Grey Zone (28 page)

THIRTY-NINE

W
riting, writing again, furious to finish. There is light behind the clouds, light picking up the flame-colored highlights in her dark, wild hair. Another night, gone. Another dab of ink on a cheek grown increasingly pale. What can she say to make them see? ‘Spirits, long enslav'd will out . . .' No, she crosses it out, drops the pen in frustration, and watches as its remaining ink beads at its tip and then falls, a dark stain spreading. In the growing light, she can see the blood from where her hand rested. Thicker than the ink and no longer vital. Two spots, her life in rust. The time is drawing close, and she knows that they are waiting. The fire sparks, and snaps, the smoke curling up like the tail of an inquisitive beast.

She begins to write again, ink adding to the stain on her fingers. The rolling peal of thunder drowns out the scratch of her pen. Overwhelms the crack and hiss of the fire, the once-constant stream of her thoughts. If only she could reason with them. If only she could
think
. But the storm has drowned it all, and now she is alone. Afraid of the dark, of the depths, of what waits.

The time is drawing close.

Dulcie woke from her fitful sleep. The dream was back.
The time is drawing close
. Did the dream woman know who was stalking her – or was she considering her own end? Suicide. Stalking. They were haunting Dulcie's dreams. Could the nightmare have referred to Carrie?

This was crazy. Granted, she didn't know Merv well. But he'd sounded quite convinced when he'd said that Carrie hadn't been involved with Herschoft. And since he'd been dumped by her for someone else, well, he should have been the first to blow the whistle if something had gone wrong.

Dimitri, on the other hand, was a colleague. Someone she'd come to trust. And what he'd said about Herschoft fitted in with what Corkie had shown her – and with Carrie's odd behavior. It also made sense of the argument she had witnessed almost a week ago. He'd been trying to convince her to come forward, to speak out against her abuser.

Unless he wasn't. Maybe he'd been spinning a story to distract everyone. He was studying stories of crime and deception, and he did have a kind of gross fascination with blood and murder.

Then again, maybe the dream was simply about her thesis. Maybe she was the desperate woman, writing on a deadline.
The time is drawing close.

Still groggy from her nightmare, Dulcie pulled herself out of bed. At times like these, she wished Suze was around a little bit more. Or Chris, for that matter. But she didn't want to think about how he'd taken off last night. About how her own distraction might have pushed him away.

‘Mr Grey? I could really use some help right now.' The apartment seemed so empty and still. But as she reached for her bathrobe, a thundering of cat feet seemed to answer her plea. ‘Esmé! Good morning, Miss Kitty.'

‘
Principessa, please
.' The little black and white kitten stopped suddenly and began washing her face.

‘Esmé! I'm sorry, Principessa. You spoke!' For months, Dulcie had been convinced that her new pet could communicate.

‘
I can when I need to.
' The little feline looked up, and Dulcie noticed how catlike she had become. Maybe the ability to talk, even psychically, came with maturity.

‘
Or maybe you just need to remember there are other ways to communicate.
' With that, she finished washing her face and jumped up to Dulcie's desk.

‘Hey, watch it.' The cat had landed on her laptop. ‘I mean, please.'

But Esmé had taken off again. And as much as Dulcie regretted the end of the conversation, it struck her that maybe her pet had been making a point. Carrie had never called the number that Rogovoy had provided, so odds were that she didn't know Dulcie had talked with the police. Plus, she'd been willing to communicate by email once before. Maybe she could be reached again.

While she waited for the program to open, Dulcie mulled over what she should say. Finally, she settled on the most basic.
Carrie: We need to talk. Call me, pls? Or drop by?
She typed in her office and home information. It seemed insufficient. The emptiness of email again. But it was all she could do, she concluded, and hit ‘send.'

Part of the problem, she acknowledged as the screen went blank, was her own distraction. She'd been spending so much mental energy trying to figure out what was up with Carrie – and Corkie – that she'd short-changed her own work. The dream most likely was a reminder. She'd trusted her dreams before, and only a week ago she had been so sure that she was on track to solve a literary mystery. Couldn't she keep on investigating why her author had gone silent – and still work on the textual part of her thesis?

It was Sunday, a prime day for the library. The dream might have carried a warning:
write now, lest you be doomed to a nightmare all-nighter!
But it was no good. Maybe she wasn't cut out to be a scholar, but she couldn't focus when living people, her students, were at risk. Dulcie had reached out to Carrie as best she could, but she had another student to care for. That last message – what had Corkie said, ‘Let me take care of it?' – had been woefully unsatisfying. Besides, she'd done what she could with Dimitri –and with Merv – and still come to a dead end. If Corkie wouldn't talk to her, Dulcie needed to reconsider talking to Rogovoy. Corkie had been in the building. She was involved. Dulcie would give it one more go. See if she could find a way to get Corkie to confide. At least she would warn her that soon the police would be involved.

FORTY

E
smé had returned by the time Dulcie emerged from the shower. But her adult behavior seemed to be continuing, as she sat and stared at her human, rather than careening around madly.

‘What is it, little girl?' Dulcie toweled her hair as the cat watched. ‘Is it that you can't believe I'd voluntarily put myself under water?'

Esmé didn't answer, and for a moment Dulcie doubted her own plan of action. Maybe the cat was telling her to mind her own business. No, this little beast was into everything. And, in her own way, she'd even shown that most of what we get up to is innocent – if a tad destructive.

‘Or is it,' she continued as she pulled on her jeans, ‘that you're lonely too?' Esmé might not be a sleuth, but her sleek presence made Dulcie feel better. She'd been distracted the night before, she acknowledged as she started the coffee. Still, it hurt that Chris hadn't come by after his shift. Today was Sunday, after all. He could've slept till noon, and Dulcie could have made them both a real breakfast.

‘Instead, I'm talking to the cat.' Esmé tilted her head, and for a moment Dulcie expected a response. But none came.

‘Maybe it's just as well, Es— Excuse me, Principessa?' No answer to that one either. And so, rather than brood about absent friends and lovers, Dulcie donned her coat and headed down the steps into the world, locking the door behind her. Only to find that spring, once more, had made an appearance.

‘Good morning, neighbor!' Helene was out on the stoop, her cat Julius stretched beside her. ‘Gorgeous day, isn't it?'

‘Amazing.' Dulcie unbuttoned her coat and looked up at the sky. ‘Is this supposed to last?'

‘Who knows?' Helene leaned over to stroke Julius's sun-warmed fur. ‘Last I heard, they were saying freezing rain.'

‘Huh.' Setting down her travel mug, Dulcie shed her coat and hat, and then looked up at her own front door. Julius stretched, showing the pink between his toes.

‘Here, why don't I take those for you?' Helene reached up. ‘I don't care what WBZ says, you're not going to need them today.'

‘Thanks, Helene.' Dulcie felt lighter, her mood lifting in the bright sun. ‘Maybe I won't need them again until fall.'

‘Yeah, well . . .' Helene laughed, and with a jaunty step, Dulcie headed down the street.

First, Corkie, then writing, Dulcie decided as she headed toward Mass. Ave. Better to be busy than to wonder why her boyfriend hadn't even called to say goodnight. Busy would keep her mind in the present, instead of dwelling on memories of Sunday mornings filled with laughter and the smell of bacon.

Reaching into her bag for her phone, she joined the queue waiting to cross the street. A couple jostled her, and she had to grab to keep from losing her mug. Somehow, she got her phone out without spilling, and with her thumb keyed in Corkie's number. Holding it to her ear, she took another sip as the crowd closed in, awaiting the walk signal. By the time Corkie picked up, the light had changed.

‘Corkie! It's Dulcie.' A car, impatient to make a turn, honked. ‘Can you hear me?'

‘Yeah? Dulcie?'

‘Sorry to call so early.' Dulcie winced. From her student's sleepy voice, it was clear she had awakened her. ‘I need to see you.'

‘What?'

‘I need to see you!' One of Cambridge's many church bells started to ring. Sunday morning. ‘Can you hear me?'

‘Yeah, barely.' She sounded a little more awake now. ‘What's up?'

‘We've got to talk again. I'm sorry, but we have to. About Carrie Mines and Professor Herschoft!'

‘Dulcie, I—'

‘Please, don't say it!' Dulcie didn't give her a chance to continue. ‘I know there are things you can't tell me. Things you aren't allowed to. But we have to talk. I can be at Dunster House in fifteen minutes.'

Silence, and for a moment Dulcie thought she lost her. She paused, ducking into the alcove of a bank for silence. ‘Corkie?'

‘All right.' The voice at the other end sounded resigned, if not happy. ‘But not here. I'll meet you at Below the Stairs, OK? I can be there in fifteen minutes, too.'

‘Great. See you there!' Maybe more than the weather was brightening up. Dulcie clipped her phone shut and drained the last of her coffee. The caffeine had helped, she decided as she set off again, a new bounce in her step. But neither the coffee nor the sunshine were enough to alert her to the figure who had hung back as she talked, and who now hugged the building, following close behind.

FORTY-ONE

‘
I
don't know what else I can tell you.' Corkie was busy sorting through files. Shuffling papers. And doing, Dulcie realized, everything except looking her in the eye. ‘I mean, you know the rules I'm bound by. I just can't.'

Dulcie had taken a seat in the small office, one of the consultation rooms in the back of the counseling center. Now she sighed heavily and leaned her head back.

‘There has to be something, Corkie. This is serious.' She waited. If Corkie was going to talk, she didn't want to spook her by mentioning the police. She had to give her student a chance. ‘Look, maybe we can do this a different way. I'll say something, and you let me know if I have it right or not.'

Corkie placed a file in a drawer and slammed it shut, before turning to look at Dulcie for the first time. ‘I don't know.' She was shaking her head, and even though Dulcie could see her eyes, they didn't look particularly encouraging. ‘If I don't respect client privilege—'

‘This isn't about client privilege,' Dulcie was quick to cut in. ‘This is about seeing justice done.'

Corkie gasped, and Dulcie smiled. She was on the right track. ‘Let's talk about Professor Herschoft. Fritz Herschoft.'

Corkie walked over to the corner of the office. Considering that the entire room was about the size of a large closet, the effect was one of desperation. Corkie was acting like a caged animal.

But Dulcie wasn't in the position to grant leniency. ‘I have it on good authority that Professor Herschoft was not acting ethically, and that maybe that got him into trouble.' Until she knew what Corkie knew, she wasn't going to mention murder.

But Corkie said nothing. Dulcie decided to push harder.

‘And I believe Carrie feels somehow involved in what happened to the professor.'

She couldn't place it exactly. It wasn't like Corkie made a sound, or even moved. But something made Dulcie think that she had hit a nerve. ‘Maybe Carrie said something that got the professor into trouble. Maybe she told the wrong person—'

‘No, that's not it.' Corkie was staring up at a corner of the ceiling like it had the answers to her finals. ‘They never know. They never realize that it's not their fault.'

So that was it. Guilt. Poor Carrie. She must still believe that Herschoft had killed himself – and she must feel responsible. ‘But something happened.' Dulcie knew she had to push. ‘Word got out. Someone did . . . something.'

Corkie turned around, and Dulcie was hit by how tired the poor girl looked. ‘Is that it, Corkie? I know you must have been looking out for Carrie. She was younger. She was vulnerable.'

Corkie shook her head and opened her mouth. ‘You don't know. You
can't
know.'

‘But I think I do.' A tragic chain of events was beginning to fashion itself in her mind. ‘Carrie was being harassed, being
abused
by Herschoft. You stepped in, trying to help her. He probably denied everything. So, what did you do next? Did you urge Carrie to stick up for herself? Did you try to get her to go to the disciplinary committee?'

‘No, no, I couldn't.' Corkie slammed a file drawer closed. ‘I can't.' She grabbed her coat and headed toward the door. ‘Not here.'

Dulcie hesitated. In part, she wanted to go to her student, to comfort her. More than anything, she wanted her to keep talking. Voluntarily, without the police. As a compromise, she went after her, but kept her distance.

‘I couldn't get her to see sense.' Corkie finally turned once they were outside. Her words, hissed more than whispered, echoed slightly in the stairwell. ‘I couldn't get her to talk to anybody.'

‘What happened, Corkie? Did you go to confront him? Was there a fight? Tell me. I saw you going into the Poche that afternoon. I haven't told the police, but I believe you went up to his office. I believe you were the last one to see him alive.'