Superstition

by David Ambrose

  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

  She 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…”

  “I'm not whoever…I'm Joanna Cross…I work for you, I write for this magazine…”

  “I've never seen you before in my…”

  “Camp Starburst. My story on Camp Starburst boosted circulation two percent…”

  “Camp what…?”

  “You said the one I'm writing now on Adam Wyatt is worth a Pulitzer…”

  Taylor Freestone's eyes continued to widen with alarm and disbelief. “I have no idea what you're…”

  “Sam Towne! You made a dona
tion to his department at Manhattan University, for the story that I'm doing on the Adam Wyatt experiment.”

  She became aware of a movement behind her. Two of the uniformed security guards who were normally on duty downstairs in the main lobby appeared at her side.

  “Just come along with us, quietly now, please,” one of them said.

  She felt their hands on her arms and tried to shake them off, but they gripped tighter.

  “Wait a minute, let's at least try to find out what's going on here.” The man who spoke was the one who'd been occupying her office. He stepped forward now, prepared to defend her.

  “Leave this to us, please, sir,” one of the security guards said.

  “I will leave it to you-as soon as I'm satisfied we all know what we're doing.” He looked at her squarely. “Now who are you? What do you want?”

  She realized she had to stay calm, or at least pretend to, let them see she could do it and that she was not demented, not a madwoman but somebody worthy of respect, their respect. “I'm trying to tell you,” she said, “I'm Joanna Cross…I'm a writer…”

  “Is that why you've come here?” he asked. There was a strange gentleness in his tone. She realized that despite his gallantry he was still humoring her, doing the decent thing by a troubled woman rather than sensing a truth that he meant to uncover.

  “I came here,” she said, her voice trembling, “because I work here…and because I needed money…”

  “The magazine owes you money?”

  “No…I found myself on the street with no money…I needed…”

  The man reached into his back pocket and brought out a wallet.

  “Don't give her anything,” Taylor Freestone said sharply. “We have no responsibility here, don't assume any.”

  “Giving her a few bucks isn't going to hurt,” the other man said.

  He held out some bills. She didn't know how many, she didn't look. She thought for a moment she was going to pass out. The sheer impossibility of it all was overwhelming, and unconsciousness, with its implied promise that maybe she'd wake up and things would be all right again, seemed like the only choice before her.

  But some small part of her brain was telling her to hang on, not to let go, not now, not yet. This wasn't a dream and it wasn't impossible, because it was actually happening. She couldn't run or hide. She had to face this thing and see it through.

  “Take it,” the man said, still holding out the money. “I'm sorry we can't help you, but if you need money…”

  “No!” Taylor Freestone protested again.

  “It's my money, damnit!” the man snapped back. “Please take it,” he said to her more gently. “Please just take it and go-all right?”

  Very slowly, realizing there was nothing to be done, knowing that whatever happened, whatever she did next or wherever she went or tried to go, she would need money, she reached out and took it.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was barely audible, but she sensed that her action, her acceptance of this stranger's gift, had somehow defused the situation.

  “Just get her out of here,” Taylor Freestone said to the guards. “And make sure she doesn't get back in.”

  This time she didn't shake off the pressure on her arm. She let herself be led along the familiar corridors, through the lobby where Bobbie and Jane's silent gaze followed her out, through the glass doors, then into the elevator, and finally onto the street.

  There they let her go, and watched until she was safely out of sight.

  48

  It was only when she asked for change in a magazine store that she realized the man in her office had given her fifty dollars-an act of surprising generosity that she wished she'd thanked him better for. Better still would have been not needing to thank him for anything.

  She found a pay phone and tried Ward's number again. Still no reply. Next she phoned the lab. Peggy answered.

  “Peggy, it's me-Joanna.”

  “Joanna?”

  “I wondered if you'd heard from Sam in the last half hour or so.”

  “Sam's out right now. Actually I'm not quite sure where he is. Can I give him a message?”

  “No, I…tell him I'll call back.”

  “All right, Joanna, I'll make a note.”

  The way she said “Joanna” didn't sound right. It wasn't the way you'd speak to a friend, or even to anyone you knew. Peggy was using the caller's first name out of politeness, not out of any sense of intimacy. “Joanna” was just a woman on the phone who could have given any name.

  Joanna swallowed, forcing herself to accept what she knew was the truth. “You don't know who I am, do you, Peggy?”

  “I'm sorry, I'm not sure I can quite place you. Would you like to remind me where we've met?”

  “It doesn't matter,” she managed to say, and hung up.

  The phone was one of a row in the subway at Columbus Circle. Nobody paid any attention to the woman who stood there with her face in her hands, leaning against the inside wall of the booth as though about to collapse. One or two people glanced her way as they passed, thinking maybe she'd just made a call and received some devastating news-the death of a loved one, perhaps, or the diagnosis of some illness more grave than she'd feared. None of them paused or came over to help. No one chose to get involved.

  Joanna fished out some more coins and dialed the number she most feared calling. Her mother answered after three rings with her usual interrogatory “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  A pause, then, hesitantly, “Joanna? Is that you?”

  Joanna didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until it came out of her in a shuddering sob. “Mom…help me, Mom, I don't know what's happening…you're the only one who knows who I am…I've got to see you…I'm coming out there right now…”

  “Who is this?”

  The words cut like a knife through her brain. “Mom, you just said…I said ‘Mom’ and you said ‘Joanna’…”

  “I said ‘Joanna, is that you?’ But you're not Joanna. Now whoever you are, this is not a very funny joke. Don't call me again.”

  She hung up.

  49

  It was nearly three hours before Sam was finished with the police. Their questions had been probing and fueled by a deep suspicion-for which he couldn't blame them, given the circumstances. But they seemed satisfied in the end that Ward's death was suicide or conceivably an accident, but not murder.

  He thought it wise not to tell them too much about Adam Wyatt and the whole experiment, saying merely that Ward took an interest in his work and had volunteered to take part in a series of experiments that were essentially statistical. The mention of statistics had deadened their interest sufficiently to let the whole topic of the paranormal slip by unexplored. Sam gave his personal details and said he'd be glad to make himself available for any further questioning.

  Before leaving, and with the distraught manservant's approval, he made some calls from the phone in the apartment's main reception room. The first was to Joanna's mobile phone. He tried three times, each time getting a recording that told him there was some error in the number he had dialed, which was not currently allocated to any subscriber. He knew there was no error, but didn't persist.

  He tried her number at Beekman Place, and listened to the phone ring out-until it was answered by a man with a Bronx accent.

  “Fiedler's Deli.”

  Sam checked the number with the man. He'd dialed correctly, but this was not Beekman Place and there was no Joanna Cross at that location, only an assortment of sandwiches and salads that could be delivered in the neighborhood at no extra charge. Sam apologized for troubling the man and hung up.

  He called the Around Town office and asked for Joanna Cross. The request caused a flurry of excitement; he could hear muffled conversations around the phone, people being called, advice sought. Finally he was put through to Taylor Freestone.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Sam Towne.”

  “Sam Towne? That's the
second time I've heard that name today. The woman you're asking about, Joanna Cross, mentioned it when she was in here.”

  “I'm trying to find her.”

  “Well, you won't find her here. I don't know who she is, but security has orders to keep her out if she ever comes back. Who is she, anyway?”

  Sam hesitated. “I'm not sure I can tell you that, Mr. Freestone. I'm sorry to have troubled you. Good-bye.”

  When he hung up he waited a moment before dialing again. He was too afraid that he already knew what he was going to hear. All the same, he had to face it. If only as a scientist, he had to put his theories to the test. Peggy answered the phone.

  “Any messages for me, Peggy?”

  “There was a call from Carl Janowitz at that funding board you've been talking with. One from Bob Gulliver in the dean's office. And one from a Joanna Cross. She seemed to think we knew each other. Has she worked with us as some point?”

  “Yes, actually she has, Peggy.”

  “I can't quite place her. Anyway, she said she'd call back.”

  He thanked her and hung up. He debated whether to try calling Joanna's parents. He didn't have their number, but could probably find it easily enough.

  But what would he say? What could he?

  There were other things he had to do first, things that would cause no unnecessary distress to others. Above all he had to keep a tight grip on himself and his own sanity, remembering that he was a scientist who must confront the situation he was in with as much emotional neutrality and clarity of mind as he could muster, asking questions and not hiding from the answers, whatever they might be and wherever they might lead.

  Before leaving, he walked to the window and stood motionless for some moments, looking out. He remembered how the narrator in Jack Finney's story of time travel-he and Joanna had talked about it only yesterday-had stood at a window in this building and looked out on a New York of the past.

  Sam knew that what he was looking out on now was something far more alien than the past.