Time Out of Mind (21 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
He rubbed his eyes. “No one, I guess.”
“
Then why did you say that?”
”
I don't know.” His body seemed to sag again. And
now it was Gwen Leamas who felt a sudden chill.
“
Let's get you indoors, Jonathan. Let's get down to the
Plaza.”
“
There was somebody back there, Gwen.”
”
I know,” she told him.
bin's apparent awareness that he was being followed, now held back until he could fall in behind the black homburg.
The old man reappeared, Lesko wasn't sure from where, but from the snow on the front of his coat Lesko realized
he must have thrown himself behind some trash cans when
Corbin turned. The old man staggered on, his eyes hollow
and fixed straight ahead. He paid no attention to Lesko, if
he remembered that the ex-cop was there at all. Lesko
waited until he passed and fell in behind him, but on the
opposite side of the rapidly darkening street.
Farther along, he saw Gwen Leamas tug at Corbin's arm,
pointing, he thought, toward the side entrance to the Plaza
Hotel. But Corbin shook his head and walked on, past a
small movie theater that showed arty foreign films and on almost to Fifth Avenue. At the display windows on the
Fifty-eight Street side of Bergdorf Goodman, Corbin
stopped. Lesko watched as he touched the windows and the
walls, as if to be sure that they were solid and real. The
woman took his arm, more firmly this time. She guided
him into the street and through traffic he did not appear to
notice. He was gesturing as he walked, waving his umbrella
first back toward Bergdorf’ s, then ahead toward the open
expanse of Grand Army Plaza in the manner of a man re
counting some event that had happened there. Lesko saw
them stop, almost beyond his line of sight, and saw Corbin
point the umbrella at a place on the sidewalk where there
was nothing at all. He seemed to be pinning something, or
stabbing something with its tip. The Leamas woman tugged
again, and they were gone from view.
Lesko held back, waiting for the old man to follow. But
the old man hesitated. He would lean in the direction Cor
bin had taken and then jerk himself back. It was the first
time Lesko could recall seeing any human being actually
wringing his hands in indecision. What's the problem?
Lesko wondered. Had the old guy reached his limit or was it something else? Was it the Plaza Hotel? Betcha! Corbin and the dame must be going into the Plaza and he doesn't
know whether to follow because a guy like him would’ be recognized in a place like that, wouldn't he. Someone might
spot him and wonder why he looked all unwound and scared shitless. Someone might say his name out loud
within earshot of the Corbin guy. That's it, right? Well, make up your mind, old man. I'd just as soon see a little
more of what Corbin's doing around here, but that's up to
you. Where you go, I go.
Lesko watched with satisfaction as the man in black straightened, brushed the snow from his coat, tucked in his scarf, and at last centered the black homburg. Lesko knew
he'd decided.
Way to go, Pop,” he muttered. Lesko followed as he
rounded the corner and mounted the broad front steps of
the Plaza Hotel.
Harry Sturdevant, who was not actually Gwen's uncle but
who had known her since the day of her christening, had arrived twenty minutes early. The Palm Court of the Plaza Hotel, he realized, was not an entirely ideal place for a
confidential chat with a man who might be nearing an emo
tional collapse. But at least by arriving early he could min
imize interruptions by other patrons who might know him
and wish to say hello. He'd already shaken hands with sev
eral of the hotel staff, the chairman of the Coca-Cola Com
pany, a senior partner at Smith-Barney, and a man who'd
been brakeman on the Canadian bobsled team at Lake Pla
cid.
Uncle Harry was a large man with intelligent blue eyes and a generous mouth that had been molded through use
into a look of perpetual good humor. He stood three inches over six feet and carried fifty pounds more than his playing
weight at Harvard, where he'd lettered in eight sports two
generations earlier. What his personal physician chose to
call excess lard, Sturdevant preferred to think of as appropriate substance. In any case he carried it well, with due
recognition to a superb but maddeningly slow tailor he'd
found during the war years on Sackville Street in London.
Sturdevant rose at Gwen's approach through a maze of
tables and offered his arms for a hug whose warmth caused
several nearby ladies to stop in mid-sip. Corbin waited, in
a stiffness that was part politeness and part discomfort, until
her uncle disengaged, then offered his hand.
Always good to see you, Jonathan.” Sturdevant ges
tured to two empty chairs. “You're both probably half fro
zen. Sit down and let's get something hot into you. Or have
a drink unless you insist on being traditional.” He was
careful to avoid looking too deeply or clinically into Cor
bin's eyes, but then, Sturdevant knew that he had always done just that each of the four or five times he'd met Jon
athan. There had always been something about him. Some
thing he couldn't place.
“
Coffee would be fine, thanks.” Corbin, distinctly ner
vous, would also have preferred a Scotch. But he feared
that his hold on the present was tenuous at best and he was
not about to risk slipping backward again in full view of
the Plaza's high tea crowd. As it was, he was troubled by
the notion that he should not be sitting there except in black
tie.
“
Coffee for me, too.” Gwen squeezed Corbin’s hand
reassuringly. “And some scones if they have them.”
They do indeed.” Harry Sturdevant nodded to the
waiter who'd been standing near enough to hear, also
touching the rim of his own half-empty glass.
Now”—he leaned closer to Corbin—“would some
small talk help you to relax or would you like to get right
into the business at hand?”
I don't know how much small talk I have in me. Could
I ask how much you know?”
“
As in, Do I suspect you're off your rocker?”
”
I suppose.”
“
Uncle Harry...”
Sturdevant put his hand on Gwen's but kept his eyes on
Corbin. “I've known you, although not well, for more than
two years now, Jonathan. Gwen has boasted about you to
me many more times than that. She is quite a sensible
young lady. I both love and respect her. I am confident that
she is not one who would long remain attracted to an un
stable young man. I myself have seen or heard nothing
remotely troubling about you before this morning.”
”
I haven't been all that stable lately.”
Which brings up a point Gwen made on the telephone.
Whatever difficulties you're having now, is it correct that
they did not exist prior to your arrival in New York?”
“
Pretty much.”
“
Pretty much or entirely?”
There were some things that troubled me before coming
here. They never seemed all that significant before.”
“
But they do now.”
Yes, I think so.” Corbin leaned slowly back in his
chair. His arms crept up and folded across his chest. His
attention turned to a violinist at the inner end of the Palm
Court.
responded with a small uncertain shrug.
Your body language,” Sturdevant told Corbin, “sug
gests a considerable reluctance to say what is on your mind. I find myself wanting to ask if you'd rather have Gwen tell
me, but I gather that this will be news for her as well.”
Corbin’s eyes were still on the musician, who was on
the third chorus of “If Ever I Would Leave You.”
”
I once asked the violinist,” he began slowly, ”I think
it was here, if he'd play something from Gilbert and Sul
livan. From
Iolanthe,
to be exact. The violinist went and
huddled with the maître d'hôtel. The maître d' came over
and told me very politely that Gilbert and Sullivan was
quite unsuitable in this ambience. Operetta music, as op
posed to real music, was also quite unsuitable for the fine
Amati violin the musician owned. However, if I had a fa
vorite by Strauss, or Brahms, or Vivaldi or Corelli, he'd be
more than pleased to oblige. I remember the conversation
very clearly. I was annoyed. I thought he was an ass.”
“
Go on.” Sturdevant was watching him intently.
“
The conversation never happened. I'm not a particular fan of Gilbert and Sullivan. I don't think I've ever seen or
heard
Iolanthe.
I don't know who Corelli is or what he wrote.”
“
But you remember the event vividly.”
“
That's just one example.”
“
Is it ever,” Gwen added. “All afternoon he's been—”
Sturdevant held up a hand.
“
Were you never curious enough to look up Corelli or listen to
Iolanthe
to see if either evoked a special meaning
for you?” .
“
You don't understand.” Corbin leaned forward again.
”I just remembered it. Just now, when I looked past those
potted plants and saw the violinist. I see things, ordinary
things, and some memory I could not have had comes
flooding back.”
“
How long has this been going on, Jonathan?”
“
Almost as long as I can remember.”
“
Often?”
“
Just occasionally. They'd come in spurts maybe once
or twice a year. But now it's happening often. Very often.”
“
You said it's troubled you in the past. Did you seek
help?”
“
In college, yes.”
“
What was your specific complaint at that time?’’ ;
I had a feeling I was someone else. Not all the time. Sometimes.”
“
To whom did you go for this counseling?”
”
A psychology professor at Notre Dame.”
'”What did he suggest, if anything?’'
“
He thought I might be having some trouble adjusting
to college and filling my father's shoes. My father was a
considerable campus hero during the early forties. They sort
of enshrined him after he was killed in the war. The professor also thought I might be having some identity prob
lems because my mother married again and her new husband
got me to take his name for a while.”
If you'll forgive me,” Sturdevant observed, “that
seems like rather a simplistic set of answers coming from
a trained psychologist.”
It wasn't his fault. I didn't give him much of a shot.
You see, he asked me if I thought these memories and
feelings I'd have were real. I said no. I lied.”
“
May I ask why?”
I can read a psychology textbook too, Dr. Sturdevant.
Believing it would make me psychotic. Not believing it just
made me confused. Confused looks better on my record.”
