Grey Zone (32 page)

‘All I'm saying is that this wasn't a good message. Whatever, whoever you heard, Dulcie, it put you at risk.'

‘There was no risk.' She turned away, not wanting him to see the tears that threatened to spill. ‘You don't believe.'

‘Oh, sweetheart.' She felt his arms around her, cradling her and the cat wrapped snug in her coat. But even as he pulled her close, she felt no warmth.

‘You don't believe in Mr Grey, and you don't believe in me.' She couldn't hold back then, and the tears started to fall. ‘You don't believe.' Holding her living cat close, she sobbed. He held her and stroked her head, waiting for the storm to pass, and all she could think about was the strange sense of foreboding she'd felt on the street. Something had meant harm to her, something she could not name.

FORTY-SEVEN

‘
C
ome on, Dulce. Let's get going.' Chris ushered her into the waiting cruiser. ‘We'll talk about this later.' As Chris gave directions, Dulcie called Suze. Her room-mate's take-charge attitude had been reassuring, and after she had rung off, Dulcie felt a little better. For a moment, she thought about Rogovoy – about Corkie and the calls she had avoided. But just then the car pulled up at the apartment Chris and Jerry shared. The uniformed officer hadn't said anything as he had driven through the Cambridgeport neighborhood. He didn't have to; Dulcie could read his face. The rows of sagging triple-deckers were a step down. ‘You take care, miss,' he said now.

Chris scowled. ‘I can take care of my girlfriend.'

The officer drove away without another word, and Dulcie let herself be ushered up the stairs. Two police locks and a deadbolt lent credence to the cop's concerns. There was a reason Chris usually came to her place.

Without adding any commentary of her own, Dulcie walked into a kitchen that had seen better days and put Esmé down on the grimy linoleum. Intrigued by the panoply of new scents, the cat began to explore.

‘Dulcie?' Chris's voice urged her to turn around, but she kept her eyes on Esmé, watching her sniff a cabinet with surprising intent.

‘I think you may have mice.' All Dulcie felt was tired. ‘Or rats.'

‘Dulcie, I know it's not a great place. But it's OK. Really. You just have to be alert when you go out at night.'

‘The way you're talking, you make it sound like I'm staying here for a while.'

‘Dulcie.' He paused, and she made herself turn toward him. This was the talk they'd been avoiding for a while now. ‘Please, sweetie. You just had a fire. We've been seeing each other for almost a year. Why won't you at least consider moving in with me? Not here,' he added quickly. ‘But here until we can find a place of our own. Someplace nicer.'

Dulcie nodded, to avoid further conversation, and thought about everything she had to do, everyone she'd have to inform. Suze was calling the insurance company, for which Dulcie was exceedingly grateful. Lucy, however, was her own concern, and she dialed the commune's main number with growing apprehension. Her mother would panic. Her mother would want her to come home. Her mother would—

‘Oh, you'll be fine.' As much as Dulcie dreaded Lucy's maternal overload, this utter lack of worry was equally shocking. ‘Though it's sweet of you to let me know.'

‘I went into a burning building.' Shouldn't her mother be a little concerned?

‘Of course you did. Your cat was inside.' Dulcie settled into one of Chris's rickety kitchen chairs, feeling the ripped vinyl poking into her back. ‘And I knew you were going on a voyage.'

‘A voyage?' Dulcie kicked herself for asking. From now on, she wasn't going to be surprised by anything her mother said.

‘Yes, a voyage. But honestly, dear, I thought it was going to be a sea voyage. I saw you on the bow of a ship. A great sailing ship, dear. Merlin told me all about it, about taking a giant leap on the waves.'

‘I guess you've got some crossed whiskers, Lucy.'

‘Don't make fun, dear. Love you!'

The rest of the day was busy with errands, buying cat food and hair conditioner, and Dulcie could sense Chris tiptoeing around her, unwilling to stir up trouble. By the end of the evening, Dulcie had accepted the inevitable. She was here for the foreseeable future, and nobody seemed to care. Esmé, at least, had settled in nicely. Dulcie found her curled up on her laptop when she returned from the last shop.

‘At least I had my computer with me.' She knew how she sounded. She didn't care.

‘I'm just glad you're safe.' Chris came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. ‘You're both safe.'

‘But my apartment. My books.' She pulled away from him and started shelving groceries. By carefully placing cans in the cabinet, she was able to avoid seeing the sad, lost look on his face. ‘My
life
.'

‘Dulcie . . .' There was a catch in his voice that sounded awfully close to tears.

‘I'm sorry. I'm being horrible, and I know it.' She turned back to him and this time, she was the one to initiate the hug. ‘It's just been a bad day.'

‘I know, sweetie. I'm sorry, too.' She could feel his breath in her hair as he bent over her. ‘I can't believe you ran into a burning building to save your kitten.'

And I can't believe that
you
don't believe that Mr Grey was watching over us.
She didn't say it out loud, but the thought rang out so loudly in her own mind that it was a wonder he couldn't hear it.

Esmé came to sleep with them that night, having finished her explorations. Dulcie felt the soft thud of her body landing on the mattress and, a few seconds later, the damp nose sniffing at her face. ‘Come here, girl.' She reached for the cat's warm, soft body and was rewarded with a purr that lulled her back into a troubled sleep. Fire, this time. Fire and, was it, water? Ocean waves rocking the building?

. . . And a young girl by her side
.

Dulcie woke up to that thought and tried to make sense out of it. ‘Esmé? Were you kneading me?' Dulcie murmured, trying to understand the strange dream. The room was softly lit, a gray, cool light. And the cat, who had been sleeping by her side, was gone. For a moment, Dulcie panicked. ‘Esmé?' Could she have gotten out? She found her in the living room, once again seated on Dulcie's laptop.

‘Is that your new throne, Principessa?' She kept her voice low. ‘Or are you trying to tell me something?'

In response, Esmé cocked her head and jumped down to make a figure eight around Dulcie's bare ankles. ‘OK, I guess you want me to see something.'

Still half asleep, Dulcie clicked first on email. A notice about midterm grading. Someone offering a summer sublet. ‘Great.' Dulcie deleted both. Nothing, she noticed, from Carrie.

‘She must have gotten my email.' Dulcie looked down into Esmé's wise green eyes. ‘And she must know about Professor Herschoft, right?'

The green eyes blinked. ‘What?' Dulcie asked. ‘She can't blame Corkie, can she? Corkie didn't kill him. She couldn't have.' It was a relief to say it out loud, even to the cat. ‘She must know that by now.' The small cat only stared.

‘I should just tell Rogovoy everything. Leave it to the cops, Esmé. I'm not thinking straight. And I will – first thing.' It was too early, even for Rogovoy, and Dulcie knew she should try to get some more sleep. But just as she was reaching to close the laptop, the little black and white leaped, and Dulcie found herself with a cat in her lap. ‘Well, this is unlike you.' She stroked the cat's back and felt a purr starting. ‘Maybe you feel a little uneasy too, huh? OK, we'll sit here for a bit.'

Esmé settled down, and Dulcie realized that she might be up for a while longer. Luckily, she had lots of reading material on her laptop. In fact, she realized with a twinge of guilt, she probably had almost all her important books here – and access to any others via the Harvard libraries. Between Jerry and Chris, the rundown apartment had incredibly fast connections, and before long, Dulcie found herself reading through a section of
The Ravages of Umbria
and downloading a file of late eighteenth-century letters she'd discovered in Widener only a few weeks before.

‘This might not be so bad, after all.' Esmé shifted on her lap, but that was it. And that, she realized, was possibly the only response she'd ever hear from a cat. Now that she was no longer in her own apartment, the apartment that she and Mr Grey had called home.

A wave of vertigo swept over her. Nausea and a rocking sensation, as if her chair were tilting. She clutched at the desk, causing Esmé to stir. Fatigue, she told herself. Fatigue and shock. ‘It might be a good idea for me to go back to bed, little girl.'

She reached for the cat, to ease her to the floor, when another wave hit her. Something threw her forward, as if to tilt her out of her chair, and she ended up clutching at the desk. Strangely, Esmé didn't jump down. Instead, she held on, and the pinprick of her claws through Dulcie's nightshirt made her gasp. And in that moment of startled alertness, she found herself staring at the screen – and at a revelation so obvious she couldn't believe nobody had ever seen it before.

FORTY-EIGHT

T
he idea was so preposterous and yet so unbelievably right. If only she could get to it now. But not everything was online. She checked the time: Widener would be open within the hour. She had to talk to Rogovoy; that was clear. But if she could just nail down a few things first . . .

You OK?
The email from Suze made her smile. After all, they'd both lost their home. Who knew what smoke damage they'd find when they were finally able to get back in.

Yeah, you?
she typed back and then, on a whim, continued.
Just had a breakthrough actually!

Change is good?
Suze's response glowed in the dim light. Dulcie stared at it, unwilling to acknowledge its sense.

Maybe. In fact
,
change is what I'm thinking about.
Her theory was still just a wild guess, but she'd missed having someone to bounce ideas off of.
Change – and maybe the possibility that Chelowski was right!

Surely you jest. Tell?
From Suze's increasingly terse messages, Dulcie figured that she was getting ready for work.

Later today, if all goes well. Love to Ariano.

You and Chris, too. And pats to Esmé
, the reply came in a moment. Maybe living here wouldn't be that bad, Dulcie thought. Just maybe it would work.

‘Off to the library.' Dulcie propped the note on the nightstand after getting dressed. ‘I'll tell all later!' Chris hadn't stirred while she'd dressed, and she realized how behind he must be on his sleep. Poor guy. She'd been hard on him. If only she could feel more certain about how they could continue.
If
they would.

‘Well, at least I may have something to write about,' she whispered to Esmé, who had followed her to the front door. ‘Now, you stay here and be a good girl.' It was hard to leave her pet after what they'd been through, and something about her cat's intense gaze told Dulcie the feeling was mutual. But an insight like this didn't come along every day. ‘Take care of Chris for me!' She reached to chuck the little cat under her white chin and slipped out the door.

The sky was still gray as Dulcie walked to the street. And from the looks of it, the day was not likely to get much brighter. Dulcie was glad for her heavy coat as she looked around to get her bearings. The few times she'd been here had been with Chris. But there was the river – the frigid wind would have told her that even if she hadn't spied the bridge. And so that way must be Central Square.

Shivering, she turned and headed toward the T. ‘Toward civilization,' she muttered to herself. ‘Mr Grey, I don't blame you.' It wasn't that Chris's apartment was so bad. Well, it was, but it could be fixed up. In fact, she was beginning to think that maybe a little spirit of adventure was called for – a leap of imagination.

One problem that even imagination couldn't solve, however, was the apartment's location. The building that housed Chris and Jerry's place was tucked into what had been the industrial center of Cambridgeport. Instead of Helene and her other neighbors, some of whom would have been awake and about even at this hour, she was walking by an abandoned factory. Half its windows were cracked, some missing. And the ones that remained stared down like sightless eyes.

Dulcie shivered again. It was easy to get creeped out down here, and the early morning shadows didn't help. Better she should focus on her new theory. And so, shrugging off the awful feeling of those windows – those eyes – she began to run through what she'd found.

‘Fact,' she said to herself, as much to hear her own voice as to make her findings real. ‘The author of
The Ravages
stopped publishing in England around 1794.

‘Fact: the kind of political treatises she had been writing were becoming increasingly unpopular. England had made peace with its former colonies, but the Revolution in France had provoked a reactionary counter-revolution in England, at least among certain classes . . .

‘Fact: oh hell.' Dulcie looked around and the scared Royalists of her imagination gave way to a street she was pretty sure she'd never seen before, and a large sign that clearly said ‘Dead End.' She turned to retrace her steps, hoping that once out of the cul-de-sac she'd be able to get her bearings.

‘Fact.' She looked around. The street in front of her was unfamiliar. ‘I'm lost,' she started to say. It was going to be embarrassing to have to retrace her steps all the way back to Chris's. She should just start walking, she decided. Cambridgeport wasn't that big, tucked as it was into a loop of the river. She'd either hit water or the T. Either would serve.

But ten minutes later, she was both cold and frustrated. Either she'd gone in a circle, or she'd severely underestimated the size of the neighborhood. To top it off, she was getting a blister. Her right boot had never completely dried.