Grey Zone (19 page)

‘Think of it as a chance to think about your thesis. Uninterrupted.' He had been trying.

Dulcie, however, couldn't get over Rogovoy's bombshell. ‘Homicide, Chris. He'd told me it was undetermined, but now . . . So, does that mean someone pushed him out that window?' She was missing something – something important – but her head was aching too much to piece it together. ‘Herschoft wasn't a big guy, but still.'

‘Dulce, you have your own murder mystery to solve, don't you?' From the look on Chris's face, Dulcie suspected he'd been instructed to divert her. ‘With that missing author?'

‘You don't believe in that. Nobody does.' She was frustrated, and frustration made her grumpy. She wasn't being fair to her boyfriend and she knew it, but she could feel herself spiraling down. ‘Even my thesis adviser thinks the whole thing is an excuse. That I'm trying to track the author of
The Ravages
because I don't want to actually write.'

‘That's crazy.' Chris looked at her seriously. ‘I know I've had my doubts about your theory, but saying that you don't want to write? That's just nuts. I'm sorry you have to deal with such a jerk, Dulcie. You'll prove him wrong. You will. And maybe this is the break you need. You can do some more reading.' He looked around. ‘I could run over to Widener, get some books for you.'

‘Like you would know which ones.' Her mood was growing worse by the minute. ‘Besides, I know you're only trying to distract me. It's hopeless, Chris.
I'm
hopeless. I find an important note, which is then stolen or—' She swallowed both the lump in her throat and the difficult truth. ‘OK, that I lost. And I spend hours in Widener and only turn up this depressing essay that turned out to be a total dead end. I know she was on the edge, I know it from my dreams, and it's been driving me mad. Besides, what I
should
be doing is grading midterm papers.'

‘Now
that
would be bad for your health.'

‘I'm a captive of the patriarchy,' Dulcie grumbled, and then, aware of how silly she sounded, found herself breaking into a grin.

‘Some patriarchy.' Chris saw the smile and chimed in. ‘Considering that your doctor is a woman. I've met her. She's nice.'

‘Oh?' Dulcie eyed her beau.

‘Not my type.' He looked more like himself again. Still pale, but much more animated. ‘I go for the bandaged type. The ones with big bumps on their heads.'

‘Great.' She reached up to touch the tender lump and imagined how dried blood must look in her copper-tinged hair. ‘I'm a freak.'

‘You're
my
freak.' He kissed her. ‘And according to the
matriarchal
power structure, there's no limit on what you can eat.' He saw her look and laughed. ‘I mean, there are no dietary restrictions in place. So I was thinking, maybe I'd go get us some lunch?'

He wanted to leave. This was his second attempt at an excuse. But as she tried to think of a response, her stomach growled. Her traitorous stomach. And the clock on the wall did say it was past four. ‘That would be wonderful,' she conceded, attempting something like a smile. ‘Would you go to Lala's?'

‘Or how about peanut butter and cream cheese on a toasted cinnamon raisin?'

‘No, not bagels.' An image of a redhead, tall and lean, flashed through her mind. She looked up at her beau, suddenly aware of how she must appear. Muddy, bloody, and battered. ‘Chris?'

He was putting on his coat, but turned at her voice. ‘Yes?'

‘Don't take too long, OK? I'm— I'm hungry.' It wasn't what she'd meant to say, but he nodded.

‘Don't blame you,' he said. And he was gone.

After he'd left, Dulcie tried to remember what that stray thought had been. Rogovoy had said that Herschoft had been killed, and just at that moment, she'd thought of something. Something important.

It was no use. The harder she tried to think back, the more she became aware of how tired she felt. Outside the curtain, voices were murmuring softly. In the hall, hard soles clipped along a vinyl floor. But lying in bed, warm and quiet, none of this seemed to concern her. She felt herself drifting and closed her eyes. If she were home, she thought, then Mr Grey would come to her. She would feel him jump to the bed, register the soft thud as he landed and then the rhythmic motion of his paws kneading the bedspread. At one point, he had come to her anywhere: appearing like a phantom in her old thesis adviser's home. Making his presence felt deep in the stacks of Widener. Recently, however, his visits had been restricted to her apartment.
Their
apartment: the one where he had lived most of his life.

‘Makes sense,' Dulcie muttered softly. ‘He was a house cat.
Is
a house cat. A house cat ghost.'

If that were the case, what did it mean for the future? The end of the semester seemed a long way away, and there was no telling if Chris would bring up his proposal of living together again. He might have forgotten or given up, she thought. ‘He might not want to live with a failure, an all-but-dissertation,' she murmured to herself. ‘He might want a real redhead instead. He might be ready to cross over.' Her mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. Her eyes closed, which was why she didn't see the fat gray squirrel that had scampered up to her window. Her breathing grew more quiet, deep and regular, so she didn't see the furry beast cock its head and peer inside. And in seconds she was asleep, unaware of the soft thud at the foot of the bed.

When she awoke, just ten minutes later, Dulcie felt strangely refreshed. Chris hadn't returned yet, but she decided not to worry. The wait at Lala's could be intense. Instead, Dulcie realized, she had a choice. She could wallow in jealousy and self-pity. Or she could reach out to those who cared for her. She looked over at the note Suze had left, urging her to call. No, she knew that was only out of friendship. Suze was busy; she'd moved on. Like Trista had, and even Lloyd.

Work it was then. She might be dispirited, but she couldn't give up, not yet. Chris probably had been trying to distract her, but his efforts had worked. She was thinking about her thesis again – and about the mystery of the missing author. Maybe all her friends were right. Maybe Chelowski was, too, and she had been chasing a phantom, abandoning her legitimate textual analysis for some two-hundred-year-old mystery. But one thing her thesis adviser hadn't gotten right was her intent. She was Dulcinea Schwartz and even if she had wasted a month, two months, on a wild goose chase, she was going to write her thesis. And she was not going to let any more of her students fall through the cracks.

TWENTY-SIX

D
ulcie was released the next morning with a headache and a new resolve. This afternoon, she would catch up on her grading. Tomorrow, she'd go back to her original thesis idea. It was solid, based on an actual text, and she needed to start writing something. But this morning, before anything else, she was going to fulfill her obligations to Carrie Mines. She might no longer have the note in hand, but she had knowledge of it.

Rogovoy had promised that the department would follow up and find out who had attacked her. Their track record with the Harvard Harasser hadn't been great thus far, but maybe, if he really was escalating, they'd take their manhunt more seriously. Still, between that and their newly classified homicide, it seemed unlikely that the police would be able to expend any resources on a student whom they thought was simply playing hooky. And despite what the detective had said about Carrie not being a person at risk, Dulcie had a sense that the girl needed help.

But to do that, to reach the missing girl, she needed to come clean to Corkie about the note.

‘What you need is breakfast.' Suze had come to pick her up, in a cab no less. The day was fine – cold again, but clear and crisp – and at first Dulcie had wanted to walk. But when Suze pointed out that the collar of Dulcie's shirt was stained dark with blood, Dulcie allowed herself to be herded into the yellow taxi and back to their apartment. ‘You go take a shower,' her room-mate said as she paid the cabbie. ‘I'm making pancakes.'

But before Dulcie even made it to the front stoop, she was stopped by a force of nature. Helene Duvoisier, their downstairs neighbor, was out on the sidewalk in her hospital scrubs, her wide brown face creased with worry.

‘There you are! You poor thing.' Dulcie allowed herself to be hugged, admitting after the first squeeze that the friendly pressure felt good. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘I'm OK.' She reached up to gingerly touch the knot on top of her head. ‘But someone beaned me pretty bad.'

‘So I heard.' Helene shook her head. ‘You've got to be careful. Head injuries are funny things.'

‘Don't worry, I've got a backup drive.' She meant it as a joke, but Helene did her best to suppress her smile.

‘Very funny, young lady. So, is Susannah staying with you today?'

They both turned. Suze had already made her way in, and Dulcie could only hope those pancakes were in the works. ‘No, I'm fine – really, Helene. And I've got work to do.'

Her neighbor raised one eyebrow. ‘Work, huh? I wish you'd stick to the books.'

Dulcie felt herself smiling. ‘And how do you know I'm not?'

‘Too many people been by asking for you.' Her neighbor's broad face stayed serious. ‘How do you think I knew what happened? And the cats – Julius and Murray – they wouldn't let me sleep all night. I bet your little girl is frantic.'

She was right, Dulcie thought as she took her leave. She had only been gone overnight, but the little cat greeted her at the door as if she'd been on safari. Having a cat twining around her ankles made it difficult to climb the stairs, however, so Dulcie hoisted the tiny body and carried her up to the kitchen. Suze was already at work, and the smell of melting butter made her realize just how hungry she was.

‘Wow, do I have time to shower?' She placed Esmé on the floor and looked over her room-mate's shoulder at a mixing bowl that already held batter and what looked like granola.

‘Ten minutes. Hurry up.'

‘Aye aye, captain.' When the kitten didn't follow her up, she paused. Had it been affection that had prompted that greeting, or the possibility of butter?

Fifteen minutes later, Dulcie was enjoying Suze's pancakes. Her room-mate had indeed added granola, which made the cakes a little crunchy for Dulcie's liking, but with enough maple syrup they still tasted great.

‘So what did Helene have to say?' Suze asked.

‘Helene? She was just welcoming me back.' Dulcie sliced off some butter, reaching down to give it to Esmé.

‘That cat is so spoiled.'

‘She missed me. Helene said her cats did, too.' The little tongue made quick work of the butter, polishing off Dulcie's finger with rough, rapid swipes. ‘She said they were worried about me.'

‘You want more?' Suze was already standing, and Dulcie held her plate up.

‘Thanks.'

‘Here, take these last two. I should get going.'

Dulcie nodded, her mouth full. Suze had probably rearranged her schedule for her. ‘Big day?'

‘We've got this one landlord to depose. There's something going on in the housing project. We think he's insisting on sexual favors in exchange for rent.'

‘Charming. You sure you don't want one of these?'

‘No, thanks. Graciela is covering for me, but I should get down there.' She was already washing her plate. ‘Can you take it easy today?'

‘Don't want to.' Finishing the last bite, Dulcie stood. Suze had made breakfast; cleaning up was the least she could do. ‘Let me do that. You go save the world.'

‘Thanks.' Suze smiled as she relinquished the sponge and headed toward the closet. ‘But really, take it easy. Head injuries are serious things.'

‘I know.' Dulcie turned the water up high, enjoying the steam. ‘That's what Helene said.'

‘I wonder how she knew.' Suze's voice was muffled as she pulled a heavy sweater over her head.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Helene and her cats,' Suze said as she reached for her coat. ‘I mean, I didn't see her last night. I didn't tell her you were in the health services.'

‘Maybe Mr Grey told her.' The idea warmed Dulcie. ‘Or told her cats.'

‘I hope so.' The voice came up the stairs. ‘I mean, I don't know if I like the idea of people talking about you.'

Dulcie knew Esmé didn't want her to go, and so before heading out, she decided to spend a few minutes playing with the kitten. The young cat was all energy, bouncing around the living room as Dulcie tossed and then retrieved a catnip ball. At times, she seemed almost too energetic, throwing herself into the sofa and against the wall in her fury to get at the toy.

‘Poor little girl, all alone.' She threw the ball and watched the white paws scramble after it. ‘I wonder if I should get you a playmate.'

‘
A companion for your companion?
'

‘Mr Grey!' Esmé looked up but, with the feline equivalent of a shrug, went back to the ball. ‘You're here!'

‘
As ever
.'

‘But you haven't been.' She bit her lip, not wanting to sound churlish. ‘I mean, I was hurt and in the hospital and . . .'

‘
And were being cared for, little one. Sometimes we have other duties, other charges. Sometimes our responsibilities aren't clear at first, the lines of demarcation hazy. We all must give a little.
'

A sharp slap drew her attention. Esmé had dropped the catnip toy at her feet and now sat back, front paws up, ready to attack.

‘You mean, I've been ignoring this little one, so you've been ignoring me?'

‘
Now, now, little one . . .'

‘I'm sorry. I just don't understand sometimes.' She threw the ball. Maybe Mr Grey's place was really in the home, in this apartment. Training the kitten. Unless he meant that it was her job to take on the kitten. Maybe he meant
he
had other responsibilities. Maybe he was training her as she was trying to train the kitten. Getting her ready for a day when Esmé would replace him entirely.