The Haunting of the Gemini Read Online Free PDF Page B

career. We’d worked together for more than sixteen years and now just needed to finalize plans for his show over coffee. I love this part of my work. Who wouldn’t? It’s so positive, so full of anticipation and promise.
    The roar of the approaching train interrupted my thoughts. It looked empty, and I initially thought it would blow right through the station like all out-of-service trains do. But it began to slow, and I automatically moved toward it. No one joined me. Everyone else on the platform continued with their conversations and didn’t even glance toward the train. That
never
happens here in New York. There’s always a hurried jostling, maybe even a little shoving, as people rush for the seats.
    The train screeched to a stop, and the doors banged open. My logical mind told me not to get on that train, but my feet worked by themselves, almost tripping me as they carried me through the doors. I really had no choice. I hesitantly walked onto the train, and the doors slammed shut behind me. Everyone else stayed on the platform. The train lurched forward, and I looked around. There were four homeless people with me in the car. All of them were sleeping, curled around plastic garbage bags that I guessed held all of their worldly possessions. One guy clutched a small transistor radio, held together with rubber bands. I sat across from him and looked down at my iPod, thinking how fortunate some of us are.
    I continued to sit there, almost transfixed. I paid no attention to the stops, or to whether the train even stopped at all. It rocked from side to side as it went even faster. An empty bottle of whiskey rolled out from under a seat and bumped its way down the speeding train until it hit my shoe. I slowly lifted my foot to let it pass, but it stayed where it was.
Why doesn’t it roll down the aisle?
I wondered. The train was moving so fast,
I
would roll down the aisle if I stood up.
    I kicked the bottle underneath my seat and tried to shake off my stupor. I shut off my iPod, hoping to hear the conductor announce an upcoming stop. But there were none. The train was going through a dark tunnel, and all I could see were flashing red and blue lights that made me dizzy. I got up to get a better look at the tunnel graffiti and realized that the train was on the middle track, the express track, and was not going to stop.
    A sound came from behind me, and I remembered the homeless people with whom I shared the car. I turned and saw them still asleep, but an old newspaper blew through the air toward me. As I bent down to look at it, it stopped moving, as though it was trying to show me something.
    WOMAN FOUND DEAD, PATRICIA FONTI,
    AUGUST 10, 1992, AT THE AGE OF 39
    I glanced around the car, thinking that someone was playing a joke on me. I picked up the newspaper and walked over to the sleeping man with the transistor radio.
    â€œIs this a joke? Did you do this?” I demanded, waking him up. “Look at it!”
    I was so upset I couldn’t help myself. I moved to the center of the train car. “Who did this to me?” I yelled, waking everyone up.
    The radio man looked at me like I was crazy, which set me off even more. He took a pair of broken reading glasses out of his pocket, put them on, and looked at the paper I shoved at him.
    â€œWhat is this?” I demanded again. “Look at the year.”
    â€œ1992,” he answered.
    Fear settled in me. “What year is this?”
    A chorus answered me. All four of the homeless people said in unison, “It’s August 1992.”
    What?
The year 1992 was more than twenty years ago. I threw the newspaper down and sank into a seat, cradling my head in my hands and rocking back and forth. “Wake up. You just have to wake up. This isn’t real,” I chanted to myself. I stayed huddled in that position until I felt the train begin to slow. I raced back to my window and peered out again. This time, I saw a long arrow painted