Zan blinked, opened her eyes, and closed them again. What happened, she asked herself. She wondered why she was sitting in the chair, why even though she was wearing the bathrobe, she felt so chilled, why her whole body ached.
Her hands were numb. She rubbed them together, trying to get feeling back into her fingers. Her feet were asleep. She moved them in a circular motion, almost unaware of what she was doing.
She opened her eyes again. Matthew’s picture was directly in her vision. She could tell that the bulb in the lamp next to it was still on, even though dim, cloud-filled light was filtering through the partially drawn shade.
Why didn’t I go to bed last night? she asked herself as she tried to get past the dull throbbing in her head.
Then she remembered.
They think I took Matthew from the stroller. But that’s impossible. That’s crazy. Why would I do that? What would I have done with him?
“What would I have done with you?” she moaned, as she stared at Matthew’s picture. “Can anyone seriously believe I could harm you, my own child?”
Zan sprang to her feet, then in quick strides crossed the room to grab Matthew’s picture and hug it against her body. “Why do they think that?” The question was now a whisper. “How could those pictures be of me? I was with Nina Aldrich. I spent that afternoon in the new town house she bought. I can prove it. Of course I can prove it.
“I know I didn’t take Matthew out of his stroller,” she said aloud, trying to control the quavering tone of her voice. “I can prove it. But I can’t let what happened to me last night happen again. I can’t have those blanks in my memory, the way I did after Mom and Dad died. If there is a photo of a woman picking up Matthew from the stroller, it would be the first real break in trying to trace him. I’ve got to think like that. I can’t let myself retreat again. Please, God, don’t let me be overwhelmed again. Let me hang on to the hope that there may be something in those photos that will give some clue, some lead, to finding Matthew . . .”
It was only six o’clock. Instead of showering, Zan turned on the taps in the Jacuzzi, knowing that the swirling hot water would help relieve the aching of her body. What should I do? she asked herself again. I’m sure that Detective Collins must have those photos by now. After all, he was the lead investigator on the case.
She thought of the way the media had been outside the Four Seasons waiting for her last night, how they had been here outside the apartment when Josh took her home. Would they try to follow her around today? Or would they be at the office waiting for her?
She turned off the taps of the Jacuzzi, tested the water, then realized it was too hot. The phone, she thought. She remembered that she had turned off the ringer when she got into the apartment last night. She walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. The message light was blinking. There had been nine phone calls.
The first eight were from reporters asking to interview her. Determined not to allow them to upset her, Zan carefully deleted the calls one by one. The final one was from Alvirah Meehan. Gratefully, Zan listened to it, savoring Alvirah’s reassurance that that guy who claimed he had a picture of Zan picking up Matthew in the park must be some con artist. “It’s a shame you have to go through nonsense like this, Zan,” Alvirah’s outraged voice boomed. “Of course it will be exposed as a sham, but it’s still terrible on you emotionally. Willy and I know that. Please call us and come over and have dinner tomorrow. We love you.”
Zan listened to the message twice. Then, when the computerized voice instructed, “Push three to save, push one to delete,” she pushed the save button. It’s too early to call Alvirah, she thought, but I’ll get back to her when I’m in the office. It would be good to be with her and Willy tonight. Maybe by then, if Detective Collins can see me this afternoon, all this will be cleared up. And maybe, oh, please, God, if that man from England was snapping photos when someone was taking Matthew from the stroller, Detective Collins will have something to go on.
Somewhat comforted at the thought, Zan reset the coffeepot from the seven-o’clock setting so that it would begin to brew at once. She got into the Jacuzzi and felt the healing warmth of the water begin to deflate the tension in her body. Coffee cup in hand, she dressed in slacks, a turtleneck sweater, and low-heeled boots.
When she was dressed, it was still only a few minutes before seven, but she realized it might be early enough to leave the apartment without running into reporters. That possibility made her twist her hair into a bun and drape a scarf securely around it. Then she dug into a dresser drawer and found an old pair of sunglasses with a wide, round frame that was a totally different shape from the kind she usually wore.
Finally she grabbed a faux-fur vest from the closet, picked up her shoulder bag, and took the elevator down to the basement. From there she made her way through the rows of parked cars in the garage and exited onto the street at the back of the building. With swift steps she hurried toward the West Side Highway, encountering only the early-morning dog walkers and joggers. When she was sure she was not being followed she hailed a cab and started to give the office address on East Fifty-eighth Street, then changed her mind. Instead she directed the cabbie to drop her on East Fifty-seventh Street. If there’s any sign of the media I can go in through the delivery entrance, she thought.
It was only when she was able to sit back, knowing that at least for the length of the trip uptown she could be sure that no one would shout questions at her or aim a camera in her direction, that she was able to focus on the other problem, the fact that someone was charging clothes and an airline ticket to her name. Will that affect my credit rating? she worried. Of course it will. If I get the job with Kevin Wilson, I’ll be ordering very expensive fabrics and furniture.
Why is all this happening to me?
Zan found herself pushing back against the almost physical feeling of being caught in a riptide, of a fierce current dragging her underwater. She gasped for air, as the sense of not being able to breathe overwhelmed her.
Panic attacks.
Don’t let them come back, she pleaded to herself. She shut her eyes and forced herself to inhale deep, measured breaths. By the time the cab pulled to the corner at Fifty-seventh Street and Third Avenue, she had managed to regain some measure of calm. Even so, her fingers were trembling as she handed the cabbie the folded bills.
It had begun to drizzle. Cold, wet drops brushed her cheeks. The vest was a mistake, she thought, I should have worn a raincoat.
Ahead of her a woman was hurrying a little boy who looked to be about four years old toward a waiting car. Zan rushed to pass them so that she could look into the child’s face. But of course it wasn’t Matthew.
When she turned the corner there didn’t seem to be any sign of the media waiting for her. She pushed the revolving door and went into the lobby. The newsstand was to the left. “The Post and the News please, Sam,” she told the elderly clerk.
There was nothing of his usual friendly smile in Sam’s demeanor when he handed the folded copies to her.
She did not permit herself to look at them until she was safely in her office. Then she laid them on her desk and unfolded them. The front page of the Post was a picture of her bending over the stroller. The front page of the News was a picture of her carrying Matthew away.
Disbelieving, her eyes darted from one to the other. But it isn’t me, she protested. It can’t be me. Someone who looks like me took Matthew . . . It made no sense.
Josh wasn’t due in until later. Zan tried to focus, but by noon she gave up. Zan grabbed the phone. I’ve got to call Alvirah back. I know she has the Post and the Times delivered every morning.
Alvirah answered on the second ring. When she heard Zan’s voice, she said, “Zan, I saw the papers. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Why would someone who looks like you take Matthew?”
What does Alvirah mean by that question? Zan asked herself. Was she asking what reason someone would have for making herself look like me and taking Matthew, or does she mean that she thinks I took him?
“Alvirah,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “someone is doing this to me. I don’t know who, but I have my suspicions. But even if Bartley Longe would go to this length to harm me, there is one thing I’m sure of: He would never hurt Matthew. Alvirah, thank God for those pictures. Thank God for them. I’m going to get Matthew back. Those pictures are going to be my proof that someone is impersonating me, that someone hates me enough to steal my child and now is stealing my identity . . .”
For a moment there was silence, then Alvirah said, “Zan, I know a good private detective firm. If you don’t have the money to pay for it, I do. If these pictures have been doctored, we’ll find out who paid to have it done. Wait a minute. Let me correct myself. If you say these pictures are phonies, I absolutely believe you, but I think that whoever has done this has overplayed his hand. I guess you lit a candle to St. Anthony the other night when you stopped into St. Francis of Assisi.”
“When I stopped in . . . where?” Zan was afraid to ask the question.
“Late Monday afternoon at 5:30, quarter of six. I had dropped in to the church to make a donation I promised to St. Anthony and I noticed that some guy was eyeing my friend Fr. Aiden, and I didn’t like it. That’s why I checked the security camera tapes this morning to see if he was anyone Fr. Aiden might know. With all the crazies in New York, forewarned is forearmed. I didn’t see you then, but you are on the tape. You came into the church and left just a few minutes later. I figured you were saying a prayer for Matthew.”
Monday afternoon at 5:30 or quarter of six. I decided to walk home, Zan thought. I went straight home. I did go west on Thirty-first or Thirty-second Street, but by then I knew I was tired and took a cab the rest of the way.
But I didn’t stop in the St. Francis chapel. I know I didn’t.
Or did I?
She realized that Alvirah was still speaking and was asking about dinner.
“I’ll be there,” Zan promised, “at 6:30.” She replaced the phone on the cradle and put her head in her hands. Am I having blackouts again? she asked herself. Am I going crazy? Did I kidnap my own son? And if I took him, what did I do with him?
If I can forget what happened less than forty-eight hours ago, what else have I blacked out? she asked herself in despair.