I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [25]
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