Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (22 page)

 
          
Janelle
chattered on as she bustled around the kitchen, putting out cookies, pouring
coffee, and filling in the story of the last several years without any need for
Winter to ask any questions.

 
          
"Would
you believe it? I met Denny working at a computer store— we'd get two or three
deliveries a day from shippers and he was the UPS guy. We ended up seeing a lot
of each other, and, well . . ." Janelle shrugged again, and popped a
cookie into her mouth.

 
          
Somehow
this was not the sort of future Winter would have predicted for Janelle all
those years ago. "Computer store?" she asked, sipping at her coffee.
Janelle had put in the sugar and it was far too sweet for Winter's taste.

 
          
"Yeah,
well," her friend said evasively. Despite Janelle's insistence that she
wanted to have a conversation, she wouldn't sit down, fussing and hovering
about the kitchen as if she both wanted to talk to Winter and wanted to avoid
it.

 
          
"But
what about your art career?" Sudden recollection made Winter blurt the
question out tactlessly, but the image was crystal-clear: Janelle with her
sketches, Janelle with her portfolio . . . "You sold some paintings to
that gaming company, and—"

 
          
"It
didn't really work out," Janelle interrupted hastily. "Besides, there
isn't a living in book covers unless you're Michael Whelan or somebody. So what
are you doing these days?"

 
          
Well, I just got out of a mental institution
and I'm being followed around by some kind of invisible monster. . . .

 
          
"I
guess I'm taking a much-needed vacation," Winter said diplomatically.
"I almost feel guilty about just calling you up out of nowhere like
this—"

 
          
"Oh,
pooh—what are old friends for? Emphasis on the old," Janelle said, finally
lowering herself into a chair with a sigh. "Don't mind me— I was up at
five this morning, cleaning up the yard—again."

 
          
"What
happened?" Winter asked idly. She glanced past Janelle to the window above
the sink. The goose-printed cafe curtains shifted in the breeze, and Winter
suddenly noticed that there was a long jagged crack across the glass beneath.

 
          
"Damned
kids. Denny says its a Satanic cult, and I
think
he's joking. They go through the whole development dragging the trash cans
out into the road and emptying them, mixing up the recyclables, that kind of
thing. But what's really sick is the way they keep scooping up
roadkill
off Route Seventeen and leaving it around. It's
gotten to where you have to look twice before you step out your front door in
the morning." She made a face.

 
          
"Anything
else?" Winter asked, mouth suddenly dry.

 
          
"Anything
else what?" Janelle asked, frowning
puzzledly
.

 
          
"Anything
else weird—like doors that won't stay shut, and unexplained storms. Trouble
with your car. Things that break." She was too paranoid to believe in
coincidence any more—and Janelle's description sounded all too much like
Winter's own litany of complaints ... of her poltergeist, and of something
darker.

 
          
Janelle
laughed. "You don't need any other explanation for why things break when
I'm around! Denny says we ought to buy our dishes by the carload! Honestly,
Winter, do you think
New Jersey
's gone over to the dark side of the Force or something?"

 
          
"No."
Yes, but how could I even begin to
explain?
"Of course I don't, Jan-
nie
. But do
sit down. Have some coffee. Do you ever hear from any of the others?"

 
          
It
was a clumsy way to change the subject, but Winter had the growing sense that
their conversation was built around awkward silences, as if there were some
great secret that they both shared but couldn't speak of.
Only I don't know what it is
...
do IP

 
          
No
matter the cause, Janelle was grateful to follow Winter's lead.

 
          
"Oh,
you know how it is—there isn't a lot of point in keeping up with everyone else,
is there? Ramsey's the only one, really, and just Christmas cards, that sort of
thing. I thought about going to our ten-year reunion, but Denny didn't want to
stand around all day talking to people he didn't know, and it
is
a long way. ..."

 
          
But I drove it in a day!
Winter
protested silently, and Janelle, as if she could read her mind, answered,
"Some places are different distances depending on who's going
there."

 
          
By
the time Dennis Raymond arrived home from work, Winter was already
half-prepared to dislike him, and nothing she saw in the first five minutes
after his arrival changed her mind.

 
          
Dennis
Raymond was somewhere around forty, although his overall air of dissatisfaction
made him look older. When he came in, he was wearing a cheap, unbecoming suit
and carrying a large, overstuffed briefcase. Winter instantly pegged him as
some sort of salesman, in the male equivalent of a woman's dead-end secretarial
job. His hair was thinning and greasy; not so much slovenly as given up on. In
fact, everything about Dennis Raymond said that he was a man who had given up;
who was simply serving out his time and waiting until he could move on.

 
          
But this is your life; not a dress
rehearsal,
Winter thought against the sudden clutch of tension in her
chest.

           
Dennis came into the kitchen,
slinging his jacket and briefcase onto one of the kitchen chairs, and fixed
Winter with a challenging stare from his small cold eyes that made her feel he
was assessing the dollar value of everything she wore, from the casual
Aigner
pumps to the wheat-colored cashmere sweater and the
diamond studs in her ears. Assessing . . . and resenting.

 
          
"So
this is your old girlfriend, huh,
Neenie
?" he
said. His voice was like the rest of him; aggressive and uncared-for; and
Winter, whose entire working day had been spent shouting at the top of her
lungs and then trying to repair the damage afterward, winced faintly in sympathy
at the rough rawness of Dennis Raymond's voice.

 
          
"This
is Winter; you remember I—"

 
          
"What's
for dinner?" Denny said, cutting her off. He looked around the kitchen,
sniffing exaggeratedly.

 
          
For
the last few hours the fragrant scent of pot roast with red wine and onions had
been slowly filling the kitchen. Janelle was a good cook but an anxious one,
fussing and worrying over every ingredient.

 
          
"Pot
roast; I thought—" Janelle began again.

 
          
"Well
hurry up with it, would you? I'm starved. A man who has to work for a
living—" he said, with a baleful glare at Winter "—has a right to
expect a few things when he gets home, you know what I'm saying?"

 
          
Yes; but he hasn't got the right to make
other people slave for him without a word of thanks.
Winter had worked
longer and harder days than Dennis Raymond ever had, she suspected, rising
while it was still dark in order to get the news from Tokyo and the gold-fix
from London; sipping her first coffee of the day staring at the big display
over the Pit and waiting for Chicago to wake up so that the most frantic part
of her working day could begin. She'd had people to shop for her, cook for her,
clean for her—but she'd never assumed these things were hers by right. She'd
paid for them, and been grateful she was in a position to be able to pay.

 
          
"Sure,
honey." Janelle's tone was apprehensive, and she kept darting worried
glances at Winter. Without being told, Janelle got a glass from the cupboard
and filled it with ice, then retrieved a bottle from under the kitchen sink and
poured a generous splash of bourbon into it.

 
          
"Would
you like a drink, Winter?" Janelle said, trying to turn the moment into a
social one.

           
"Women shouldn't drink,"
Denny said, taking the glass.

 
          
Winter
repressed the urge to ask Janelle for a double bourbon and see if she could
drink Denny under the table.

 
          
"And
what is it, Mr. Raymond, that you think women
should
do?" Winter asked silkily. She crossed one leg over the
other and leaned back in her chair, feeling a small sense of triumph as the gray
flannel skirt slid up over the gleaming Evan
Picone
stockings and Denny's eyes followed the movement. Sex was a weapon, Jack had
always told her, and she should use every weapon the good Lord had given her to
get what she wanted.

 
          
God,
she missed Jack. He'd been her mentor; she'd clerked for him when she'd first
arrived on the Street, and been a good friend to him and Lorna both. When he'd
died last year—

 
          
"I
think they shouldn't try to be men," Denny said, knocking back the second
half of his drink. His face was flushed now from the alcohol, and his mouth was
set in a thin line.

 
          
Heart attack within the year,
Winter
prophesied automatically. She readied herself for another retort—she'd been
annihilating assholes like this since she was twenty-five—but then she glanced
sideways at Janelle. Her friend's gray eyes were wells of pain, and she looked
pleadingly at Winter.

 
          
Winter
took a deep breath, only now realizing how disastrous the consequences of
losing her hold on her temper could be. If the poltergeist should strike here .
. . She took a deep breath, and visualized the muscles of her chest and
stomach—where, according to the pamphlet from
Inquire Within,
anger energy accumulated—relaxing.

 
          
"I'm
sure you're right," Winter said. "
Jannie
,
shall I help you set the table?"

 
          
Although
the bungalow had an eat-in kitchen, there was also a small dining room,
dutifully furnished with an eight-piece early American dining suite from Sears.
Denny Raymond—on his third bourbon by this time— bulldozed his way through pot
roast and carrots in a silence broken only by monosyllabic demands for more
food. Winter found herself sneaking surreptitious glances at her watch,
counting the moments until dinner would be over and she could gracefully leave.
But I have to ask
Jannie
about Grey.

           
It was true that Janelle hadn't
mentioned him by name earlier when she'd been discussing how out of touch she
was with the others, but even if she weren't in touch, she might at least have
some idea of where Winter could begin looking for Hunter
Greyson
.
Only Winter wasn't entirely sure of how to broach the subject, not with Dennis
Raymond sitting across the table from her glaring at her as though she were his
worst enemy.

 
          
Which of course I am: a woman he can neither
bully nor defeat. In the fashion that Dennis measures success
—
money
—
I'm better than he'll ever be, and he just can't stand it.

 
          
She
glanced out of the corner of her eye at Janelle, who, for all her chatter
earlier, had been silent since she'd sat down, looking at neither of them.
Considering Denny's manners—or lack of them—Winter wondered why Janelle had
asked her to stay for dinner. Surely it would have been easier all around if
Winter had merely left before Denny got home?

 
          
Or
would it?
The sudden doubt chilled
her. What were evenings like here at 167
Grammercy
Park Road, shut up in this little house in the middle of suburbia with a man
who obviously resented any spark of competence shown by a woman?

 
          
No wonder Janelle doesn't paint any more,
Winter
thought, and felt a little like crying.