Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (6 page)
”
A hot bath,” she reminded him, easing him forward
through the high-ceilinged living room. ”A hot bath while sipping a very large Scotch and then a bite of supper sitting in front of a great blazing fire. Somewhere in all that we're
going to cook this storm right out of your system.”
Corbin managed a small smile as he allowed himself to
be led into a square old-fashioned bathroom where an over
sized tub squatted heavily on clawed feet. Gwen called it
her candlelight-and-wine-for-two tub. But this time it would
be all for Jonathan. She turned both taps on full and waited
for the usual belch of rust to clear before dropping a rubber
plug into the drain. Gwen straightened and turned, invit
ingly pushing open the shower curtain. Corbin seemed hes
itant, as if unsure of what he was expected to do next.
be led into a square old-fashioned bathroom where an over
sized tub squatted heavily on clawed feet. Gwen called it
her candlelight-and-wine-for-two tub. But this time it would
be all for Jonathan. She turned both taps on full and waited
for the usual belch of rust to clear before dropping a rubber
plug into the drain. Gwen straightened and turned, invit
ingly pushing open the shower curtain. Corbin seemed hes
itant, as if unsure of what he was expected to do next.
“
The usual course is to undress,” she observed, “unless
one's clothing needs a good soak as well.”
If she had not known Jonathan Corbin so long and so
intimately, she would have sworn that she saw the beginnings of a blush. She watched him as he undid his necktie and carefully folded it across a varnished wicker hamper.
Next he pulled off his shoes and took pains to place them
neatly under a makeup stool. Gwen realized he was stalling
but could not think why. The sight of Jonathan's
undraped
physique was hardly new to her. They'd shared this very
tub several times during his first weeks in New York. Now,
as she watched, he opened his cuffs and slowly worked the three top buttons of his shirt. Again Corbin hesitated. He
stood, eyes averted, fidgeting with the third button, as if
reluctant to proceed further while she was in the room.
Gwen reached to shut off the taps. In that moment, Corbin made a half turn and, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulled
it sweater fashion over his head.
“
Why did you do that?” Gwen asked.
It was a small thing, she knew, but it was the latest in a
series of small peculiarities in his behavior. How many
times had she seen him remove his shirt? Hundreds, cer
tainly. But she'd never once seen him pull it off over his
head. Not Jonathan or any other man.
series of small peculiarities in his behavior. How many
times had she seen him remove his shirt? Hundreds, cer
tainly. But she'd never once seen him pull it off over his
head. Not Jonathan or any other man.
Her question seemed to confuse him. He followed her
eyes to the shirt, which he held with one hand against his
chest. With his other hand he touched his fingers to the row of still unopened buttons. With a self-conscious shrug, Cor
bin spread the shirt further over his bare chest, looked un
comfortably at Gwen, and waited.
eyes to the shirt, which he held with one hand against his
chest. With his other hand he touched his fingers to the row of still unopened buttons. With a self-conscious shrug, Cor
bin spread the shirt further over his bare chest, looked un
comfortably at Gwen, and waited.
“
Do I gather you'd prefer privacy,” she asked, “or is it
just that you don't want me to know your technique for
removing trousers?”
Do I gather you'd prefer privacy,” she asked, “or is it
just that you don't want me to know your technique for
removing trousers?”
Corbin's lips moved but he said nothing.
“
You do remember me,don't you?”
Still no answer. Just a look of desperate sadness that told
her he knew perfectly well how strangely he was behaving
and how much his actions must be troubling her.
“I'll bring you your drink,” she said, forcing a smile.
She closed the bathroom door behind her.
“
You do remember me, don't you?” she'd asked. Corbin
bRooded over the question as the hot water eased the spring-taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. The double Scotch,
nearly gone, had passed quickly through his empty stomach
and was mercifully dulling the edges of his thoughts. Yes,
he had remembered her. Of course he remembered Gwen.
But there had been times, mostly brief flickering moments,
when he remembered her as someone else. A woman he
knew but did not know. Margaret. A woman called Mar
garet.
See, he thought. She even has a name. How unreal could s
he be if he knew her name, remembered her face, could hear the way she spoke and laughed, and could.almost feel
the soft texture of her skin. Margaret. Lovely Margaret.
Beloved Margaret. A marvelous young lady. Very much a lady. One who could make him the happiest and most mis
erable of men all at the same time. Margaret.
Margaret? Margaret, damn it, who are you?
There had been moments on the subway when he thought
he was with her. He'd been sitting with her when he rose
to give his seat to another lady of
...
quality? Another lady
of quality. And breeding.
There. There was another thing. An expression he'd
never used, or even thought, in his entire life. Nor was he
in the habit of surrendering subway seats to women, either,
unless they seemed old or weak or were carrying babies.
But this time it seemed natural, proper. And looking back,
he wasn't sure how much quality and breeding that woman had anyway. She reeked of money all right, but she was
behaving like a jerk. None of that, however, had even
crossed his mind at the time. He was happy, he was with
Margaret, and they were going to the house, the brown
stone, where Margaret lived. Except this wasn't it. He
seemed to realize that only as he stepped through Gwen's
front door and recognized the place. And he knew that
Gwen had seen his confusion. Or his disappointment. It
wasn't Margaret's place and Gwen Leamas wasn't Mar
garet. But she
had
been, by God. Just moments before. The
woman he helped. The woman he walked with, his arm around her tiny waist, from the corner to this house. That
was Margaret.
Corbin picked up his glass and drained it, then made a
face at the taste. Scotch. He'd have preferred hot rum on a
day like this. Or maybe a bumper of mulled wine sprinkled
with pepper. One or the other. These were the drinks his
taste buds expected, even if he'd never so much as tasted
either one in his entire life. Corbin wasn't even sure what
a bumper was.
Then there was that business about the shirt. Corbin
couldn't say why he was suddenly bashful about undressing
in front of Gwen, but he knew about the shirt. He only
opened the three top buttons because he thought three but
tons were all it had. The rest of the shirt was supposed to
be solid. Even stiff. Heavily starched. And he pulled it off
over his head because that's how a shirt has to be removed
when it only opens halfway down and because that's the way he always takes off his dress shirts. Except Corbin knew he never had. Not ever.
The double Scotch and the heat of the water were work
ing together now. On his mind as well as his body. His anxiety began to soften into a sort of floating detachment.
It was a more merciful state of mind because it permitted thoughts that he would not otherwise have allowed himself to entertain. And words he would not otherwise have con
sidered if applied to himself.
ing together now. On his mind as well as his body. His anxiety began to soften into a sort of floating detachment.
It was a more merciful state of mind because it permitted thoughts that he would not otherwise have allowed himself to entertain. And words he would not otherwise have con
sidered if applied to himself.
Such as
possession,
he thought, or
haunting.
Such as
here's old Jonathan Corbin trying to live his life while
somebody else is trying to take it over. A dead man. A ghost. A ghost who starts seeing other ghosts the minute
he gets access to Jonathan Corbin's eyes. A ghost who kills when he gets hold of Jonathan Corbin’s arms and legs. A
ghost who loves when he takes over Jonathan Corbin’ s heart. A ghost who loves Margaret.
“
Who are you, ghost?” Corbin whispered into the steam rising off his chest. “And why do you only come out when
it snows?”
But that, Corbin knew, was not exactly right, either. He
began to wonder if the ghost had always been there. Just
out of sight. During all the times of his life when he did
things that made no real sense to him afterward. Maybe
even like buying that place in Connecticut. Was that you,
ghost? Is it me who feels so good up there? Or is it really
you?
began to wonder if the ghost had always been there. Just
out of sight. During all the times of his life when he did
things that made no real sense to him afterward. Maybe
even like buying that place in Connecticut. Was that you,
ghost? Is it me who feels so good up there? Or is it really
you?
And Gwen. Look what I'm doing to Gwen. There's the
kind of woman you meet once in a lifetime and I could
only let her get just so close. I used to think there was
something wrong with me. Something missing. But it isn't something missing. It's something extra. It's you, you bastard. It's you standing at my ear every time I begin to care about someone, saying not this one. This isn't the one. The
one you have to wait for is about five feet two, she has
wide green eyes with little gold flecks in them, a mouth
that always has a little smile, and light brown hair that goes
down past a waist you could fit both hands around. I know
her now. Margaret. I've seen her. I've even talked to her.
But who are you, God damn it?
kind of woman you meet once in a lifetime and I could
only let her get just so close. I used to think there was
something wrong with me. Something missing. But it isn't something missing. It's something extra. It's you, you bastard. It's you standing at my ear every time I begin to care about someone, saying not this one. This isn't the one. The
one you have to wait for is about five feet two, she has
wide green eyes with little gold flecks in them, a mouth
that always has a little smile, and light brown hair that goes
down past a waist you could fit both hands around. I know
her now. Margaret. I've seen her. I've even talked to her.
But who are you, God damn it?
Who the hell
are
you?
Corbin did not know that he screamed the question until
he heard it echo off the tiles.
Four
As the taxi plowed to a stop outside the Lexington Avenue entrance to Grand Central Terminal, Raymond Lesko
dropped a ten-dollar bill into the lap of a surprised Marvin Posey, who had fully expected to be stiffed. The cab com
pany, Lesko was sure, would see no part of the money since
the off-duty light had been left on and the meter off for the
entire ride. But the ten spot would make the driver less
likely to log the trip. Lesko heard the door locks snap shut behind him as he climbed a mound of shoveled snow and
stamped into the terminal building.
Inside, the former New York City policeman checked
his watch. Half past four. He was ninety minutes early
for his meeting with the secretive little man who was fund
ing this particular activity. However, passing that time in
one of the station's various bars seemed preferable to sitting
in the back of a taxi enduring Posey's prolonged sulk.
Lesko bought a copy of the
New York Post
from a vendor
who'd moved his stand out of the storm and proceeded toward the Oyster Bar on the lower level.
his watch. Half past four. He was ninety minutes early
for his meeting with the secretive little man who was fund
ing this particular activity. However, passing that time in
one of the station's various bars seemed preferable to sitting
in the back of a taxi enduring Posey's prolonged sulk.
Lesko bought a copy of the
New York Post
from a vendor
who'd moved his stand out of the storm and proceeded toward the Oyster Bar on the lower level.
The bar, he noted gratefully, was still half empty. This
meant that the inevitable series of frozen switches and stalled trains had either hot yet begun or had not been
posted. Within an hour the Oyster Bar would be jammed
with sullen commuters. Many would not reach their homes
at all that night.
Choosing a stool at one end, Raymond Lesko ordered a Heineken and nursed it as he reviewed his notebook, leav
ing an account of his expenses until last. This completed,
he unfolded his
New York Post,
whose four-inch headline shouted the single word
blizzard,
and then flipped to the sports pages, where he began a hopeful assessment of the play-off chances of the New York Knickerbockers. Only forty-five minutes and two Heinekens had passed when he
felt a presence at his right shoulder.
“
Good afternoon, Mr. Dancer,” he said without turning.
How long the smaller man had been watching him, even
following him, Lesko did not know. It was the habit of Mr.
Dancer, who apparently had no first name, to arrive early
for their meetings. He would wait unseen for Lesko's ap
pearance and then choose a place of conversation where,
Lesko presumed, there would have been no opportunity for
prearranged eavesdropping.
“
There is a satisfactory table in the corner,” came the
tight little voice. Lesko heard a note of irritation in it. Good,
he thought. Let the little bastard wonder if I've been watch
ing him as long as he's been watching me. He picked up
his beer and newspaper and turned to join Dancer, who was
already seated, an attache case partly open on the table in
front of him.
“
May I be assured, Mr. Lesko,” he began, offering no
greeting, “that I have not been under your surveillance?”
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