Grey Dawn (7 page)

Not even Nancy's calming presence could keep Dulcie from racing out to the street. It didn't make sense. Dulcie knew that, but she also knew that something – something horrible – was happening. Thorpe was not himself; he had admitted it. And a girl was lying in a hospital, gravely wounded.

After three blocks, Dulcie's heartbeat began to settle, and she was able to think through what she had learned. For starters, if the police were talking to the boyfriend – Josh – then they weren't looking at Thorpe. She had tried to tell Rogovoy about her adviser, about his strange appearance last night, but he hadn't understood. If all the police were looking for was a romantic entanglement, they would miss the more dangerous possibility.

She paused, breathing heavily. Rogovoy might be a dead end. She needed to reach out to the boyfriend too. He might not listen any more than the detective had, but she needed to tell him what she knew, what she had seen – and, maybe, what she suspected. He had the right to that information. It was only fair.

He also needed to know what Lloyd had said. Josh might think that his girlfriend was faithful. Maybe she was –
is
, Dulcie corrected herself. But Lloyd had thought he had been witnessing a flirtation. A flirtation with a woman who later that night had been attacked. A woman who looked – according to several sources now – like Dulcie.

As Dulcie walked in the fading light back to the apartment, she had another thought. She had been planning on attending the Newman lecture tonight anyway. All of English and American Lit would be there, and it was a chance to hear a noted scholar – the possible future department head – expound on his work. Now she had another reason to attend. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for Thorpe. Maybe she was simply hoping that no strange new development would arise to complicate her thesis. And maybe, she admitted, she had felt a little bad for Josh Blakely, too. For all his size, he had seemed earnest, if a little goofy.

Whatever the rationale, she thought, as she turned into the shadows of Cambridgeport, she was going to try something tonight. Trista would look at her funny, and Lloyd would raise an eyebrow. Nothing would happen, and Chris never had to hear of it. But tonight, Dulcie was going to put on a low-cut blouse and even some lipstick. Tonight, she was going to offer herself to the visiting Professor Lukos. Not as a potential acolyte, but as bait.

C
hris, blessedly, was already gone by the time Dulcie got home. Esmé, however, seemed to pick up on her plan immediately, and the little black-and-white cat clearly did not approve.

‘No, kitty. No!' Dulcie lifted a white paw from the silk blouse she had just removed from the closet, gently disengaging the claws that had already found purchase in the delicate fabric. ‘This is not a toy.'

‘Then why are we playing?'
The answer came back as the cat scampered away, only to stop and glance back at her person with wide green eyes.

‘We aren't – oh, never mind.' Dulcie ducked down to retrieve a catnip mouse and tossed it. When Esmé darted after it, however, she remained in front of the mirror, contemplating mascara. This is what a girl needed girlfriends for, she realized, reaching for her phone. No, she knew what Suze would say. No mascara – and no playing games with suspected criminals. Besides, Suze was a bit of a jock. Neither of them had been particularly girly, even in their single days.

Still, they'd both ended up with loving mates. Maybe because they hadn't played the usual games. Now that was a subject she'd like to see the post-structuralists take on: the role of exaggerated gender identification in undergraduate mating rituals. Or some such.

‘Looking for a friend?'
Esmé had reappeared, and her voice – which sounded in Dulcie's head like that of a young teen – caused Dulcie to turn.
‘I'm your friend!'

‘What did you say?' Mr Grey had mentioned friends. Surely, there was a message here. ‘Do you feel I'm ignoring you, Esmé?'

‘
Chase me!'
The little cat lunged, then scooted away.
‘Chase me now!'

‘I wish I could, Esmé.' Dulcie paused to watch the adorable creature, taking her invitation as an answer both to her query and to her previous question. Somehow the little tuxedo cat had managed to sum up what could have been someone else's graduate thesis in just two words. ‘It would be a lot more fun, believe me.'

That prompted another lunge as the feline bounded back to pounce on Dulcie's bare feet and ran away again.
‘Let's play … at hunting!'

‘That's about it, Esmé.' Dulcie slipped the blouse on and looked in the mirror. The green silk – the color of Esmé's eyes – really brought out the red highlights in Dulcie's hair. ‘I only wish I knew what I was going to catch.'

With that, she grabbed her sweater. The little cat grew quiet as she headed toward the door.
‘Home soon?'
Dulcie didn't need to hear the plea; she could see it in those round eyes.

‘I promise.' She bent to stroke the smooth black back and turned away. She and Chris had both been working too much, and she silently vowed to play more with the young cat as soon as she could.

‘She doesn't understand yet, little one.'
Another voice, deeper and still
,
echoed in the air as Dulcie closed the door behind her.
‘She doesn't realize she's not the only one on the prowl tonight.'

T
he hall was packed, rather to Dulcie's surprise. ‘A Reinterpretation of the Depiction of Personal Ornamentation in the Late Victorian Novel' hadn't seemed like a crowd-pleaser to her, but clearly she didn't know the student body's tastes. As she stood in the back of the hall, a wave caught her eye. Trista with – yes! – an empty seat. A little awkward in her one set of heels, Dulcie made her way over the already seated spectators, their bags, and increasingly bulky, increasingly wintery outerwear to join her friend.

‘You look nice.' As Dulcie stripped off her own big sweater, Trista ran her eyes down Dulcie's outfit, taking in the green blouse with its unusual amount of décolletage.

‘It's not—' Dulcie caught herself. There was too much to explain. ‘I figured I'd dress up for the reception after.'

‘Ah.' Trista nodded thoughtfully, leaving her friend wishing she had taken the longer, more truthful route. However, at that moment, the new dean walked onto the small stage and turned on the podium mike.

‘Well, hello!' The dean, a bespectacled science type, appeared a little surprised by the crowd as well. ‘Thank you all for coming out on such an inclement evening. I have an announcement before we start.'

He paused, and Dulcie leaned forward to hear. This crowd didn't seem to care about bureaucratic formalities and mostly kept talking. ‘Because of scheduling conflicts, our next Newman professor will be here tomorrow, as opposed to next week,' the dean was saying. ‘We are lucky that this hall will again be free, although I will not be able to attend, and I hope you'll give as enthusiastic a welcome to that speaker, who will be – ah …' A shuffling of papers and a pushing up of glasses followed. ‘Who will be Miss – ah, Professor Renée Showalter. But now, please, join me in welcoming Professor James Lukos.'

With a little more fumbling, the dean gathered up his notes to a general audience murmuring. Dulcie looked around. This was the oddest assembly she'd ever been in. While she saw faces from her department – Lloyd, Ralph, that girl in Renaissance Studies whose name she always forgot – there were a ton of strangers, too. Mostly women, she noted. And in a moment, she saw why.

James Lukos did not look like an academic. No professor this side of Hollywood had hair that glossy, like a pelt, almost, or eyes that fiery. When the visiting scholar walked – no, loped – onto the stage, he dwarfed the dean, who scurried out of his way. When he stood behind the podium and took in the crowd, slowly scanning from right to left, a general sigh followed, as if those dark eyes had personally and sequentially penetrated several hundred hearts.

‘Who
is
this guy?' Trista squirmed in her seat, leaning over to ask Dulcie.

Dulcie shrugged. ‘Victorian. You should know him.'

‘I
wish
.' Trista tore her eyes off the front of the room briefly
to reassess Dulcie's outfit. ‘You knew.'

‘I know he's got a reputation.' Dulcie ventured that much. ‘But, really, Tris, it's not what you think. I want to find out—'

‘Shh.' Trista, along with several hundred of her peers, leaned forward, mesmerized. Lukos was about to talk.

‘The devil is in the details,' the visiting scholar announced. And with his own devilish grin, he began.

Forty minutes later, Dulcie still didn't get it. Partly, she told herself, that was because the Victorians always bored her, and Lukos's heavily theoretical approach didn't make it any more appealing. Didn't matter if the professor was handsome. All that bric-a-brac, all that sublimation … No matter how he interpreted it or what postmodern catchphrases he bandied about, there was nothing appealing about any of it. Partly, she admitted, it was because of what she suspected. Lukos wasn't just a handsome man or even an egotist. Academia certainly had its fill of the latter, if not the former – she knew from experience of several full professors who had claimed papers and even positions when everyone knew that their grad students had done the work. There was something else going on here. Something different. The visiting professor had a good portion of this audience mesmerized, and he knew it. This was a man who had a certain power, and enjoyed exerting it. That, to Dulcie's mind, made him unlikeable, if not actually villainous.

Especially if a woman he wanted had resisted him. She thought back to what Emily, the room-mate, had said. Not her comment about Josh Blakely being possessive. But that Mina wasn't the sort to cheat on her boyfriend. Besides, she might have not even been tempted. Josh might not be as prepossessing or, Dulcie admitted, as sexy as this man, but he undoubtedly had different charms. He was sincere, Dulcie could tell. Serious. And if Rogovoy couldn't see that, well then, it was her duty to point out that there were other suspects.

‘Wow.' Trista's hushed voice had broken into her reverie. The talk had finally come to an end, and Dulcie had stood automatically, joining Trista and the rest of the crowd in clapping as, with one more smile, Lukos acknowledged them and left the stage. ‘If he'd been the department head, I would've taken a few more years for my dissertation.'

‘Trista.' Dulcie couldn't help it. This was getting silly.

‘Come on,' her friend nudged her. ‘Tell me you didn't get dressed up for
him
.'

‘I didn't actually,' Dulcie heard herself lying. ‘Though I do want to talk to him.' All around them, students were standing and retrieving coats, and the friends were carried on the tide to the end of the row. ‘I think, well, I'm worried that he might be dangerous.'

‘The lone wolf?' Trista was laughing. ‘I bet.'

‘Wolf? Why do you say that?' Dulcie grabbed her friend's arm, but just then she felt a hand on her own and, spooked, she whirled around. It was Josh Blakely, Mina's boyfriend.

‘Excuse me.' He was flushed again, though that could have been the heat in the overcrowded hall. ‘I didn't expect to see you here.'

‘This is my department.' She didn't mean to sound so defensive; she'd been startled. ‘I'm sorry, I'm Dulcie Schwartz, and I'm a doctoral candidate in English, so for me …' She shrugged.

‘Busman's holiday?' He smiled, and she found herself warming once more to the chubby man.

‘Well, professional curiosity, anyway. Though, to be honest, the Victorians are not my area of expertise. Or,' she leaned toward him, ‘of interest.'

‘Not that into antimacassars?' he said, to her relief. Here was one other person who hadn't fallen under the mysterious scholar's spell.

‘Not at all.' Behind Josh, she saw Trista gesturing. Still, this was too good a chance to pass up. ‘What brings you here?'

‘Mina,' he said, and Dulcie gasped. He must have heard about his girlfriend, about the professor …

‘You know about her and the professor?' It wasn't the smoothest move, but she couldn't help herself. ‘That she and Lukos …'

‘What?' He looked confused. ‘What are you saying?'

Dulcie swallowed and took a deep breath. After that, there was nothing to do but go on. ‘Mina met up with the professor yesterday. He, well, I heard he liked her.'

She watched the round-faced young man, waiting for jealousy or rage. Instead, she just saw him shake his head. ‘I'm not surprised. She could give as good as she got.'

‘What do you mean?' Now it was her turn to be confused.

‘Mina hated all that post-everything theoretical stuff. You know, that nothing is real. That's why she switched out of the English department. Sorry, but it's true.'

‘No, I can understand.' Dulcie found herself nodding. Emily had said that she and her room-mate would bring different perspectives to their common material. ‘But then why did she – I mean, why are you here?'

‘She loved to debunk those theories. Argue with them. And she will.' He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a mini recorder. ‘Once she's back on her feet.'

Back on her feet. From what Dulcie had heard, she was near death. ‘How is she?' It sounded better than asking if she was expected to recover.

He shrugged. ‘She was hurt pretty bad. Someone – somebody cut …' He put his hand over his mouth, his eyes tearing up, and immediately Dulcie regretted asking.

‘I'm so sorry. I mean, I had heard, I just didn't know.' Trista was looking daggers at her now, but really this was more important. ‘I'm sure she'll recover.' It was too weak as far as condolences went, and Dulcie realized she had more to offer.