Grey Dawn (28 page)

Emily's gripes against the professor made even less sense, but maybe that was good. As Dulcie got up and made her own way to the door, she acknowledged that she was clutching at straws, hoping for something new that would help her in her search for the missing manuscript. Emily's vagueness had renewed that hope. Maybe Showalter did have something, some new information or a document to share, and Emily was simply being a loyal – and misguided – friend.

As it was, Dulcie knew she'd made too much of Emily's message. That was the problem with email. There was no effect and no sense of the mindset of the person on the other end. Sometimes, she decided, pushing open the door, the other person was just fatigued.

That was a feeling Dulcie could relate to, and the idea of walking up to the university police headquarters only compounded it. Surely, the day hadn't been this cold and blustery before. A gust of wind roared down Mass. Ave., causing Dulcie and her fellow pedestrians to shrug into their coats and collars. Maybe she should go home. Put a hat on, if not a warmer coat, before trotting all the way past the Common.

But, no. Dulcie didn't need the claw-like sting of flying grit to remind her that there was no time like the present. If anything, Emily's erratic behavior underscored her initial instinct: it was time to tell everything to Rogovoy. The junior might get angry, but she wasn't thinking clearly these days. She'd said as much herself, and Dulcie had an obligation to the community.

As she began to walk, however, she wondered just what she would say. She'd tell Rogovoy about the attack on Emily, that was for sure. But maybe she should also tell him about her chats with Josh. He'd seemed so friendly, so guileless, that she couldn't see him as a bad guy.

She could, however, imagine the burly detective's response to that. He'd shake his big head in what she imagined would be a fatherly fashion. He might even reach out and pet her hand with one of those big paws. And then he'd pick up the chubby undergrad for more questioning, if not to charge him.

Was it the right thing to do? Was she misreading her heart – if not the signs from Mr Grey? The blinking red walk sign gave her an excuse to pause. And while she was pondering, she felt the vibration in her bag. For a moment, it didn't register. Then she realized, it was her phone. Maybe it was Professor Showalter, calling to discuss her work rather than emailing.

She scrambled through her bag and answered before checking to see who was on the line. ‘Hello?'

‘Dulcie! In the nick of time.' It was Lucy, but Dulcie satisfied herself with rolling her eyes as the light changed and she crossed the street. ‘It's not dark there, yet. Is it?'

‘Hi, Lucy. How are you? And, no, it's not even one thirty.' Dulcie tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. Lucy would never master the three-hour time difference.

‘Good, because if there's moonlight, watch out.' Another gust of wind had Dulcie ducking her head, and she missed her mother's next words.

‘What was that, Lucy?' Dulcie considered pleading work, but she had a good ten-minute walk ahead of her. It was as good a time as ever to humor her mother.

‘Wolves, Dulcie. Beware of the wolves.' Clearly, Dulcie had missed a reference to a dream or some kind of vision.

‘We don't have wolves in Cambridge.' Dulcie said. It wouldn't do to tell her mother about the eerie howl she had heard the other night. Lucy didn't need any encouragement.

‘That's funny.' Lucy sounded confused, and for a moment, Dulcie's heart went out to her. Lucy was her mother, even if she had a wild case of empty-nest syndrome. ‘I was sure I saw you, out in the dark. Maybe on a road somewhere, with wolves.'

‘I must have told you about what I'm working on.' Dulcie didn't remember doing so, but she must have. The alternative – that her mother truly was psychic – was not worth considering. ‘I'm piecing together a bit of an old manuscript. It looks like another Gothic,
a horror story. There's a woman fleeing some kind of danger, and a coach picks her up. There are wolves howling outside, and I think there's something strange about them. Maybe they're werewolves. I don't think there are any references to the moon, however.' She paused. ‘Maybe those got lost.'

‘Maybe it was only peeking through the clouds.' Lucy sounded back on solid footing now, and Dulcie regretted encouraging her.

‘C'mon, Mom. Everyone knows you need a full moon for a werewolf to come out, and that was last night.'

‘Dulcinea Schwartz, do you believe everything you read?' For a moment, her mother was the formidable woman she must have once been: a Philadelphia Main Line matron with all the force of society behind her.

Dulcie laughed, a short, startled laugh. ‘Lucy, I think I know the conventions of the Gothic novel.'

‘You may understand fiction, young lady. But you know next to nothing about supernatural fact.' Dulcie tried to think of a response. Before she could, Lucy was talking again. ‘Full moon, indeed. What balderdash,' she was saying. ‘What kind of animal only needs to feed once a month? Granted, alpha predators don't need to feed that often. That's why they sleep so much.'

Dulcie thought of Esmé and let her mother ramble. It could do no harm.

‘But when they wake, they feed. They hunt and feed. It's in their nature, whether they are in the alpha predator form willingly, or not. And it's moonlight that wakes them, Dulcie. Any hint of moonlight, full or crescent. That's why I asked you about moonrise, Dulcie. The month after the harvest moon is always a dangerous time, and that vision, Dulcie? It wasn't some random heroine I saw. It was you.'

‘M
y mother is nuts.' Dulcie said more or less to the air around her – and only a little to the grey squirrel that had paused halfway down a tree trunk to stare at her. ‘She is just not a rational human being.'

The squirrel didn't comment, only scampered up the tree, and Dulcie was forced to confront the absurdity of her position. Yes, her mother had lectured her on werewolves. But here she was, a doctoral candidate, seeking a second opinion from a rodent.

‘I was hoping to hear from you, Mr Grey,' she added. To consult with a feline specter, after all, was a different story entirely. ‘I mean, what was that warning about? Were you telling me to leave the restaurant so I could take Lucy's call?' She paused. It was conceivable. Still, it wasn't the consult she'd have wanted.

Nor was it strictly necessary. Dulcie knew Lucy's quirks. For starters, she could probably discount anything that her mother credited to a dream or, as she'd put it, a vision. Lucy didn't take quite as many psychoactive substances these days as she had in her – or Dulcie's – youth. But Dulcie had spent enough time talking her mother down to know that sometimes the Great Earth Spider was really just a daddy long-legs on the outhouse wall. Likewise, although Dulcie appreciated the sentiment behind the warning, she knew that her mother's premonitions were just that – a manifestation of a maternal instinct, frustrated by a daughter's independence and the width of the continent that separated them.

As for the rest? Well, Dulcie knew that her mother was a reader. She'd gotten her own love of books from her, along with a slightly battered copy of the Riverside Shakespeare. It was just that Lucy tended to read everything, indiscriminately. Especially if it dealt with mysticism or the occult.

Therefore, Dulcie told herself as she crossed a side street, Lucy's knowledge of anything in particular was suspect. Good intentions aside, she wasn't to be trusted. It wasn't as if—

The squeal of car brakes, and Dulcie jumped back. The car – a beat-up Honda – hadn't been bearing down on her, however. In the middle of the street, Dulcie saw a squirrel, surely a different animal, frozen, staring at the monstrous machine that had paused only centimeters away.

‘Squirrel!' Dulcie called. It was better than yelling, ‘Mr Grey.' And after all, this was only a dumb rodent, probably a little crazed by the blustery weather. The small creature turned toward her, its black eyes unblinking, before darting off down that side street.

No, Dulcie turned back toward the police station, it wasn't the same. Just as her mother's preoccupation with psychic phenomena was nothing at all like her own preoccupation with a certain author, or an unfinished book. Not to mention a mysterious manuscript …

The wind was really picking up. She pulled her sweater tighter around her as grey clouds whipped overhead. No wonder that squirrel was in a frenzy. This was going to be a night to stay in, for sure. It would be cozy to be home with Esmé, even if Chris couldn't spare another night off work. Besides, the little cat clearly had been feeling neglected, and they'd both benefit from the time together. She probably should be happy for Thorpe that he might have that same kind of homey warmth. If only she could shed those last few fears.

It was the weather, as much as anything. A leaf came flying by, scratching at her face with its dry edge. This wind was whipping everything up. It would be a pleasure to stay in and work. And soon she wouldn't have to worry any more about anything but her work. Even as her curls blew across her face, she could see the blue light up ahead. The emergency call box on the corner meant she'd reached police headquarters. She'd tell Rogovoy everything – everything about Emily, that is. She'd already tried to explain the Thorpe situation and that had gone nowhere. Besides, no matter what Lucy had said, it seemed unlikely that even if her worst fears were true …

Thinking of that squirrel, Dulcie looked both ways before crossing. Everybody was on edge today. Maybe they'd even get snow. It was early in the season, but a wind like this could herald a few flurries or the kind of icy rain that made her long for the more moderate West Coast mists. If only Lucy weren't quite so nutty. She couldn't be right about werewolves, could she? Everyone knew that they needed the full moon to transform.

Except that two of the attacks had happened before the full moon. If that had been Thorpe, that is. If he had indeed become one of – how had her author put it? –
‘Those fiendish things, the Beasts of the Night.'

No, it wasn't possible. Besides, she was almost there. Half a block – she stepped from the curb. And came up coughing. Something about this wind and the cross streets combined to toss more grit in the air. Another sharp-edged leaf, oak, dry and brittle, whipped by, clawing at her face and tangling in her hair. Dulcie batted at it, squinting into the wind. It had gotten tangled in her curls, more brown than her own reddish highlights, and she looked up to pull it free. Funny how sharp the leaf's points could be, once it had dried. At least the wind had cleared the clouds; the sky, with that wild irregularity for which New England weather was known, suddenly shone a bright and vivid blue. The clouds that seemed so threatening only moments before were stretched out, horse tails streaming toward the horizon. And there, white against the endless blue, was the moon. Slightly worn, not quite symmetrical, but clear and glowing in the bright afternoon sky.

Dulcie rubbed her cheek where the leaf had scratched in. Blinked away the last of the grit. She was maybe fifty feet from the entrance to the police station. Rogovoy would probably want her to fill out forms. She could be in there for an hour, maybe more, especially if he brought in other detectives to hear her story. The moon was clear above the trees, bright as a new nickel as the last of the clouds dispersed. What if Lucy were right?

Thorpe had the kitten. An innocent little marmalade kitten. Those round eyes, as blue as the sky, had looked at her with such trust. Such faith …

Dulcie turned on her heel and started running back to the Square.

‘R
aleigh, are you there?' Dulcie was panicking. If Raleigh had been available to answer, her phone would not have gone to voicemail. ‘Call me? Please?'

Dulcie was heading to the departmental office. If Martin Thorpe were still there, she could talk to him. Stop him. Force him to surrender the kitten. Unless Raleigh had brought it over to wherever her adviser lived.

‘Lloyd, pick up. Pick up!' Another voicemail, and Dulcie left a second message, asking simply for a call back as soon as possible.

‘Hey, Suze.' Dulcie's voice was broken by her gasps as she trotted down the brick sidewalk. ‘We keep missing.' As expected, Dulcie had gotten her former room-mate's voice mail. At least by now, she had a more coherent message planned. ‘I'm afraid this isn't just social. You see, I'm in an awkward situation. I may have some information about a crime. Only, well, there may be a really strange twist in the whole thing. Call me?'

Dulcie went over whom else she could call: Trista? Chris? It was useless. She was on her own. They would care, but she doubted they'd understand this particular dilemma. She'd been dithering too long anyway. It was time to act.

The walk signal changed and she came to a halt, breathing heavily. The pause made her take stock. What exactly was she going to do?

Confront Thorpe. That had been her original idea. Confront the acting head of the department and – what? – demand that he turn over his new kitten? As she waited for the light to change, Dulcie realized the absurdity of her situation. How could she separate Thorpe from the kitten? Surely there had to be a way.

Just then, her phone rang and Dulcie fumbled for it, grateful that one of her friends was checking in.

‘Hello?' She waited to hear Raleigh's voice. Or Lloyd's or Suze's. Instead, she heard a deeper and more lyrical voice, one she only vaguely recognized, asking for ‘Ms Dulcie Schwartz.'

‘You've reached her. Me, I mean, I.' The light changed and Dulcie started walking. She'd reached the Common, and it hit her. ‘Professor Showalter?'

‘Yes, you had emailed me?'

‘Yes, I did.' That email – her thesis – seemed like a concern of a thousand years ago. Still, Dulcie tried to rally. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed you.' Dulcie couldn't shake the memory of what she had overheard at the infirmary. ‘I don't mean to be a pest.'