Grey Zone (9 page)

It was with great relief that Dulcie finally labored up her own front steps and into the apartment. Closing the door behind her, she leaned back and took a deep breath. She'd made it, for what that was worth. If she could only get up the stairs to the kitchen, she could make herself a cup of tea and fall asleep on the couch. Sleep would probably be the only comfort she'd get tonight.

As if on cue, Esmé's face appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Meh?' she asked, and Dulcie did her best to smile.

Without waiting for more of an invitation, the kitten trundled down to greet her. She was learning to handle the apartment's stairs, Dulcie noted, bouncing down them without tumbling much.

‘So, what's up, little one?' As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Dulcie starting tearing up. ‘Little one.' That's what Mr Grey called her. Mr Grey, the real cat of her heart. But before she could sink any further into that particular black hole, Esmé responded, reaching up to sink her claws into Dulcie's leg.

‘No! Bad kitty.' The prick of the kitten's claws hurt, but as Dulcie reached down for her, she also realized that she'd needed the distraction. ‘Did you do that on purpose, Esmé?'

The kitten only looked at her and blinked, and Dulcie held her small body up to her face, snuggling close, and then carried her up the stairs.

‘If only I could understand you.' Dulcie collapsed on the sofa and set the kitten down beside her as she stripped off her wet footgear. Jumping to the floor, the kitten bounced around and then flopped on to her back, exposing her white belly. It was too irresistible, even for an exhausted scholar, and so Dulcie slid to the floor to play. But when she reached to pet the downy fur, the tiny beast grabbed Dulcie's hand and bit. Hard.

‘Ow!' Esmé looked up, unfazed, at Dulcie's shout. This time, she hadn't needed the pain. ‘Bad!'

But even as she shook her finger at the little cat, white paws reached up to pull her hand back. Dulcie sat back, exasperated. ‘My finger is not a cat toy, Esmé.' The little cat tilted her head, looking for all the world like she was trying to understand. ‘Mr Grey –' Dulcie addressed the air above her – ‘what am I supposed to do with this cat?'

But no answer was forthcoming – not that Dulcie could hear, anyway. And, lying back on the sofa, she fell asleep.

ELEVEN

W
riting, writing still. Outside, it is dark, but there is no rest to be had this night. Instead, there is pressure. The wind rattles the panes, desperate to get in. Reaching for her, threatening to flood o'er all. The storm is only one more sign of all that looms over her, of all the forces aligned against her. She must finish, and soon. The woman at the desk works furiously, her pen scratching away. Suddenly, a huge peal of thunder causes her to jump. The ink blots. It is too much. She puts down her pen and buries her face in her hands. This is not what she wanted, but she sees no choice. Reaching for her knife, she takes up her quill again. One swipe, two, sharpening the edge. Thunder again, louder than before. Despite herself, she jumps. The sharp blade knicks her finger, but the pain is good. It forces her to focus. She must get back to work. Soon, she knows, she must leave it all.

The sound of the wind woke her, rattling the window like an angry spirit. Dulcie sat up and realized she'd been asleep on the sofa for hours. Her socks had dried, more or less, but her neck had a crick in it that made turning around painful. And the taste in her mouth was hideous. She'd been dreaming, she knew, but the specifics eluded her. The woman at the desk. A woman at risk. The storm. She didn't know if this was about her author any more or herself. Or the missing girl – the one she'd seen only briefly, in the dark, before she'd disappeared.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. ‘Suze?' Something about the house was too still. Too quiet. Her room-mate hadn't come home. Dulcie had no real reason to worry. These days, Suze barely stopped by, using the apartment only as a base between her crazy hours and Ariano's place. The floor creaked again, and she started to worry anyway.

‘Esmé?' As quietly as she could, Dulcie got to her feet and slowly, step by step, made her way to the stairwell. ‘Mr Grey?' She mouthed the words silently. ‘Is that you?'

Dulcie had always thought she loved privacy. Growing up in the arts colony, time alone had been rare, and she'd lived for those afternoons when she could escape to the woods with a book and an apple. But that had been a different kind of solitude. A country solitude. Peaceful with the company of nature. Things were different in the city. Thoughts of the strange attacks on campus, of the missing girl . . . Of a young professor driven to desperation . . . It all made the dark apartment suddenly foreign. The quiet, menacing. ‘Esmé?'

And then with a sudden thud and rattle, the kitten came bounding down the stairs, moving so quickly that she ended with a somersault at Dulcie's feet.

‘Mew!' The bright yellow-green eyes looked as surprised as Dulcie felt, and Dulcie burst out laughing as the energetic little animal raced back up the stairs, desperate to conquer whatever had caught her fancy. Leaning heavily against the wall, Dulcie heard her careening around. That must have been what woke her, she realized. In a way it was a blessing. Yawning, she felt her neck crack. She'd do better sleeping in her own bed, particularly once she brushed her teeth.

Above her, another soft mew sounded, and Dulcie waited for the next thud – or the sounds of breaking pottery or glass. ‘At least she hasn't injured herself,' she muttered to the air.

Unless— The sight of the little kitten tumbling down the stairs brought back the scene at the Poche, and Dulcie had to close her eyes. It was ridiculous. Esmé was a healthy young cat. She just needed to be trained. Dulcie was a teacher, wasn't she? And the thought hit her. Maybe that was why the authorities were looking for Carrie Mines. Maybe that was what that fight had been about. Maybe the girl was at risk of hurting herself. Now she was missing. . . . The girl had been a sophomore, according to the poster. Still new to the city, to the university. Probably not even twenty years old.

From Dulcie's own undergraduate days, she knew the confusion, the disorientation that could throw students – freshmen particularly – into a funk. For her, the academic pressure had been welcome. After the artificially non-judgmental atmosphere of the arts colony, it was kind of nice to have someone tell her to work harder. Nobody on the commune had ever given Dulcie a B-minus, and she had relished the challenge of getting that grade up to an A. But the social pressure – that had been unpleasant. Looking around to realize that her Indian print skirts and home-knit sweaters were not the norm. Hearing the giggles as she went to her first house social in a tie-dyed wrap dress. She'd had Suze then as a support – both to guide her to some of the more budget-conscious boutiques in the Square and to get her to laugh at the most outrageous of the preppies. Did Carrie have someone like that? In the back of her mind, Dulcie vaguely recalled that someone she knew worked as a peer counselor. Try as she might, she couldn't remember who, though. Was there somebody else she should call? Suze had wanted Dulcie to go to the cops. Well, she would. First thing in the morning.

As she brushed her teeth, Dulcie checked her phone. Chris had called, hours before. He'd be up – working. Or so he'd said. Dulcie paused with her finger on the callback button. It had only been lunch with a student. She should trust him, she knew that. But right now, she was too tired to think straight. And if there was bad news – if – it could wait till morning. With a sigh, she slipped on her old flannel nightgown and climbed into bed. She could hear Esmé on the stairs and was pleasantly surprised when she felt the kitten jump up beside her, even when she started washing right by her ear. ‘Good kitten. You'll learn.' She couldn't be bothered to reach for the kitten, and simply hoped that the small beast would settle down. ‘Won't you?'

‘
She will, little one. She will.
' But Dulcie was already asleep.

The rest of her night was blessedly dreamless, and Dulcie woke with a sense of purpose. Carrie. The cops. And, realizing that she'd checked her phone, but not her email, Dulcie booted up her little laptop and searched through the usual spam. Nothing from Corkie. She was going to have to keep after that girl. But there was one real message in the in-box, and the sender was one CMines.

Thx for asking
,
I'm fine
, it read, and the flood of relief that swept over Dulcie was matched only by her gratitude that the young woman had indeed left the department. Email grammar, such as it was, was another reason she preferred the phone. Boyfriend trble:)

‘Boyfriend trouble?' Dulcie turned toward Esmé, but if the kitten had any answers, she wasn't sharing. ‘That could mean anything from a missed birthday to a real fight.' The smiley face, she knew, was supposed to reassure her. But memories of the confrontation in the archway weren't so easily dismissed. ‘Boyfriend trouble' could be dangerous. As she dressed, Dulcie mulled over whether to respond. Better not, at least until she'd spoken with the police, she decided. At her feet, the kitten looked up with anticipation.

‘You want me to play, don't you?' Dulcie smiled and reached to pet the smooth black head. Her pet had successfully distracted her from the horror of the day before, but today was a new day. ‘I'm sorry, Esmé, I've got work to do.'

The kitten looked up, quizzical, as Dulcie pulled her gloves on. As tempting as it was to remain with the kitten, Dulcie donned her coat. She felt rested and ready, relieved to finally be going to the police. Yes, Carrie had emailed her back and that was great. But for whatever reason, the police wanted to know about her. Dulcie had information, and maybe she could put a few minds at rest.

Speaking of inner peace, her own was next on the list. After the cops, she would call Chris and arrange to get together. Suze was right; his hours were taking a toll on their relationship. Chris needed to work, but Dulcie had to make him sit down and talk with her, too. She wasn't the jealous type, usually, but she was having a rough time and that made her more vulnerable. They'd both seen too many couples torn apart by the pressures of academia: Trista and Jerry flashed through her mind, and she swept thoughts of her friends aside. She and Chris were solid. They would make it. They only needed to clear the air. A talk and a little time together would clear everything up.

‘Wish me luck, kitty,' she called as she descended the stairs, a spring in her step. ‘I'm going to set everything on the table today. And to start with, I'm going to the cops.'

The kitten didn't say anything, not that she heard. But as she locked the door behind her, Dulcie glanced up the stairs. At the top, a black and white face was staring down, the yellow-green eyes wide with concern.

TWELVE

T
he castle keep loomed large and gray. Its stone walls impenetrable, even to the biting wind. But as Dulcie approached the university police headquarters, a skinny redhead bolted ahead of her to hold the glass door open. And the imposing fortress was breached.

‘Hey, you're Dulcie Schwartz, aren't you?' The redhead towered over Dulcie by at least a foot. ‘I heard you speak on conventions of metaphor and the pathetic fallacy. You were great.'

Dulcie colored slightly. The talk had been a small affair, one of a series encouraged by the department for students with theses in process. To Dulcie, it had been a bit of a coming out, her chance to defend some of her more original theories about
The Ravages of Umbria
even before she really got started writing. ‘You did? I mean, thanks.'

The redhead smiled, making dimples in his freckled cheeks. ‘My pleasure.' He held out a hand. ‘Merv, Merv Copeland.'

‘Merv?' Something must have showed in her face, because the smile grew wider still.

‘Yeah, I know. Just think of the old TV guy.'

‘Hey, my full name is Dulcinea.' It felt good to make a full confession. ‘My mom, well, she's basically a hippy. A hippy with a lit degree.'

‘Peace, love, and Cervantes?'

‘Kind of.' Dulcie realized that she was grinning back, and that they were both standing in a large anteroom, obstructing traffic. ‘I'm sorry. I'm keeping you.'

‘Hey, I interrupted you. So, uh, ladies first.' He half bowed, and Dulcie felt her cheeks getting redder. Still, after as gracious a curtsy as she could manage, Dulcie walked by him and up to a large woman in uniform behind a desk marked ‘Information.' Around her, flat-screen displays blinked and glowed.

‘Can I help you?'

Dulcie winced. This was a university, after all. Shouldn't the employees know the difference between ‘can' and ‘may'? ‘Yes, please,' she said, rearranging her face. ‘I'd like to speak to someone about the missing student?'

‘You have information?' The woman's eagerness won Dulcie's forgiveness.

‘Just a little,' she said with regret. The more she thought about the missing girl, the more she worried. Boyfriend trouble, indeed. ‘I saw her two nights ago, I think. And, well, I may have seen something going on.'

‘Hang on, please.' The woman turned and shouted: ‘Gary!' So much for high-tech communications. ‘Detective Rogovoy will be with you in a minute.'

In less time than that, Dulcie was startled to see a large creature lumbering toward her. Man-shaped, if you didn't count the nose, it waddled across the room, and Dulcie revised her initial impression. This wasn't a castle. It was a fortress, ready for war. And the creature approaching her was an ogre. She half expected him to growl.

‘Miss?' The hand that reached out to her was certainly paw-like, large and lined, but the voice was soft. Blinking, she refined her opinion again, nodding to the tired-looking middle-aged man who ushered Dulcie around the front desk. ‘Come with me, please, miss.'