Which may explain why it looks so much like a foggy, featureless plain to me. I have no expectations of what I "ought" to see.
But even when she had gained access to the Otherworld at last, it did not bring with it success in her quest. Truth wandered for subjective hours in featureless Otherworld grayness, but she found no hint of Hunter Greyson's presence.
The pull to return to her body grew stronger as she searched, until resisting it became an effort and she knew that—this night at least—she had failed to find Hunter Greyson. It occurred belatedly to Truth that perhaps she had been too hasty in banishing all trace of Grey's Circle from Nuclear Lake; she could have used its presence as a starting place for her search, at least. Now, though she had spent hours calling upon the powers beholden to her as far as she dared, Truth could gain no hint of the Master of Nuclear Circle's location.
At last she allowed her body's animal need to tug her back from the Otherworld, and opened her eyes on her own familiar living room.
It was nearly dawn. She was chilled and stiff from immobility, and the candle had long since drowned in its own wax. But Truth was far from defeated.
"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" Dylan said, standing by the door of the car.
"For heaven's sake, Dyl, I'm driving to Massachusetts, not off the edge of the earth," Truth said good-naturedly.
Though many of the staff at the Bidney Institute were also members of the Taghkanic faculty—such as Dylan—Truth was not one of them. Without classes to cover, it was comparatively easy for her to gain a few days' leave.
"It's only a couple of days since you were laid out cold in the lab," Dylan pointed out ruthlessly. "Where in Massachusetts?" he added suspiciously.
Truth sighed, capitulating. "Fall River. I was just going to—"
"Meddle," Dylan finished flatly. Truth rewarded him with a dazzling smile that deceived neither of them.
"Right," she said. "But, for heaven's sake, Dylan, it's only a little meddling."
"And I can't stop you anyway," Dylan finished for her.
Truth tried to look repentant and failed. "I'll be back in a day or so."
Dylan stood back from the car as Truth started the engine. She waved as she drove off, glancing back at him occasionally through the rearview mirror until she'd passed out of sight.
The closer Truth got to Fall River Sanatorium, the more forbidding it seemed. She drove along a tree-lined road, edged with discreet accesses to private drives, and tried not to think about what lay ahead. Money was power, and Fall River seemed to be the site of a great deal of money—at least if the neighboring estates were any guideline.
Fall River Sanatorium was built on a hill, a gleaming white edifice that did not so much sprawl as recline amid lawns as green and unreal as the turf of a golf course. As Truth drove toward it, she could catch glimpses of artfully landscaped brick paths laid among the ornamental plantings, and once, in the far distance, a solitary gleaming figure in nursing whites.
She had not called beforehand, preferring not to give the sanatorium's staff an additional opportunity to turn her away. The rich were notoriously efficient at protecting their privacy; now that Truth had more of an idea of what sort of hospital Fall River was, she realized that it was more than likely that the doctor who had treated Winter Musgrave would refuse to speak to her at all.
But if Winter had been a patient at Fall River for any length of time the staff must have been aware of the poltergeist phenomenon that dogged her, and the Margaret Beresford Bidney Institute's reputation was almost as well known in psychiatric as in parapsychological circles. Maybe she'd get lucky.
The sign at the front gate said PRIVATE DRIVE, and Truth passed two more signs saying much the same thing before she reached the building. She parked beneath yet another one, located this time in the visitors' parking lot. Her little Saturn looked positively frumpy next to the Mercedes and Lincolns that made up the majority of the occupants of the lot, and Truth tried not to be covetous of the gleaming expensive vehicles. The white BMW that Winter had told Truth she drove must have fit right in here.
And so had Winter. Or bad she?
Truth locked her car and walked briskly toward the main entrance, blessing the impulse that had caused her to dress as if she were going to a particularly conservative professional conference. Her dark wool/silk suit and severe cream linen blouse would add an additional air of respectability to what Truth now saw more than ever as a harebrained escapade.
No one in his right mind would have come so far on such a slender hope of information, but now that she was here and the compulsion to come was gone, she recognized it for what it was: some message from the more-than-rational world; beyond instinct, beyond intuition . . .
Yet, having brought her so far, it had deserted her.
Now what?
Truth looked toward the entrance. The doorway was an imposing affair of double doors and leaded glass panels, sheltered beneath a deep portico. As good a destination as any. Truth put her hand to the gleaming brass latch and walked into Fall River Sanatorium.
She glanced around the foyer quickly, taking in the Oriental rugs, the chandelier, the furnishings that looked like costly antiques and probably were, and her hopes for the success of her mission slipped another notch. Everything she saw was designed to give the illusion that the viewer had been invited into a gracious private home—an illusion that was necessarily spoiled by the desk with its sign-in register that stood just to the right and inside the entrance.
"May I help you?"
The woman standing behind the desk was in her midtwenties; immaculately groomed, professionally pretty, and as formidable a guardian as had ever guarded the gates of Hell—one more layer of defense for the protection—or detention—of those treated here. Truth put on her most formal and professional expression and smiled coolly.
"I'd like to see your director of admissions, please," she said. "Or your supervising clinician."
"Do you have an appointment?" the woman responded promptly.
"I'm with the Bidney Institute in Glastonbury," Truth said, letting her voice supply the suggestion that it was a place similar to this one. She held out her card and watched as the woman read it. Margaret Beresford Bidney Memorial Psychic Science Research Institute had a distinguished ring to it, and most people confused "psychic" with "psychological," at least at first glance.
"I'd hoped to be able to consult with . . . ?" Truth prompted.
"That would be Dr. Mahar, the director," the woman supplied. Truth felt a small flare of victory. "Come with me, please, Dr. Jourdemayne."
Truth did not feel it necessary to correct her. She did, after all, have a doctorate—in mathematics.
Her guide conducted Truth down a short corridor to a reception area so luxurious and tranquilizing that Truth was sure this must be where anxious would-be patients awaited their initial interviews with Dr. Mahar. Everything Truth had seen in her few brief minutes inside the sanatorium proclaimed to her the sort of place this was: a sort of psychological factory where human problems were as likely to be tidied away as treated. Another professional sentry, this one an older woman in a starched white suit and slightly archaic gull-wing cap, rose from behind her desk as Truth and her escort entered the room.
"Dr. Jourdemayne to see Dr. Mahar," the first woman said. She offered up Truth's business card to the second receptionist and retreated in the direction of her outside post.
Truth advanced on her new obstacle. "I'm Truth Jourdemayne," she said. "I'd like to consult with Dr. Mahar about Winter Musgrave?"
"Winter Musgrave!" The nurse's mask of professional detachment slipped; as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud, Truth could hear the rest of the sentence: "She isn't coming back here, is she?"
Truth smiled a little, saying nothing, as if she hadn't heard anything out of the ordinary. Winter must have made quite an impression while she was here. The nurse stood watching her uncertainly for what seemed a long time, but after what could no
t have been more than a moment's hesitation turned and went through the door behind her desk.
While she was gone, Truth glanced around the room. The more she saw of this place, the less she felt it was the kind of place where unpleasant truths would be welcomed when they were brought to light. As in the foyer outside, the desk was the only hint that this was not a private home. Truth sat down on the couch opposite the fireplace, and picked up the impressive leather-bound book lying on the coffee table.
The Fall River Experience, said the title page. Truth quickly paged through photos of lushly landscaped grounds and ethereal-yet-brave residents—professional models, she supposed, as none of the pampered guests of such a discreet facility would appreciate documentary evidence of their stay. The text accompanying the pictures gave no indication that Fall River was anything more than a particularly well-appointed vacation retreat accidentally equipped to dispense soothing assurances of normalcy. The entire place was engineered to help its inhabitants forget— like the inhabitants of the Isle of the Lotos-Eaters, people who came here forgot their unpleasant past. Only Winter hadn't forgotten. Winter had remembered. And only now did Truth appreciate what bravery that had taken.
Learning this much was worth the trip, Truth told herself encouragingly. Even if she got no farther, Truth felt she knew more about Winter just by having seen Fall River. For a woman grappling with interior demons, desperate to separate reality from delusion, it would have been a particularly harrowing prison.
Truth knew that she really had no authority to slink around asking people questions about Winter Musgrave's past like a character in a bad detective novel. She'd gotten this far under what amounted to false pretenses, and she couldn't expect Dr. Mahar to take a sympathetic view of her actions if he discovered the deception. Once her cover was blown she'd be lucky if she were allowed to beat a graceful retreat instead of being tossed out on her ear; this was self-interested snooping, plain and simple, and as Winter was not even currently working with the Institute at all, Truth didn't have even that much justification.
But something more than mere curiosity had brought her here. . . .
The sound of the inner door opening brought Truth to her feet. The white-suited nurse was standing in the doorway, and slightly behind her was an irritable-looking balding man who could be no one other than Dr. Mahar. Seizing the initiative, Truth briskly crossed the room, holding out her hand.
"Dr. Mahar, how splendid to meet you. I'm Truth Jourdemayne. Might I have a moment of your time?"
Everything about Truth's voice and body language proclaimed her perfect right to be here—the ability to project a self other than the real was the gift that linked the actor with the magician, and even in the modern day caused actors to be distrusted as somehow fey and uncanny.
The nurse moved back toward her desk uncertainly. Dr. Mahar stepped back to let Truth walk past him into his office.
As she entered, Truth glanced around and promptly identified Dr. Mahar as an acolyte of the cult of "Doctor Knows Best": Everything in the dark-paneled office was as hushed and solemn as a church, and Dr. Mahar's professional trophies were prominently and elaborately displayed.
Truth frowned in disapproval. Even when she had been a committed rationalist, the blind belief in the infallibility of the medical profession had been one altar of Science at which she had never worshiped.
"Always a pleasure," Dr. Mahar said meaninglessly. "Now. How may I help you?" He seated himself once more behind the meant-to-be-intimidating desk. If the outer room was designed to soothe and reassure, then this one was meant to inspire unquestioning faith.
"I understand that Winter Musgrave was a patient here until recently. I realize that her records will have been sealed, but I wonder if I might speak to the doctor who supervised her care." And find out what HE thought was wrong with her.
Dr. Mahar's face settled into an expression of grim dislike at the mention of "patients." "We do not discuss our guests," he said brusquely.
Although it was only what she had expected once she had seen the place, the man's arrogance was such that Truth could not resist needling him a little.
"Ms. Musgrave came to the Institute for help. I know she would appreciate your cooperation."
'"The Institute,'" Dr. Mahar said suspiciously. He looked down at the card on his desk blotter—the same one she had handed to the receptionist at the front desk, Truth realized.
As the woman at the front desk had, Dr. Mahar, studied her card carefully. '"Psychic Science Research Institute,'" he read slowly.
Nailed, Truth thought with resignation.
As the meaning of his own words penetrated, Dr. Mahar raised his eyes and glared steadily at her, his face darkening with unreasonable anger. "Well! I don't know what your game is, young woman, but I must say you show a certain amount of barefaced nerve coming here—" He got to his feet.
Truth stood also, determined to outface him—for the honor of her calling, if nothing else.
"Were there any unexplained fires while Ms. Musgrave was here? More false alarms—shorts in the electrical system—than normal? Did staff and other residents complain of missing small objects—many of which later turned up in places inaccessible to both them and her? You had trouble keeping the french doors in her room closed, I understand. The locks didn't seem to help. You finally nailed the doors shut. Did that work? Or did something pull out the nails every night and open them anyway?"
"That is enough!" Dr. Mahar blustered, his face an alarming scarlet.
"No, it is not." Truth's icy tone matched his. "The Margaret Beresford Bidney Memorial Psychic Science Research Institute is a reputable organization with international standing, affiliated with a nationally ranked college. The staff of the Institute is composed neither of frauds nor quacks—as you seem to be implying. It is your decision not to cooperate with my investigation if you choose, but I will not submit to being treated like a simple-minded con artist."
There was a momentary silence as Dr. Mahar all but gaped at her in shock. Truth wondered if he'd ever been spoken to that way by any woman in his entire life—or by any person since he'd received his sacred MD. But despite her expectations, Dr. Mahar was honest enough to try to listen, and Truth watched with surprised pity as the man opposite her struggled against a lifetime of assumption, of tacit promise never to question the bounds of reality as marked for him by equally unquestioning peers, of willful blindness.
And fell, powerlessly, back into that blindness which was far more comfortable than knowledge.
"I have nothing more to say to you," he said heavily. "I'll ask you to leave now. As a professional courtesy I will not have you escorted from the grounds."
Truth turned and walked out—before she broke something, and by far more mundane means than that of a poltergeist.
Well, that was a waste of time, Truth thought to herself, stepping out into the hot spring sunlight once more. If she turned back to the building she had just left, undoubtedly she would be able to see white-garbed Cerberuses peering out the windows, waiting to see if Security needed to be called to deal with her after all. Truth felt cross and guilty. Why in God's name had she come here?
"Ms. Jourdemayne? Truth Jourdemayne?" A voice came from behind her.
Truth turned and peered in the direction of the voice, blinking against the glare of the sun. All she could make out was the silhouette of a tall figure. / guess they called Security after all.
"You don't have to get nasty, I was just leaving," she said peevishly.
"No. You don't understand. Winter Musgrave—is she all right?"
The speaker stepped forward, blocking the glare of the sun with his body. Truth saw a spare man, closer to fifty than forty, with a tracery of silver in his dark hair and an almost stereotypical mustache and goatee edging his ascetic face. His eyes were a startling pale brown, nearly amber, and he was wearing a white lab coat and dark trousers. The only thing out of the ordinary about his appearance at all was the scarab pendant in bright
hlue faience that hung from a silver chain about his neck and rested against his sober institutional necktie.
The gossip mill in this place makes the one at Taghkanic look slow. "She's . . . all right," Truth said. At least she was the last time I saw her, but maybe not for long, if that creature catches up with her. "Who are you?"
"My name is Dr. Atheling; I'm a consultant here at Fall River. Winter Musgrave wasn't my patient, but—may I have a few moments of your time?"
Truth looked past him to the house. "I don't know," she said dryly.
"I've just seen Dr. Mahar, and I think I'm supposed to be getting the bum's rush."
"Ah." Dr. Atheling smiled. "But I have some small sway with Dr. Mahar, owing to my occasional fortunate intervention in some cases of exceptional difficulty. Allow me to take personal responsibility for your continued presence on the grounds."
"Sure. And maybe you can answer some of my questions." Truth found herself smiling in return. She no longer wondered what purpose had drawn her to Fall River; she knew.
"I first met Winter Musgrave a few weeks after she first came here. She was a patient of Dr. Luty's; he's a colleague of Dr. Mahar's, a very well respected name in his field," Dr. Atheling said.
"And that is . . . ?" Truth asked.
Truth and her new companion were walking along one of the many footpaths that led through the Fall River grounds. Everything around her looked too perfect to be real: Even the weather cooperated in the illusion, bright and warm with only enough cloud in the sky to add the final decorative touch. Though Truth's own sister had been much more harshly treated in a much less luxurious environment, Truth could not banish from her mind the thought of how this artificial perfection would have grated on Winter's shattered nerves, and found sympathetic anger in Winter's defense rising in her.
There must be a better way—a way to help those who are not sick, but different. . . .
Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 Page 27