Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (10 page)
“
Not especially.”
“
You want to sleep on it?”
”
I suppose I should.”
“
I'll show you some other places tomorrow. There's a
real nice one over in Riverside.”
“
Fine.”
But at nine the next morning, Corbin handed her a check
for the binder on the Mullins house.
“
Tell me about Connecticut,” Gwen had asked. “It began
there, didn't it?” It did and it didn't.
”I think you've really gone crackers this time,” she told
him. The day she returned from London he drove her to
Greenwich in the secondhand Datsun he’d bought as a station
car.
“
You don't like it?” Corbin was disappointed. “But it's
sort of like the Homestead. Or it will be when it's fixed up. You'll have a place to go weekends.”
“
You might have discussed this with me, Jonathan.”
Well, it's an investment. And it's not as if I'm going
to be out here all the time. A couple of weekends a month.
And I'll keep the place in New York.” Corbin, in truth,
had given no thought at all to the future. The apartment
he'd leased had slipped his mind entirely, so mesmerized
was he by this peeling, sagging pile of dry rot, which to
him was a thing of joy and beauty.
Most days he would catch the earliest train he could man
age and be at the Mullins house before seven. He would
work there, scraping and plastering, often neglecting to eat,
until midnight. Sometimes, when it was still light enough
in the evening, he would take long walks through the neigh
boring streets. Now and then he would see another old
house and stand for a long time staring at it. He did not
know why.
The thought that he was behaving compulsively, or at all irrationally, never entered Corbin's mind. Nor could he understand why Gwen seemed upset with him. He did notice
that she was increasingly unavailable on the occasional free
nights he found time to spend with her, but he felt sure that
she'd come around once she saw the finished product. Just
wait until he had the house papered and furnished properly.
Then every weekend would be just as happy as that one at
the Homestead. As happy as he was.
membered, she had seldom seen him happy again. Thanks
giving was one exception. He was beaming like a
schoolboy when she arrived to spend that holiday weekend with him in Greenwich. He was so proud of what he'd done with the house and of the Thanksgiving dinner he'd planned
from a Victorian cookbook that she managed to choke
down his oyster stuffing and his mashed turnips with no
visible sign of distress. The dining room furnishings, which
he'd found at an auction, were also authentic Victorian. So
was the reproduction wallpaper. The other rooms were as
yet largely, unfurnished. But wait until Christmas, he said.
By Christmas everything will be perfect.
during the last week of November. Then another inch a few
days later. Then two more substantial snowfalls and a few scattered flurries. And Jonathan began to change. At first
Gwen made no connection between his behavior and the
snow. She simply knew that he seemed to be calling in sick
an awful lot. It took her a while to realize that on those
occasions when Jonathan came down with the flu, or had
a toothache, or couldn't get his Datsun started, it was al
ways snowing. And his too-frequent absenteeism was beginning to wear thin with some of the network staff. When
she tried to discuss it with him, Corbin brushed it off. Just
a string of rotten luck, he said. Coincidence. Nothing to it.
By now he was spending nearly all his free time at the
Greenwich house and paying little attention to Gwen, which
Gwen increasingly resented. When he called to confirm
their Christmas plans, Gwen at first declined to come, but
his disappointment seemed so sincere and so innocent that
she changed her mind. At the very least it would give her a chance to have a good talk with him. Christmas, as it
turned out, was pleasant and even loving. She had to admit
that the house was quite nicely done up and that his au
thentic Victorian Christmas dinner was delicious. The oys
ters, this time, were left on the half shell where they
belonged. But as for the talk she wanted, Jonathan remained
evasive as ever.
January was particularly snowy that year. Jonathan
missed more days, some of them important. Whenever the
skies appeared to threaten, Jonathan would either arrive
very late in the morning or make a headlong rush to Grand
Central for an early train home. It was Sandy Bauer who
first came to Gwen's office and told her how worried she
was about Jonathan. ”I don't understand it,” she said. ”I
mean, the man is standing in there right now looking scared
to death. Of snow!”
He was on his way to the elevators by the time Gwen
caught up with him. Jonathan foolishly tried to duck her and then tried to bluff. There was a meeting across town,
he told her. He was late, he had to run. Like hell, she
answered. Talk to me, Jonathan. What in God's name is
happening to you?”
“
Nothing. I'm okay. Just a little temperature.”
“
Bullfeathers! Where are you going?”
“
Just across town. Listen, I'll call you.”
“
I'm going with you.”
“
No.”
“
Then I'll follow you, damn it.”
step for step, and all the way to Park Avenue she could see the growing terror on his face. She saw him dodging ob
stacles that weren't there and flinching at things she
couldn't see.
What is it, Jonathan?” She grabbed the belt of his
trench coat.
“
Let me go. Please.”
I'll scream bloody murder if you pull away from me.
Jonathan, are you on drugs? Are you hallucinating?”
“
Gwen. Please.” His eyes were wild, darting. Suddenly
he reached for her and pulled her toward him as though guiding her out of the path of someone walking by. There was no one near, but Jonathan's eyes focused and followed
as if there were.
What do you see, Jonathan? What's frightening you so badly?” She wrapped her shivering arms around his neck
and pulled his face into her wet hair and kissed his cheek.
He hugged her back, tentatively at first and then fiercely.
He held her for several long minutes, and she held him
until his breathing became normal.
dearest.”
What?” His tone. So strange. She tilted her head to
better see his face.
“
Wednesday,” he whispered. ”I shall visit you on Wednesday.”
“
Jonathan ...” She stepped back from him. ·
Be well, dearest.” He brought her hand to his lips.
Then he bowed slightly at the waist and tipped a hat he
wasn't wearing. A stunned Gwen Leamas watched as he w
alked unhurriedly down Park Avenue, as if he had not a
care in the world.
The man called Dancer cast his eyes around the Oyster Bar. Dour-faced commuters had quickly filled the remaining tables and were already two deep at the bar. It was clear from
their manner that at least some northbound trains had already been canceled.
The thought of terminating this interview with Raymond
Lesko crossed his mind but Dancer rejected it. Their conversation had taken too disquieting a turn. But aside from Lesko's acute perceptions regarding the unhappy history of the Corbin family, and his recalcitrance regarding the note
book, there was still much more to be learned from him.
And more to be learned about him.
The interview would continue, Dancer decided, although he wished he could think of a more discreet place. The Yale Club and the New York Yacht Club were nearby and would offer privacy but were otherwise out of the question. Bring
ing Lesko to either one would be tantamount to handing
him a business card. Nor would any other public place be
suitable. In the more fashionable of them, Dancer would
run the risk of being recognized and addressed by his real
name. Any place not as fashionable would surely be just
as crowded as Grand Central. Better to remain here, he supposed, and rely on the increasing levels of noise and
drunkenness to dull the attention of any casual listener.
”
I consider my request a reasonable one, Mr. Lesko.
May I know why you are being difficult about a few scrib
bled pages which you can surely replicate from memory?”
”
A matter of principle.”
“
Indeed, Mr. Lesko.” Dancer almost allowed himself a
smile.
The principle is called covering my butt. If you're a
lawyer, which I suspect you are because you're such a pain in the ass, you know the difference in evidentiary value
between original notes and reconstructions. You also know
that no reporter or policeman would ever surrender his notes.”
“
Defrocked policeman.”
“
Retired, Twinkletoes., Lesko corrected him. “Full pension.”
Dancer sat back, folding his arms, debating whether to
point out to this thug that his retirement was no more than two hops ahead of the Internal Affairs Division, a depart
mental trial, and possible indictment for drug trafficking
and murder. But making Lesko defensive on the subject could be counterproductive. And his past transgressions
might well have value in the immediate future.
Your report.” He leaned forward. “Please continue,
Mr. Lesko.”
Lesko met Dancer's eyes for a long moment, considering
whether to pick up where Dancer had seemed so anxious
to stop him. The subject at hand was old Hiram Corbin's
widow, mother of the first Jonathan T Corbin, who was reputed to have been a very impressive old dame. Lived to
be about eighty. Which might not have been all that re
markable, even for a Corbin, except.that Hiram's widow
didn't come to all that peaceful an end either. Lesko
thumbed a few pages back, leaving Dancer to chew his lip a while longer.
Evanston, Illinois, now came back to him. Mrs. Hiram Forsythe Corbin, nee Charlotte Whitney of Baltimore, had also
died in March of 1944. Another accident, it says here. As
phyxiation. Died in her sleep when the flame of her gas
heater somehow blew out. No autopsy. Wartime shortage
of personnel at the coroner's office. No police investigation worth the name, either. Strange. Strange because the physical evidence
could
have been consistent with deliberate
suffocation. On the other hand, it
could
have been consis
tent with a legitimate accident or even a suicide. Still, there
should have been an investigation. Particularly in view of
the dates. There it was. March 19, 1944. That's just two
days before March 21, 1944, when her fifty-five-year-old
son had the life crushed out of him by a speeding car on
Chicago's North Side. Here's old Charlotte Corbin, a
woman of some standing in Chicago, whose sudden death
was practically within a heartbeat of the sudden death of her son,
Jonathan T Corbin the first. You'd think someone
would have cared enough to wonder.