?”

The question came from Ralph Cazaubon. Sam swallowed and made an effort to pull his thoughts together.

“To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Your wife isn't…isn't quite the person I'd expected.”

She was looking at him curiously, a half-smile of polite anticipation on her face, waiting to hear what this stranger was doing in her house, what he'd been saying to her husband.

“What strange tale has Dr. Towne been telling you?” she asked him.

“It might be better if he told you that himself,” Ralph replied. They both turned to Sam and waited for him to go on.

“There's a woman who's been involved in some work I've been doing,” he began, a little unsurely, “who's been using your name—your maiden name, that is. Joanna Cross.”

She frowned. “
Using
my name? Or someone with the same name? It's not that unusual a name. There must be more than one Joanna Cross in the world.”

“Yes…yes, I suppose there are…perhaps that's it,” he finished lamely, not knowing what else to say.

“Is that all?” Ralph said, frowning. “You seemed convinced when you arrived that there was something a good deal more sinister going on.”

Sam ran a hand across his mouth. He could feel his lips were dry. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. But the coincidence was, from where I stood, rather strange.”

“You say this woman's been involved in work you've been doing? What kind of work is that, Dr. Towne?” Joanna asked.

Dr. Towne is an investigator of the paranormal,” Ralph said with a faintly disparaging smile. “I have a feeling he suspected there was some kind of doppelganger at work here.”

He caught the flash of response in Sam's eyes. “Good God,” he said, “I believe that's what you
did
think, isn't it?”

Joanna spoke before Sam could find a reply. “Dr. Towne looks as though he has a lot on his mind. I think the least we can do is ask him to sit down and offer him a drink.”

“Thank you—your husband has already offered. If you don't mind, though, I will sit down. And with your permission ask a couple of questions. I won't take up much of your time.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Sam resumed his place on the sofa where he'd been when she arrived. “Can I ask first,” he said, “if the name Adam Wyatt means anything to either of you?”

“Well, of course it does,” she said, as though mildly surprised that he should ask, but at the same time pleased. She crossed over to a shelf and took down one of several identical white-bound paperbacks. “Here's a proof copy of my book. It's due for publication in the spring.”

Sam took the book she held out to him. On its cover he read in plain print:

ADAM WYATT

An American Rebel in Revolutionary Paris

by

Joanna Cross

Hoping that he was concealing the astonishment he felt, he thumbed through its three hundred or so pages, its print broken here and there by illustrations and portraits reproduced in color.

“How do you know about Adam?” she asked, happily intrigued by the conversation now. “I thought he was my secret—at least until the book comes out, then I hope he'll be everybody's.”

“Oh, I…I don't know a great deal about him,” Sam lied awkwardly. “It's just that I've come across several references to him recently…”

“There you are, it's what I always say,” she said with a triumphant glance toward her husband. “When a subject's time has come, it's just in the air, up for grabs. It's simply a question of who gets to it first.”

“To be honest,” Sam said, “I wasn't sure whether Adam Wyatt was a fictional character or a real one.”

“Oh, he was real all right,” she said with the brief laugh of someone utterly certain of what they were saying. “When I started to research him I came up with an extraordinary amount of documentation. He was quite a character. When he was hardly more than a boy during the War of Independence he wormed his way into a friendship with Lafayette—risked the whole Battle of Yorktown to fake an incident with a runaway horse that made him look like a hero. Years later he almost certainly murdered the only surviving person who knew what he'd done. Meanwhile he'd persuaded Lafayette to take him back to France, where he married an aristocrat who was a close friend of Marie Antoinette's, and got mixed up in every kind of wickedness you can imagine. Despite all of which he died old, rich, and apparently happy, thereby proving,” she added with another laugh, “that, as we all know, there really is no justice in this world.”

Sam had been watching her as she spoke. She had an innocent and lively effervescence, quite obviously a spoiled and privileged young woman, but one whose advantages not even the hardest heart could easily resent. Something about her made him say to himself that this was a charmed life. Pain, misery, and meanness would somehow never touch her. She would survive them. She was born to be, and always would, he felt, be happy, just as surely as some were fated not to be.

“D'you remember how exactly you came across Adam Wyatt in the first place?” he asked her.

She answered with a slight frown. “I'm not sure I do now. I think it was a casual reference in some local history of the place where I was born in the Hudson Valley.” She broke again into a bright, enthusiastic smile. “The amazing thing is he turned out to be an ancestor of Ralph's, on his mother's side. In fact it was Adam who brought us together—literally.”

As she spoke she reached out for Ralph's hand. Sam noticed that they touched each other with an easy spontaneity and total lack of self-consciousness. They looked, he thought, like a couple very much in love.

“My parents still live there and I've always gone up to see them quite often. Ralph was renting a house nearby, but we didn't know each other until one morning we were both out riding, and we met literally over Adam's tomb in this little churchyard. I was there for research, and Ralph was curious about where this notorious ancestor of his was buried…”

“Excuse me,” Sam interrupted, “that was the first time you met? Do you mind telling me how long ago this was?”

Ralph gave a smile and looked at his wife with undisguised adoration. “Exactly twelve months and three days ago,” he said. “But may we know why you ask?”

He was relaxed now, apparently over his initial distrust of Sam and untroubled by his questions, but still curious.

“I…I just wondered,” Sam said lamely. “That would make the date…” He did a rapid calculation and confirmed it with them—chiefly to assure himself that he and they were working within the same time frame. They were. Today's date for him was the same as for them. Somehow the meeting between
this
Joanna Cross and Ralph Cazaubon had predated the meeting between
his
Joanna and Ralph Cazaubon by exactly one year.