Grey zone, p.25
Grey Zone, page 25
‘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
The 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.
Dulcie looked for a street sign. This place was as desolate as anything in The Ravages, but not half so picturesque. Where was Hermetria’s castle when she needed it? Where was Chris’s, for that matter? She reached for her phone. She felt a little foolish, but he’d be awake by now. At least he’d be able to talk her back to his place.
But before she could flip the phone on, she heard it. ‘Run, Dulcie! Go left!’ The voice was so sudden, so clear, she jumped.
‘Mr Grey?’ Here in Cambridgeport? But no, the voice had been different. Lighter. ‘Esmé?’
She spun around. The street to the left looked like more of the same. To the right, something seemed to stir. ‘Left!’
‘Are you sure where you are getting these messages from?’ Chris’s voice came back to her, and she pictured his worried face. Vengeful spirits: the phrase seemed to echo in the empty street.
‘Yes, Chris. I am.’ She turned. If she couldn’t trust the ghost of Mr Grey – or whatever spiritual help he was sending, then . . . But wait, there was something moving. She turned to her right. About a half a block down, behind a hedge, she’d seen someone.
‘Hello? Excuse me?’ Grateful for simple human contact, Dulcie shed all embarrassment and ran, waving her hands. ‘Hello there!’
Whoever was there must not have heard her, because even as Dulcie trotted down the sidewalk, she saw the figure retreat further. ‘Hello?’ Dulcie was almost at the hedge and a little out of breath. ‘Excuse me?’
She peeked around a tall evergreen. There was a reason she hadn’t seen the figure. In a green cape, hood up, the person before her blended into the shrubbery. Then the woman stepped out, and Dulcie saw a pale face, with wide-set eyes. Dark tendrils escaped from the hood.
‘Carrie?’ So this was where the sophomore had been hanging out. She moved to greet her. ‘I’ve been trying to reach—’ Before she could finish her thought, Dulcie tripped, her feet caught by something low and dense, like an animal twining about her ankles. The other woman reached, as if to grab her, but Dulcie caught herself on the bush and pulled herself upright. ‘Ouch.’ She looked at her hands, scraped by the needles she had grabbed. But her arm hurt, too, and as she turned to see why, the woman in front of her lunged again.
‘No, wait!’ By instinct, she grabbed the younger woman’s hands and heard something clatter to the ground. ‘Carrie?’
At her feet, something glittered: a silver blade, its point dark and wet. Still holding Carrie’s hand, Dulcie looked down at her arm, to where the blood was welling through a slash in the heavy wool.
‘Carrie, what’s going on?’ Dulcie didn’t understand, but she knew enough not to let go. The fights with Dimitri, with Corkie. They had tried to reason with this girl, and failed. Those wide eyes, she could now see, were staring and mad. The hands she held were ice cold. ‘Why are you doing this? I only wanted to—’
‘To brag, you liar! He didn’t love you.’ Carrie was shivering, though whether with rage or cold, Dulcie couldn’t tell.
‘Carrie, no.’ You weren’t the only one, she had typed. We need to talk. ‘I didn’t mean we were rivals. I—’
‘He didn’t love her, either, that fat pig. He loved me.’ Her entire body was shaking, and Dulcie had the distinct impression that only her strong grip was holding the girl up. ‘He loved me, Fritz did. And she killed him.’
‘No, Carrie.’ Dulcie shook her head. A scenario was falling into place, flooding her with understanding and with sadness. Hermetria and her companion. Rivalry. Jealousy. The storm that floods o’er all. In the back of her mind, she could hear Corkie’s voice: she’s fragile. ‘No, she didn’t, Carrie.’
‘Yes, she did. Because she was jealous.’ Her voice was quavering now, too. ‘You tried to frame Dimitri. He must have told you about us. I saw you with the cops. You were trying to get all my friends in trouble. Trying to protect her.’
She’s fragile. I’m not.
‘No, Carrie. You’ve got it wrong. Corkie was worried about you. Because she sympathized. Because she’d been there.’
‘She didn’t believe he loved me. She wouldn’t let it be. He would have realized. He would have come back to me. Everyone was saying it was suicide, but it wasn’t. She killed him.’
She’s fragile. Yes, it was true, but all the other lessons Dulcie had learned – from Mr Grey, from Esmé, and even, she had to admit, from Lucy, came home: you can’t protect people forever. You have to help them, but they must face the truth.
‘No, Carrie. She went to his office to get your letter back, to give you something to defend yourself when you came to your senses. To make a case against him that would keep him from ever teaching again.’ The scene unfolded before her. It all made too much sense. ‘That’s when she found him. What happened, Carrie? Did he laugh at you? Was he cold? Is that what happened?’
‘No.’ Carrie’s voice had dropped to a whisper, a frail denial. ‘No.’
‘He must have made you so angry, to make you lash out like that. You stabbed him, didn’t you? Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you cut him. Cut something vital so that he started bleeding inside. By the time Corkie got there, it was too late, Carrie. By the time she got there, he was already dead. Corkie didn’t kill Fritz Herschoft. You did.’
At that, Carrie wailed and, with a desperate strength Dulcie didn’t know she had, pulled away. Dulcie jumped back, bracing for another attack, but it didn’t come. Instead, Carrie collapsed, falling to her knees. Automatically, Dulcie stepped toward her as she keened, the cry of a breaking heart. And stopped – this woman had killed a man. Had probably, Dulcie now realized, set fire to her apartment out of misguided jealousy.
Had she been the Harvard Harasser, too? The victims had all been young women. Potential rivals, to the disturbed young mind. Dulcie thought of The Ravages, the book she had spent so many hours with. For all its ghosts, it had been Demetria – the human companion – who had been the true vengeful spirit. Carrie wasn’t like Demetria exactly. She hadn’t ingratiated herself into anyone’s life; she hadn’t deceived. But she was damaged. Dangerous. It was all too likely.
The rasp of indrawn breath broke into Dulcie’s thoughts, and she turned as the woman began to wail again, more softly. A small blade – a letter opener, it looked like – was lying on the ground, near where Carrie knelt, her face in her hands. Dulcie kicked the blade away and reached for the woman before her. Whether it was her own calm insistence on the truth or hearing what had happened, spelled out for her, something had broken through Carrie’s crazy denial. Now she rocked back and forth, crying like a lost child. Or like a young woman who had been betrayed and then destroyed.
‘I didn’t,’ she sobbed. Dulcie held her, not sure what to do. ‘I didn’t mean anything. But when he said . . .’ Another bout of sobs took over, but Dulcie didn’t need to hear any more. Detective Rogovoy would have to sort it out, and the university would be dragged through it all. But Dulcie knew the truth. Carrie had killed Professor Herschoft. And Corkie – wanting desperately to protect her, but way too late to do so – had tried to cover it all up by throwing the professor’s dead body out the window. There would be no happy ending.
FORTY-NINE
Three days later, Dulcie was still numb. Rogovoy had, as she’d expected, taken charge when she’d called, and Carrie had been taken away in restraints. Charges were pending. Worse, Corkie would be meeting with the disciplinary committee soon, and Dulcie was going to testify. It would be close, but Dulcie had hopes that the junior would be allowed to stay. For all her errors in judgment, she had meant well – and she had been a victim, too.
And although she was still living at Chris’s place, Dulcie had figured out how to get to Central Square. The fire marshal had finally let both her and Suze back into their former apartment, but even having more of her own possessions didn’t help lift Dulcie from her funk. Stained by soot and water, the apartment no longer looked like a home. Although they had only been gone for a few days, the rooms felt empty, deserted, and Dulcie was hit by the feeling that nothing could live in such a place. Not even a ghost.
The landlord had met the friends there, bringing with him the key to the big lock that held the temporary door in place. As Dulcie had stepped inside, she’d heard him talking. Promising to replace the wall-to-wall carpet and to renovate, but then he’d added something about ‘provisions in the lease’ that had made Suze bristle. Dulcie had gone up to the third floor then, unwilling to hear the rest. She knew that they would not be moving back in anytime soon.
‘Mr Grey, are you here still?’ She looked around her room. Untouched, except for a pervasive scorched smell, it felt empty. ‘Esmé and I are living with Chris now. Jerry and Trista have made up, so we pretty much have the place to ourselves. You could come.’ She felt her eyes tearing up. The smoke. ‘You could visit.’
She heard nothing but Suze stomping up the stairs, furious, and the sound of drawers slamming. The friends spent most of that evening at the Laundromat, each lost in her own thoughts. But even though her clothes were more or less clean by the end of the night, all her books smelled of smoke, reminding her of what had been. Of who had been in her old home, with her.
Perversely, Dulcie’s research had taken off. Once she had a chance to get into the library, it all had seemed so obvious. Everything had been before her, if only she’d had the sense to see it. The letters, the essays – even her dreams – had all come together.
Chris had been proud of her. He’d tried to cheer her on, pointing out how much new material she’d managed to link up. How quickly she could dive into the real writing part of her thesis now. But even that had a dampening effect on Dulcie’s mood. Yes, she could finish her thesis now. The end was in sight. But so, too, was that crucial moment when she and Chris would leave the cozy confines of academia. The moment when they would have to decide what compromises were possible, and whether they had a future worth sharing.
Such thoughts dampened Dulcie’s satisfaction, and she knew her mixed feelings showed on her face when she went to meet with Chelowski.
‘I was right about the scandal, wasn’t I?’ He started right in. ‘That department, that whole building . . . I just knew something was wrong.’
She looked up at Chelowski, unable to believe that he was smiling. ‘Great.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her adviser had the grace to look abashed, at least temporarily, before he tried to change the subject. ‘So, your message said that you had some kind of a breakthrough?’
