Grey Zone (22 page)

It didn't seem right to have her covered up, and so Dulcie removed the flier and looked for a more prominent place to put it. Not over the futon ad; those seemed to be hard to get rid of. But there, in the corner: she could pin it to the edge of the bulletin board, and it would only slightly overlap a poster for a midnight showing of
Freaks
. Really, she asked herself, which was more important to the average student?

‘Oh, they're showing that movie again.' The voice behind her made her jump. ‘You know, the old weird one?'

Dulcie turned. Perhaps because she had just mentally disparaged the film, she felt an urge to defend it. But the woman behind her wasn't talking to her. She was addressing another woman, probably another undergrad, and pointing to the poster that Dulcie had just obscured.

‘I'm sorry.' Dulcie reached to move the missing person flier. She could post it again when these two moved on.

‘Who's that?' The second girl leaned in and blinked, leading Dulcie to suspect bad contact lenses.

‘Oh, it's that girl Carrie. The one Merv used to go out with?' Dulcie was too stunned to say anything, and the speaker grabbed her friend's arm. ‘Come on, Shel. We're going to be late.'

THIRTY

D
ulcie's mind reeled, even as she reprimanded herself. Why shouldn't Merv know Carrie? Why wouldn't he have been involved with her? He'd been at the police station also, and he'd said he'd been helping an ex. If she hadn't been so flustered, she'd probably have put two and two together. She should have questioned him from the start.

‘Some detective I'd make,' she muttered as she headed toward the elevator bank. But whether because the building was too modern to be hospitable to spirits or because of the noisy chatter of a couple stepping out of an arriving car, she didn't hear a reply.

But even as she tried to take a stern line, Dulcie found her heart racing a bit as the elevator ascended. In part, she knew, that was because she was going to the top of the building. To the floor where Professor Herschoft had had his office. The floor from which he had met his demise. But a little part, she had to admit, was because she was going to confront Merv.

‘Utterly ridiculous,' she said under her breath, earning her a look from the elevator's only other occupant. It was only that Chris had been so busy recently, she thought as the short girl hurried off at the next floor. And had been rather unsupportive, she added as the floors ticked up. And there was that whole Rusti issue, too.

The elevator was relatively quick, but Dulcie had still managed to work herself into a state by the time it opened on to the seventh floor. She was almost glad to find the hallway empty.

‘Merv?' she called softly, before realizing that she had a frog in her throat. She cleared it. ‘Merv?'

No answer, so Dulcie made her way down a hallway of smoked glass walls until she saw a sign,
FAMILY PSYCH
, in raised pewter letters on the polished wood door. It was Saturday, she realized. Odds were, no administrative staff would be working today. But when she pressed lightly on the door, it opened, and Dulcie walked into a reception area to find an open space with cubicle dividers and file cabinets, fronted by an empty desk. The desk lamp was on, however, and the blotter held a half-full cup of coffee, so Dulcie figured whoever had been sitting there had not left for long.

‘Merv?' she tried again, peeking around the corner. The cubicles were empty, but behind the door she did find a bulletin board. Only, instead of the usual futons for sale, this board was relatively empty. An index card offered a sublet for the upcoming summer, while another warned that the office refrigerator
would
be cleaned out at the end of each month. A third explained the lack of clutter: ‘Any message not approved by S Rothberg will be removed without exception.' And smack dab in the middle, a police bulletin called out a warning in black block letters.

‘Attention!' read the notice. ‘The “Harvard Harasser” is not a joke. Violence is a
crime
.' Dulcie read on as the notice urged people to call, even if simply to report a suspicion. It was a more detailed memo than she'd seen anywhere else.

‘I guess they're getting serious.' She wasn't talking to anyone in particular and jumped a bit when she heard a voice behind her.

‘It's because of the frequency.' An older woman with a smart buzz cut came by with a pile of papers, which she placed on the one empty spot on the desk. ‘Sally, Sally Rothberg,' she said by way of introduction, and then nodded toward the poster. ‘For whatever reason, more of our students have been victimized by this jerk.'

‘Really? Here at the Poche?'

The woman shook her head as she took a seat. ‘I shouldn't be talking about it. May I help you?' Dulcie thought about pulling out her university ID, and instead held out her hand. ‘I'm Dulcie, Dulcie Schwartz, doctoral candidate in English lit.'

‘Have a seat, Ms Schwartz.' The receptionist nodded to a chair in the corner. ‘English lit, huh? So what brings you to our airy aerie?'

Dulcie smiled, but the sharp-looking receptionist kept on talking. ‘Are you going to file a complaint about us, too?'

‘What? No. Have people been doing that?'

‘Nonsense suits.' Papers sorted, she took half of them over to one of the tall filing cabinets and began to slot them away. ‘I gather we have stolen your sunlight or your airspace or some such. Your
ambience
.' She pronounced the word as if it were French, and Dulcie winced. Clearly, someone with an attitude had gotten here first.

‘I'm sorry.' She wasn't sure what to say. ‘It is true that the Poche casts a shadow on our building, but I like it. It's pretty.'

That earned her raised eyebrows, but when the receptionist sat down, she looked more relaxed again. ‘I confess, I was pleasantly surprised when I saw it come together. Although it is a little big for the neighborhood. So,' she said again, having reached some kind of decision, ‘how may I help you today?'

‘I'd love you to tell me more about the attacks.' She put her hand up to feel the still-sore bump on her head. ‘I've been a victim, too.'

The admission – or maybe it was the look on her face as she pressed a little too hard on the bruise – seemed to do the trick.

‘It wasn't just here at the Poche. It was the whole department, actually. The police have some ideas: maybe it relates to our discipline. In fact –' she reached for the remaining pile of papers – ‘some folks had the theory that the late Professor Herschoft might be responsible.' Sally Rothberg shook her head as she filed. ‘Hell of a way to clear your name.'

‘Really.' The receptionist didn't know, Dulcie realized. She still thought it was suicide. ‘I heard there was another coat slashing. And I was hit after Professor Herschoft . . .' She couldn't bring herself to say more, but the receptionist nodded.

‘Yeah, we're all pretty shaken up around here.'

‘I'm sorry.' Dulcie waited, but the receptionist seemed to have said all she was going to. ‘I actually came up to see one of your students. A Merv—' She realized she had no idea what his last name was. ‘Merv something? Tall red-haired guy?' On a whim, she added her latest nugget. ‘He used to go out with Carrie Mines, and she was one of my students.'

‘Oh, yeah. Carrie.' The way she said it made her sound tired, and Dulcie felt a flash of elation. The ex must be long past. Then she mentally kicked herself. The girl was missing, possibly in danger, and this might be a lead.

‘A lot of drama?' She tried to keep her voice calm. If Carrie had been distraught over Merv, then maybe he was the reason she'd gone into hiding. Maybe she'd misread Corkie's message. Which could mean Dimitri was in the clear.

‘There always is with undergrads.' Sally was back to sorting and apparently happy to gossip. ‘I think he's pretty broken up about it. She found someone else. It happens.'

She'd
found someone else. The pronoun threw everything into a different light. If Carrie had been the one to end the relationship, it was less likely that she'd be distraught about it. But that didn't mean that Merv wasn't somehow involved. Nor did it mean that she wasn't being taken advantage of. The Harvard Harasser . . . Unconsciously reaching up to touch the sore place on her head again, Dulcie tried to think back. The figure in the passageway had been tall: a tall man. Could it have been Merv? Could he have been threatening Carrie? Begging her to come back? That might have pushed her into running away. ‘
This cannot continue
,' the note had said. Was she trying to get through to an obsessive ex? ‘
I've got to end it.
' That was more than Carrie's lone email had suggested.
Boyfriend trble
, indeed. But perhaps she was prone to exaggeration. Perhaps that had contributed to their break-up.

‘Anyway –' Sally bounced a stack of papers on her desk top to even them out – ‘if you're looking for Merv, try room 713. End of the hall on the right.'

Thanking her in a distracted manner, Dulcie headed out the door and then paused, five feet down the hall.
Limits
, Mr Grey had said. He'd been talking about boundaries, about what he could or would do for her, but he'd also been talking about his role as a teacher.
Limits and responsibilities
. Was she going too far, tracking down the ex-boyfriend of her former student?
Connections.

Was she, if she were completely honest, really searching for this young man because he had been nice? Because he had flirted with her?

‘No.' She shook her head, becoming once more aware of that sore spot. Her motives might not be totally clear, but they remained strong. A man had died here, and her student may have been involved. But before she turned Corkie over to the police, she wanted to understand. Any lead, any connection, was fair game because it was her responsibility to find out what was going on.

Her mind made up, Dulcie started to stride down the hall. And stopped. What, exactly, was she going to ask Merv anyway? About Herschoft – and Corkie, too, if he knew her – that was certain. But should she confront him about Carrie? The girl was still officially missing, if that flier was any indication. Of course, Merv could easily pass any blame on to the new boyfriend, whoever that was. And he could be right. Maybe it was the new man in Carrie's life who had driven her into hiding. Maybe, the thought struck her once again, the new man was Dimitri. Corkie might still have seen it as inappropriate, even if it was consensual. But that fight . . .

‘Damn,' she said to the empty hallway. Dulcie prided herself on her logic. In all areas, except where ghost cats were concerned, she knew she thought in a reasonable and very clear manner. And, yes, following this current train of thought brought Dimitri back up. And also – she paused – Fritz Herschoft.

Where had that idea come from? Dulcie turned around, surprised by her own thought, and caught sight of the seed that had sparked it: Fritz Herschoft, 710. The label on the door didn't reflect the young professor's rank, but the fact that he'd had a private office did, and the police seal – neatly ripped where someone had already opened the door to clean or begin to sort through a life's work – testified to the tragedy of his ending.

Dulcie tried to remember what she'd heard about the late professor: he'd been up for tenure. A rising star in his field. He'd been a dumpy man, short with greasy hair, but supposedly many of his students loved him. Still, nobody she talked to had anything good to say about him. Maybe some of that had been because he had been suspected of harassment, but his death – and the continued attacks on campus – put paid to that theory. His death also made him an unlikely factor in Carrie's disappearance, as did his figure: a far cry from the tall, lean man Dulcie had seen Carrie arguing with. What had the sophomore said was going on that night?
Boyfriend trble
. Dulcie had read that email the morning she went to Rogovoy, the morning after Herschoft had been killed. And Carrie still had not resurfaced.

Still, there was something. Maybe it was the memory of her dream – the huge windows in the castle keep and the long drop down. Maybe it was simply that Rogovoy had been so evasive about Herschoft's death. Or maybe, Dulcie admitted, it was simply that she was alone. The hall was empty. And the seal on the door had already been ripped.

‘I'm worse than Esmé,' she whispered, to give herself courage, and reached for the door.

THIRTY-ONE

I
n place of a knob, the door had a lever of burnished steel. Its dull glow matched the sheen of the polished wood, echoing the elegant restraint of the smoky glass and the hush of the hallway. But there was no mistaking the sharp click as the lever moved in her hand. The door wasn't locked. Dulcie held her breath and stepped inside.

Closing the door behind her, Dulcie felt slightly illicit. Hermetria would never have snuck into anybody's office.

‘This is crazy,' she whispered to the still air. ‘What am I doing here?' The urge to flee – in a sedate and respectful manner, of course – was strong enough to turn her back around toward the door. Through the shaded glass, the hallway glowed like another world. It was quiet, almost hushed, but when a shadow passed over the smoky glass – ghostly, silent – she stepped back. No footsteps intruded on this carpeted reserve, and she held still a moment, wondering if her own silhouette would be visible were she to stand closer to the wall. Wondering what else could be out there, when it hit her. In Hermetria's world, the
vengeful spirits
proved to be human, and the resilient heroine triumphed by exposing them. Dulcie, too, was seeking truth. Plus, she'd already taken the biggest step. Her heart rate returning to normal, her resolve followed: she may as well do what she'd come for.

But what was that, exactly?