by Clea Simon
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked down at the chair in his hands. When he looked up, Dulcie could see that he was blinking back tears. ‘I’m not used to . . . this sort of thing. I’m afraid my default mode is to – is to—’ He sniffed and then hiccuped, and Dulcie stepped forward to take him in her arms . . . but the voice behind her stopped her: gruff, loud, and familiar.
‘Why am I not surprised? What am I going to do with you?’
She turned to see two firefighters, fully suited for a blaze, and the library guard, white-faced and trembling. In front of them all stood Detective Rogovoy, panting as if he’d led an uphill charge.
FIFTY-THREE
By the time she had explained everything, Dulcie was exhausted. Rogovoy and his people had finally taken both her and Griddlehaus into the library’s administrative wing, ostensibly to answer additional questions while the fire marshal checked out the systems. As he’d ushered them through a previously unseen, anonymous door, Griddlehaus had put up a fuss, unwilling to relinquish his attempts to monitor the policemen, not to mention the firefighters and all their equipment, in the Mildon.
‘You had two killers in here, and you’re worried about my ballpoint?’ Rogovoy had finally barked at the nearsighted clerk. That had shut him up, and as the detective seated them in an over-bright passageway, he’d glanced again at Dulcie, obviously shaken. She’d given him a brave smile as they led him away to take his statement.
‘He’s had a rough morning,’ Dulcie whispered to Rogovoy as a clerk wheeled a book cart by. ‘Can’t you go easy on him?’
Rogovoy made a face. ‘Hey, maybe you should think about that, too, young lady.’
‘Me?’ Dulcie sat back, her own eyes suddenly smarting. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. I mean, they had a knife. Knives. He had a knife.’ Tripped up by her own grammar, Dulcie felt the tears start to come.
To her surprise, she felt a heavy paw on her back. ‘There, there.’ Rogovoy’s voice was softer now. ‘It’s OK, kid. I didn’t mean you’d done a bad thing.’
She looked up, blinking. ‘But you said . . .?’
‘I just meant, can’t you keep out of trouble for one day?’ His eyes, even hidden deep in that craggy face, looked concerned. ‘It’s Saturday. Why aren’t you sleeping in with that nice boyfriend of yours?’
She stared at him. He didn’t understand. ‘Because I’m working on my thesis,’ she said. ‘They have a letter here – well, over in the Mildon collection, anyway. It was written by Thomas Paine, and it may touch on the author I’m writing about—’
Rogovoy interrupted her by raising his hand. ‘I’m sure it’s fascinating, Ms Schwartz.’
‘It is. It could open up a whole new line of inquiry for me, and I was really grateful that I was allowed back in or I’d never have—’ She stopped and looked up at him. ‘How did they get in here?’
‘Excuse me?’ Rogovoy looked up from his notes, and she suspected he hadn’t been listening.
‘Those two men. The ones who attacked Mr Griddlehaus. How did they get in here? Into the library – into the Mildon Collection?’
‘Same way as anyone else.’ He shrugged. As if to emphasize his point, a stout young man pushed another book cart by. Although the two were seated at a table in an alcove – Dulcie suspected it was a lunch nook – the bustle around them was considerable. Especially for a Saturday morning.
‘No. They didn’t.’ Dulcie wasn’t convinced. ‘I mean, they didn’t come in through the Mildon’s main entrance. I would have seen that. Besides, nobody buzzed them in. They were just here.’
‘The tunnels, I guess.’ Rogovoy didn’t seem that concerned, but something was off. ‘This place is like an anthill.’
‘Probably the same way someone got the Dunster Codex out, huh?’ She was watching his face.
A rock would have given more away. ‘I don’t think we should talk about that right now, Ms Schwartz. That’s an ongoing case.’
‘But they have to be related, don’t they?’ Dulcie started ticking off the factors: Rollie, Jessica, the Codex, Professor Coffin . . . A third cart went by, rattling on a loose wheel. ‘And now this.’ Something still didn’t add up. ‘But, if they threatened the professor into helping them, and the professor got his students involved, why did they come back?’
‘You’re forgetting one other common factor who keeps popping up.’
‘A factor is not a “who”,’ Dulcie corrected him automatically. She was still thinking out loud, oblivious to the people milling around them. ‘Why did they have to kill the professor? Why in our back conference room?’
A large hand came down on hers, stilling it, and she looked up into those deep-set eyes. ‘You, Dulcie Schwartz,’ Rogovoy said, his face close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath. ‘You’re the common factor. You keep coming up, too.’
FIFTY-FOUR
‘You don’t—’ Dulcie could barely get the words out. ‘Surely, you don’t suspect me?’ She looked around. Had that little clerk – Griddlehaus – said something? Was this why Rogovoy had separated them? ‘I’m—’ She paused, not sure how to phrase it. ‘I’m the heroine here.’
The face Rogovoy made was impossible to read, and when he ducked his head down before answering, she feared the worst. When he looked back up, however, he was smiling.
‘Believe me, Ms Schwartz, if I could put you under house arrest, I would.’ He raised one meaty paw to block her protests. ‘Not that we think you did anything wrong, really. But you do have a habit of getting in the middle of things. Besides –’ he kept his big hand up – ‘we still have a dangerous situation here. Those two perps are still out there.’
‘Oh.’ Somehow she had managed to put that out of her mind.
‘Tell you what.’ Rogovoy hunched closer. ‘I’ve got a solution that will take care of everything, if you’ll put up with me here.’ She nodded, and he continued. ‘I’d like you to stay here, in the library, with one of my guys, if that’s OK.’
She shrugged, not sure exactly if she was being asked or informed.
‘I don’t think those jerks have gotten far. This is gonna be over pretty quick. But knowing that you’re here, under our watch, would just make me a little easier, OK?’
Put that way, it sounded nicer. ‘Sure.’ She nodded this time, meaning it. ‘Do you think I can get back into the Mildon?’ She looked around the busy passageway. ‘I mean, there’s not much I can use here, and it’s not particularly conducive to writing.’
For some reason, that seemed to amuse Rogovoy. ‘Conducive.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Five minutes later, he was back. ‘It’s gonna be a while before you can go back to the Mildon,’ he said. ‘But at least you can start with this.’ He handed over her bag.
‘Wow, I’d almost forgotten . . .’ She opened the messenger flap. Laptop, pad . . . Everything seemed to be in place. Including her phone, which she pulled out and started to power up.
‘Oh.’ She looked around. ‘I wonder if it’s OK to make a call?’
‘I’m sure.’ Rogovoy sat down again, just as another cart rolled by. The one with the loose wheel.
‘Detective, do you think there’s someplace a little quieter I could use?’
‘Calling your boyfriend, huh?’ He smiled and pushed himself up. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll find you a hidey-hole.’
She followed at a distance as he checked in with an older woman behind a desk. When he gestured, she came closer.
‘Look, there’s some unused offices down the end of that corridor. I’ve got to check in with my guys, so I’m gonna send Officer Salazar with you. Not to eavesdrop; I’ll tell him to keep his distance. But just to make sure you’re OK. OK?’
‘OK.’ She felt better already. Chris would probably be awake by now and worried that she hadn’t called. Still, it didn’t hurt to be careful. She jogged back to the table and grabbed her bag, hiking it on to her shoulder as Rogovoy motioned to a young cop down the hall.
‘Stay
out of trouble,’ Rogovoy said to one or both of them. ‘I’ll be back for you soon.’ She watched as he walked toward the Mildon.
‘Miss?’ The young cop looked serious. Having a nose like a hawk’s beak didn’t help.
‘Sorry.’ She tried smiling at him. ‘Shall we?’
She had started to extend her arm – just in play – but he frowned, dark brows meeting over that beak, and she let her hand drop to her side.
He turned without another word and led her down the hall. Through a door to the right and then left into another passage, they left the busy sounds of library business behind, but he continued to stride ahead, dour and silent. He was doing her a favor, she knew that. A raptor like that, he’d probably rather be out chasing Harris and Read. Still, she was one of the public he was supposed to protect and serve, right? He stopped at a door and, turning, motioned for her to enter. Dulcie pulled in her tongue just in time.
FIFTY-FIVE
Dulcie wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Not only had Chris not been worried about her, he had barely noticed she’d gone. She’d only gotten as far as saying that she was at the library and would be there for the near future when her ordinarily polite boyfriend interrupted.
‘Sorry, sweetie, I only got up about a half hour ago. I figured that’s where you’d gone. Though, to be honest, Esmé did seem a little agitated.’ She could hear him crunching something. Cheerios, probably. Her own stomach rumbled in sympathy. It must be close to noon. ‘But Mr Grey told her everything was fine. Something about you knowing about a false alarm.’
‘He knew I pulled the alarm?’ It should have been comforting, probably, that Mr Grey had been so confident. That her spectral pet had made the effort to reassure her current kitten and, by extension, her boyfriend. But Dulcie felt her hunger pangs replaced by a slight ache. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Mr Grey hadn’t been in touch with her. ‘You heard him?’
‘Only like a whisper, you know.’ He crunched again. ‘I didn’t want to eavesdrop. Besides, I’m sort of dealing with another situation here.’
‘Oh?’ Dulcie wasn’t really listening. It wasn’t even that she hadn’t gotten to tell him exactly what happened. It was that he hadn’t asked.
‘Yeah, I’m not sure if I should be concerned or what.’ Another crunch. Very little short of mortal danger could put Chris off his food.
‘Tell me.’ Dulcie decided to forgive him. After all, he had been reassured of her well-being by no less an authority than Mr Grey.
‘Well, it might be nothing.’ Another crunch. ‘Mr Grey would probably tell me I’m worrying needlessly.’
Try as she might, Dulcie couldn’t avoid a stab of jealousy. ‘Chris . . .’
‘Sorry. It’s Jerry.’
She waited while he swallowed.
‘I think he might be in trouble.’
‘Jerry?’ Dulcie realized she had shouted when she saw the dour cop turn. She waved him off as she’d shoo a bird. ‘Chris, what happened?’
‘It’s probably nothing—’
‘Chris!’ She cradled her hand over the phone.
‘Sorry, sweetie. He called me. At least, I think he did. The phone rang, and I was asleep. It was early – like, eleven. Anyway, I picked it up, and I’m pretty sure it was Jerry, only the connection was really bad. I think he said something about Trista, and he sounded, well, agitated. Then we got cut off.’
‘Didn’t you call him back?’ Dulcie was standing. The cop stared, those brows closing in again. She turned her back on him.
‘Well, yeah, but my call went straight to voicemail, and I haven’t been able to reach him since.’
First Trista, now Jerry. Dulcie didn’t know what was going on, but it wasn’t good. True to his words, however, Chris seemed to have recovered.
‘So, what’s up with you, sweetie? How’s your morning going?’
‘It’s been kind of complicated.’ Dulcie turned around. The young cop looked no more pleased with her company than she was with his. She needed to talk to Rogovoy. ‘I’ll tell you later, sweetie. Promise.’
With a nod to the stern cop, Dulcie signaled that she was ready to go. If he wouldn’t talk, she’d use the time to think. Jerry was both loyal and persistent. Smart, too, she reasoned as they turned back down the first hallway. He had reached Trista somehow. Or he’d found out something – and gotten himself in trouble as well. Rogovoy had met Jerry. He knew about the situation with Trista. She’d tell him what was going on.
Only, when they got back to the lunch alcove, nobody was there.
She broke down and asked one of the cart-wheeling clerks. ‘Detective Rogovoy?’
‘Sorry.’ He shook his head.
She turned to the beaked cop. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s on the job,’ he said. She hadn’t really expected more from him, but it was still disappointing.
‘I’m going to go look for him.’
The young cop took a step, blocking her path. Standing there, he shook his head. ‘My instructions are that you are to remain here.’
‘Great,’ Dulcie said to nobody in particular. She might not be a suspect, but she was a prisoner. At least she had other things to do. Returning to the table, she took a seat facing away from the cop and pulled her laptop out of her bag.
‘There are no limits on my intellectual life,’ she muttered, half hoping he could hear. ‘Or my online communications.’
Not sure whether she’d complain to the dean or to the police liaison first, she opened her email. Maybe she’d just tell Chris what had been going on. As she waited for her email to download, she saw a couple of diverting possibilities: a call for journal entries. An invite to a party for Suze. And there, among all the unread emails, was one labeled: URGENT. PLEASE READ. It had come from a Qmail account – one of those free email services so beloved of spammers – and Dulcie was about to delete it unread when she saw the sender: JESSIW. She clicked to open it.
Dulcie, she read. Whole story is not what you think – not at all. GC wasn’t only victim. DC is a phantom. Please – save yourself!
FIFTY-SIX
Her first instinct was disbelief. No, even though Dulcie had spent most of her academic career reading about ghosts and demons, she wasn’t going to fall for this one. Even though her colleagues had been whispering about the Dunster Codex ever since it first went missing. Even though one man was dead and several other people were missing in connection with the medieval treasure, she wouldn’t buy it.
How could she? Even Lucy, she thought, would think twice before believing that an ancient book was a ghost. She stopped herself. No, her mother would believe it. Would actually say that the book itself was not the phantom, but that an inanimate object could carry the spiritual projections of those who had owned it. Of those who had, perhaps, cursed it.
For a split second, Dulcie seriously considered the possibility that the missing book – the Dunster Codex – was in fact haunted. For a moment, she wavered, afraid. Perhaps she should let sleeping books lie, she thought. A haunting . . . a phantom. Maybe the book was cursed. Maybe her dreams – nightmares, really – had been warning her of just such an outcome. Maybe . . .
A brush, just a touch, on her shoulder made her turn with a start. That annoying cop – but, no, he was standing with his back toward her. Probably standing guard, Dulcie realized, on the direct order of his commanding officer. There were two dangerous criminals on the loose. They had seen her; she had thwarted them. She was legitimately in danger, even here in the bowels of the library. And here she had been, blaming the young cop for his rigorous attention to his duty.
Dulcie felt herself relaxing a little, grateful for her own personal eagle scout. Grateful, too, for the realization that made both her captivity and her relationship with her raptor-guard a little easier. But that touch – what had it been?
‘Dulcie, Dulcie.’
She sat up straight. That voice. It had been so long.
‘And you though
t I had abandoned you. Didn’t you, little one?’
‘I worried,’ she admitted under her breath, so softly that she wondered if he would hear.
She was answered with the soft brush of fur against her cheek. The affectionate head-butt of a beloved pet.
‘I missed you, Mr Grey.’
‘And I, you, little one.’ The low rumble of a purr underscored the deep, soft voice. ‘But you are doing well, Dulcie. You are learning – learning who to trust. What to trust . . .’ The purr subsumed the voice, and Dulcie strained to hear as the remainder of the sentence was absorbed in the rolling rumble. ‘Ghosts . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grey, I missed that.’ All her senses on alert, Dulcie craned forward, hoping for more. She was losing him.
‘You can trust your instincts, Dulcie. You’ve always known you can.’ That purr, a low vibration in the air. ‘And ghosts, Dulcie, be wary what you believe of ghosts.’ The voice was fading now, as was the purr. ‘Real ghosts are nothing to be afraid of . . . nothing more than the echo of love.’
He was gone. But for the moment, Dulcie didn’t mind. Mr Grey had visited her. He had come with affection and reassurance, and even if she didn’t totally understand what his message meant, she got that she was doing the right thing. That in her heart, she would know what choices to make.
Besides, the great grey cat had given her something to think about. He was, she figured, the ultimate authority on things in the spirit world – more so even than Lucy. And if he said that ghosts were a manifestation of love, then she believed him. All of which cast doubt on that message.
The email! Why hadn’t she thought of it? She flipped her laptop open and typed a quick reply: Jessica – where are you? We need to talk. She hit send. But less than a second later, a ping alerted her to a response. ADDRESS INVALID/USER UNKNOWN, it said. Jessica had used a disposable account and had already covered her tracks.