Free Time Out of Mind by John R. Maxim Page A

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.”
    She did. Not bothering to get her coat she matched him 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.
    And then he said, very gently, ”I must leave you now, 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