Grey Dawn (19 page)

Suze. She hadn't called her friend back, and she missed her now. Well, this was a rough time for both of them. They were both so busy. Actually, considering everything on her plate, the dream made even more sense. Despite all that had happened yesterday, Dulcie's mind was clearly still on her work, and the fragment she had just deciphered had featured her heroine talking in a familiar way to her strange fellow passenger. In some sleeping part of her mind, Dulcie figured, she had simply carried the conversation one step further. The stranger had picked her up for a reason and was helping her figure a way out of a tough situation. Maybe he was trying to warn her about something – or about someone.

Maybe, she admitted, he was trying to warn her about her own future choices. As much as she might like to, Dulcie couldn't forget that first fragment she had located, only a few months back. That scene, which seemed to be from a later part of the book, had shown her heroine standing over a dead body – the body of the man Dulcie had identified as Esteban the Young Lord. Because of what had then occurred in Dulcie's own life, she had wondered about the heroine's role in that scene: had she uncovered a murder, or had she been culpable, in some way, herself? Dulcie didn't want to believe that this strong-willed heroine was capable of violence. That's what the stranger seemed to be suggesting, however: that at some point, in one of the book's upcoming scenes, the heroine might find herself forced to do something – those ‘nefarious acts' – that would forever alter the course of her life.

Esmé squirmed, and Dulcie let her down. Caught up in her dream, she'd been holding the little cat too tightly, and as she watched her pet begin to groom, a sense of normalcy resumed. Yes, maybe her heroine would end up involved in the mysterious death of the young lord. This was a Gothic novel, and as much as Dulcie related to its heroine – and its anonymous author – she should understand the conventions. The horrible storm, the mysterious stranger, the handsome young lord – these were all standard features of the popular genre, although fancy theorists like Lukos would undoubtedly have some wordier explanation tying it in with the death rate of the era or the sublimated rage of the oppressed female. It had been a violent time, with wars and revolutions on both sides of the Atlantic. But to Dulcie – and, she was pretty sure, to her author's contemporaries – a murder, or some kind of demonic monster, was just a bit of spice added to the mix. If only Dulcie didn't relate so strongly to this book.

Maybe, she thought as she got out of bed, it was because she was uncovering this long-lost novel page by page. Paragraph by paragraph, sometimes. That could amplify the emotional impact. Now that she was awake, the apartment seemed peaceful. Chris was still at work, and Esmé had curled herself back up to resume her sleep. Dulcie would try to follow suit, as soon as she'd had a glass of water.

Maybe, she acknowledged as she let the tap run, she'd had the dream as a follow-up to that last phone call with Chris.

‘I'm worried, Dulcie.' Her boyfriend had said. ‘This just sounds bad. I don't think you should go out after dark alone any more. Not until this is resolved.'

‘Chris.' Dulcie knew she was whining. She couldn't help it: he hadn't even let her finish. ‘You're not listening. I'm telling you, this isn't some random maniac. I don't think it's a mugger either. I saw Thorpe – all of us did – and he was definitely acting strange. And he never showed up. I mean, he is the acting head of the department.'

‘And maybe he went home and unplugged his phone.' Chris wasn't buying it. ‘Maybe he went out and got drunk. Who could blame him? Look, Dulcie, I know he's been hard on you. Okay, I know he's been a real jerk. But the way you're thinking doesn't make sense. It's like you're thinking: “Thorpe is a jerk. Women are getting hurt. Therefore, Thorpe is hurting women.” In terms of logic strings, it just doesn't—'

‘Chris!' Dulcie hated when he got all mathematical on her. ‘I
am
being logical. I mean, I thought that maybe Professor Lukos was involved. He'd been hitting on Mina, after all. But Trista saw him leave.'

‘Trista saw him get into a cab.' Chris was speaking slowly, as if she wouldn't understand otherwise. ‘Excuse me, Trista
says
she saw him get into a cab. Do you see the possible loopholes, Dulcie?'

‘Yes, Professor.' She couldn't help her tone. He had brought it on herself. But she had one more argument – one he couldn't simply bat away. ‘You're forgetting one thing, though, Chris: Mr Grey. If I were really in danger … I mean, if someone was close to hurting me, don't you think I'd have gotten a warning? We both know that I'm not alone out there.'

‘I don't know, Dulcie.' Chris didn't sound convinced, but Dulcie knew she'd won. He had no case against her spectral feline protector. ‘But there's one more variable you're not taking into consideration.' Or did he? ‘Maybe everything you've been hearing
is
a warning,' he said. ‘The voices you hear, the dreams you've been having? After all, there's only so much that one ghost cat can do.'

There was no answer to that. Either one had faith, as Dulcie did, or one didn't, and she had ended the conversation with her boyfriend on an unsatisfactory note. The dream had come after, and Dulcie, awake in the pre-dawn, found herself wondering about its meaning.
‘Be wary,'
the stranger had warned. Well, that was what Chris had been saying, more or less, so it was quite possible that she had simply let his message into her dream. Then again, he had also warned her about Trista. He couldn't really suspect Trista, could he? No, it was more likely that he was just pointing out the flaws in Dulcie's humanities-oriented logic. Still, his words had put the idea in her head, and standing in the cool half-dark of the kitchen, Dulcie couldn't quite rule them out.
‘Your usual sources of Refuge and Succor,'
the stranger had also said. Granted, Dulcie had felt angry – and a little betrayed – by that last phone call with Chris. That could have sparked those dream warnings. Unless it was more. Dulcie stared out of the kitchen window, taking in the sleeping city and its wide-awake moon.

Maybe it was the light. Somehow, the moon managed to shine around the sides of the bedroom shade. Maybe it was Esmé. The little tuxedo had gotten up again at dawn, pawing at the window at the birdsong outside. More likely it was the cold pizza Dulcie had finished off before returning to bed. Whatever the cause, Dulcie's sleep had been fitful, and she'd woken early, still tired and alone.

It wasn't Chris's fault. She checked the clock; he'd be in the Science Center for another half hour. Still, after that last conversation, she had no desire to wait up for him. Instead, she fed Esmé, who seemed particularly affectionate this morning, and got dressed.

‘Play!'
As Dulcie reached for her sneakers, Esmé pounced, grabbing the loose end of the lace. ‘
Hunt!'

‘That's what I'm going to do, kitty.' Dulcie removed the lace, and then extricated her hand from the cat's playful grasp. ‘Maybe that's what you're trying to tell me?'

‘Play with me!'
The cat pounced again, this time using her claws.

‘Oh, no!' Dulcie drew back. ‘This is not how you get someone to play with you.' Dulcie looked at her pet, the off-center white star on her nose making her look a little lopsided and confused. ‘Even though you are adorable.'

She reached for her cat to give her one more quick pet, and Esmé reared up, wrapping her front paws around Dulcie's wrist and nipping at her hand. ‘No, Esmé! No!' Dulcie pulled away, shaking her head. ‘Chris has got to stop rough-housing with you,' she said, as she grabbed her sweater and headed for the door.

‘
But it's not Chris I worry about.'
The little cat's voice was lost to Dulcie as she clambered down the steps.
‘It's you.'

C
hris was wrong, and Dulcie knew it. Something very odd was going on, and Thorpe was at the heart of it. Still, Chris had a point that she should leave things to the police. Dulcie had already told all she knew to Detective Rogovoy. At least, all she could tell the big policeman without breaking a confidence or getting herself locked up in a psych ward. Better she should visit the University Health Services of her own volition, she thought as she walked into the Square. She had almost an hour before her first section, anyway. And while it was arguably too early to call the hotel to see if Professor Showalter had returned to her own room last night, it was not too early to pay a visit to the visiting scholar if she had been admitted. Besides, Dulcie was itching to know what the professor had been going to tell her. Surely, after a night's rest, the professor's memory would have returned.

Pushing open the big glass doors of the student infirmary, Dulcie was thinking of the visiting scholar. Perhaps she'd been too suspicious; this had been an odd week. If the professor really did have information – or even a lead on a juicy document – she'd take back everything she had said. In truth, it would be great to work with a senior scholar who actually valued the same books she did.

Distracted by such a tantalizing idea, Dulcie was taken up short to hear her name. She was even more surprised to turn and see Nancy, the departmental secretary, standing by the front desk.

‘Nancy! Are you okay?' Dulcie rushed over. ‘Were you hurt? I knew we shouldn't have left you. Even the cab stand isn't …'

‘No, no, dear.' The stout woman took Dulcie's outstretched hands in her own. ‘I'm fine. Honest. Though I'm glad to see you here.'

‘Really?' Dulcie couldn't remember what she and her colleagues had talked about in front of Nancy. Someone must have said something about Professor Showalter's interest. ‘Because, last night, the professor couldn't remember …'

Nancy was shaking her head. ‘Oh, dear. You haven't heard.'

Dulcie gasped. Had the head injury been more severe than they had realized? ‘She's not …'

Nancy smiled. ‘No, Dulcie. She's fine. I believe they only kept her overnight for observation.'

Dulcie looked up, quizzical. ‘And you're escorting her back to the hotel?'

‘I'm here for Mr Thorpe, Dulcie.' Her voice was warm and concerned. ‘This is why we couldn't locate him last night. I assumed you knew.'

‘No, I …' Dulcie was calculating. If Thorpe had been here last night, he couldn't have been the attacker. If he had also been victimized, that threw all her theories out. Unless Trista had been wrong, and Lukos had doubled back, his eye on the competition …

‘Ms Shelby?' A man in a white coat, surely too young to be a doctor, was standing behind the receptionist. ‘We can take you in now.'

‘Dulcie?' Nancy turned toward her, clearly inviting her along. ‘Will you join me? I'm sure he would appreciate the company.'

‘Sure.' Was Thorpe beaten? Bloody? Dulcie braced herself for the worst.

The aide – he couldn't be a doctor – ushered them off into a consulting room. ‘Mr Thorpe has had a good night's sleep,' he was saying. ‘He says he feels much better today. I know he appreciates you coming in, and he gave his permission for this visit. Please keep in mind, however, that the circumstances surrounding his admission are sensitive, and that he may not be ready to discuss them yet.'

‘What happened?' As he led them out of the room, Dulcie mouthed her question to Nancy.

‘Mr Thorpe … He, well, he has been under enormous stress.' Nancy whispered back. ‘All I know for sure is that he came here. He told the doctor on call that he was afraid. Afraid of what he'd do, and—'

‘Mr Thorpe is ready to receive you now.' An older white coat had stepped into the hall beside them, pushing some kind of large metal cart. Perhaps he was the aide? But as Dulcie's eye followed the older man, the younger ushered them inside the room. There, looking a little less sweaty and a lot less frenzied than the last time she had seen him, lay Martin Thorpe, her adviser and the acting head of the department, dolled up in a hospital johnny with a bowl of oatmeal before him.

‘Good morning, Mr Thorpe.' Nancy slid right in to nursing mode. Dulcie almost expected her to start spooning up Thorpe's cereal for him. ‘I hope you're feeling better this morning.'

‘I am. Thank you, Nancy.' His voice sounded less strained, Dulcie noted, though it did rise in surprise as he greeted you. ‘And good morning, Ms Schwartz. I didn't know you had come along with Nancy.'

‘Well, actually, I didn't.' Dulcie was thinking fast. Thorpe had not been attacked; he'd checked himself in. If he'd come in before moonrise, before Professor Showalter had been attacked, then it really might just have been stress. If, however, he'd come in later … She had to chance it. ‘Nancy told me you were here and, of course, I wanted to visit.' She swallowed and took the leap. ‘But I actually came by to visit Professor Showalter. You must have heard: she was attacked last night.'

‘What? No.' The spoon clattered down on the tray, and Nancy turned toward Dulcie.

‘I don't think we have to upset Mr Thorpe with all of that right now, Dulcie,' she was saying. ‘After all, Professor Showalter will be perfectly all right—'

‘Where did this happen?' Thorpe was gripping the bed rails. ‘And … when?'

‘Before she could give her lecture.' Dulcie ignored Nancy, focusing instead on her adviser. ‘Not long after Trista, Lloyd, Raleigh, and I saw you out on DeWolfe Street.'

Thorpe lay there, his new-found color gone, his mouth slightly open. ‘You saw me?'

‘Right as the moon was rising.' Dulcie's voice was soft. Suddenly, she didn't want her suspicions to be true. It was too horrible. ‘You must have been headed here, then. About, oh, six thirty?'