Gravelight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Now Sergeant Wachman looked embarrassed. "Well, folks down here in the Fork take some time to warm up to strangers. Not that you're quite a stranger. Miss Dellon."

  Ninian came back with paper cups, sugar, and the carton of milk all awkwardly tucked under one arm while he carried the half-full coffeepot in his free hand. Though he moved with the dramatic awkwardness of a young heron. Truth had never actually seen Ninian drop anything.

  "Sorry we're out of real cups," he said, setting his burden down on the table. "But there's plenty of coffee."

  Rowan pushed the pastry carton toward him. "And plenty of calories."

  "Just what I don't need," Wachman said with a wistful sigh. "The wife's always after me to take off a few pounds. . . ." Despite which, he helped himself to a slab of crumb cake from the bakery in Pharaoh.

  "Ambrose, we're ready to go with the dogs. Got some of the girl's clothes for a good scent trace. You want us to start up at the old Dellon place?" The speaker—another uniformed deputy—was whip-thin and intense, but despite that, he bore a strong family resemblance to Ambrose Wachman.

  "That'll be a good start. Remember, your radio isn't going to work worth diddly around here, so you be sure to bring it on back here around noon and let me know what you're up to, Davey-boy."

  The younger deputy saluted and went back to the others. In a moment, two green and white Lyonesse County four-wheel-drive vehicles rolled slowly past the Winnebago, and disappeared up Watchman's Gap Trace Road.

  "You living at the Dellon place. Miss Dellon? It's pretty raw."

  Sergeant Wachman sipped his coffee. A faint dusting of powdered sugar starred his tie and his short-sleeved navy shirt.

  Ninian picked up his cup and went over to stand behind Dylan.

  "No. I bought the old schoolhouse further up the road and renovated it before I moved in."

  Sinah's voice—like her face—was small and pinched, and Truth wondered what thoughts were uppermost in the sergeant's mind. Did Wachman suspect Sinah of killing Luned? Was this all some long Columbo-style charade to get her to confess? Even if Truth didn't know what was going on in Wachman's mind, surely Sinah must. Was it that frightening?

  "That's right. You did one hey of a lot up there; put in a phone and a septic system and all. You plannin' to move back here? Or you got other places to be?"

  "I—yes—no—I don't know." Sinah jumped to her feet, knocking the rickety chair backwards as she rose. Covering her face with her hands, she ran for the only possible refuge—the Winnebago.

  "Miss Dellon!" Sergeant Wachman also stood. "I didn't mean—"

  "Maybe if you'd tell us what you needed, we could be of more help," Dylan Palmer said. His words were cordial, but his tone was not. "We'll be happy to be of assistance, but I think you'd better leave Sinah alone."

  "It isn't a good idea to threaten an officer of the law in these parts, Sunny Jim," Wachman said. The placidity was gone; now his broad, fair face looked like that of an animal about to charge.

  "It's just that all the recording equipment is in there," Rowan said, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, "And if any of it breaks, it comes out of Dylan's salary. Besides, Sinah's been through a lot lately, with nobody here but us willing to talk to her or anything." Rowan flashed Wachman her sunniest smile, obviously intent on using her femininity as a weapon.

  And, thought Truth wryly, Rowan's tactics seemed to work just fine. Wachman relaxed, though he didn't resume his seat.

  "So you use machines—not psychics?" He sounded oddly disappointed. "Isn't Miss Dellon working for you?"

  "Maybe you'd better tell me why you're asking all these questions," Dylan said. "And what you came here for. I'm sure it wasn't to pass the time of day."

  For heaven's sake, Dylan — lighten up! You re the one who always says how important it is to get along with the locals!

  Though she wanted to run after Sinah and see if she was all right, Truth didn't dare move and disrupt the delicate balance of the scene. The last thing any of them needed was to spend tonight in jail.

  "I came," Sergeant Wachman said heavily, "to see if one of you para-psychologists had enough witch blood in him to hoodoo me up some place to start on that Starking girl, 'cause this mountain's a big place, and she could lie where she is till she rots if we've got nothing to go on and a trail seventy-two hours cold." His face flushed red with embarrassment and anger.

  There was a stunned silence from the other four. Whatever any of them had expected from a county sheriff in rural West Virginia, it hadn't been something like this.

  "Well, for heaven's sake, Sergeant Wachman, you don't want Sinah for that," Rowan said matter-of-factly. "You want me." She looked pleased and relieved to have solved the problem so easily.

  Truth was almost sure Rowan's obliviousness was an act, and a good one. But with Wachman's attention fixed firmly on Rowan, Truth was finally able to get up and slip away.

  "Sinah, are you all right?"

  Sinah whirled around with a gasp when she saw her.

  "It's gone, Truth—it's all gone. I'm all alone!"

  There was little that Truth could do for her—though Sinah had apparently never wanted her power, she was understandably upset now that it had vanished. At least Truth was able to reassure Sinah that Sergeant Wachman's interest in her was professional, nothing more.

  "He just wants a psychic to help him look for Luned, that's all. I think Rowan's agreed to help him."

  "A psychic?" Sinah said blankly. "Like on TV?"

  "Everything all right in here?" Dylan asked, opening the door.

  "Just nerves," Sinah said quickly. "He wants a psychic?" she repeated, so Dylan could hear.

  "He's grasping at straws," Dylan said in a mild voice. "And it can hardly hurt for Rowan to try a little remote-location work for him with the map. If it works, fine. If it doesn't, he's no worse off than he is now."

  "Many police departments will consult psychics as a last resort," Truth

  said for Sinah s benefit. "It's a pity that the psychics usually aren't that reliable."

  "If the Institute gets its Central Registry program off the ground, that could change. It would be a place where people could not only find a referral to a professional psychic, but consult their track record as well," Dylan said, speaking to Sinah.

  "Sort of a Ghostbusters Blue Book," Sinah said with a wan smile. "Well, I don't deserve a listing in it."

  "But Rowan does." Dylan stepped inside and squeezed past them, opening one of the boxes full of odds and ends and rummaging through. "Truth, do you remember where we packed the test kit?"

  The camper rocked again as Rowan climbed in. "Hi. Sergeant Wach-man's gone to get a big topo map of the area for me to work off, so I thought I'd come get my music. I brought the Walkman in here—now where did I leave it?" Rowan began opening drawers and poking through them.

  Had Rowan spent last night here? A stunning flash of jealousy flared through Truth. How dare she? Truth turned to go, but there was someone else now in the camper's narrow doorway.

  "This looks like the stateroom from A Night At The Opera," Ninian said. "But since everyone else is here, I thought I'd come in, too. That guy worries me."

  "Oh, he's nice!" Rowan protested. "He's just a cop." She finally located the bright yellow Walkman and its headphones, and began untangling the cord. "And a cop's gotta do what a cop's gotta do."

  Ninian made a grumbling sound but said nothing else, slithering past the others to sit down in the driver's seat.

  "Now—where are the tapes? We crammed everything in here so fast last night when the storm hit—it was that or get washed away, and you should have seen the three of us here wondering if the Winnebago was going to be the next thing to go," Rowan rambled on obliviously.

  Truth felt the tension in her chest ease, and smiled sourly. It was a more reasonable explanation than the one she'd come up with—even if Dylan did want to cheat on her, he'd hardly do it with one of his student advisees.

  What w
as happening to her? Truth wondered worriedly. She wasn't acting—she was reacting—dancing like a puppet to some invisible pull on her strings.

  But who was the puppeteer?

  "Wups!—there he is! Gotta go," Rowan said, and bounced out the door again, both hands full.

  "Rowan!" Dylan shouted, too late to catch her. "Dammit, I can't find the kit!"

  "It's in here." Truth stooped and pulled out a built-in drawer under the couch in the back. "Remember? You put it there so you could find it easily." She dropped a small cardboard box into his hands.

  "Oh. Right." Dylan had the grace to look sheepish. He opened the box. The pendulum—a lathe-turned, brass plumb-bob on a length of heavy fishing line with a ring at the end—was right on top. He scooped it up. "Thanks, Tru."

  Truth smiled at the odd, light shortening of her name. When Dylan left the camper, Ninian followed him.

  "Do you want to lie down for a while, Sinah?" Truth said. "You can use the couch here; it's no trouble."

  "No," Sinah said, squaring her shoulders as if in defiance of her inner demons. "I'd like to watch. I've never seen a psychic work before."

  "Now, this might not work," Rowan was saying in a didactic voice.

  The small card table in front of the camper had been cleared, and the enormous topographical map that covered the local area was laid out.

  "I know it won't work," growled Wachman.

  "—because forensic psychometry is a specialized field, and since I don't know anything about police work, I could misinterpret what information I do get, or it could be too vague to do you any good. I might tell you to look by running water, for instance, and what good does something like that do you? But let's see what I get. Have you got a photo? Something she wears frequently?"

  "This is the best we've got. It's a couple of years old."

  Wachman was plainly impressed by Rowan's brisk matter-of-fact dismissal of her possible accuracy. He produced a picture; obviously a school photo. In it Luned stood, scrubbed and grave, wearing a yellow dress and staring fixedly into the camera. Rowan took the picture between her fingertips and laid it down on top of the map.

  "Okay." She took a deep breath, and Truth realized that for all her breezy demeanor. Rowan was nervous.

  "Got the pendulum? Oh, and somebody needs to mark the hits."

  "I've got a pencil," Dylan said, dropping the pendulum into her hand. Rowan's fingers closed over it as if it were a lifeline—but only for a moment. She began shaking out the line. When she had it unkinked, she lay it top of the map and reached for her headphones. She slipped on her earphones and settled the Walkman in her lap. There was a pile of tapes on the corner of the table.

  "What are you going to do?" Wachman asked, a little uneasily.

  "I'm going to rock," Rowan said absently, and pushed the button on her tape player. Instantly the driving sound of guitars could be heard seeping around her earphones as the music took up in midphrase. Ninian—out of Rowan's sight-line—winced, and Truth sympathized. How could anyone bear to listen to that stuff when it was as loud as that?

  Incredibly, Rowan turned it up even louder. Truth heard a howling that was probably the lead singer but sounded like the Wild Hunt in full flight. Despite the pounding rhythm, Rowan did not move to the music. Instead, she sat perfectly still, her left hand in her lap, and slipped the first finger of her right hand through the ring at the end of the pendulum's cord. She held her arm straight out above the map, so that the weight at the other end of the cord hung free directly over the center of the map.

  "Rowan and I work together frequently," Dylan told Wachman. He spoke in a normal voice; there was no way Rowan could possibly hear him over the hammering of the music. "She uses music to shut down outside stimulus and trigger an altered state. Every psychic practitioner has his or her own method; I'm afraid that parapsychology isn't a very exact science as yet."

  "And you think this is going to work," Wachman asked dubiously. Whatever he'd come to them expecting, this obviously wasn't it.

  "That depends on what you mean by work," Dylan said smoothly. "Rowan is certainly going to enter a trance. She may or may not be able to pinpoint some search locations on the map for you. And whether what she finds turns out to be accurate or not is something I can't tell you in advance."

  "Fair enough," Wachman said, mollified.

  The pendulum began to move almost immediately, at first swinging back and forth, and then settling into a circling motion familiar to Truth.

  "Hit it," Rowan said, when the pendulum stopped.

  Dylan made an X on the map and stepped back again. The pendulum began circling again almost at once.

  "And she isn't moving it?" The question this time came from Sinah. Dylan turned to her and smiled.

  "Of course she's moving it, but at a preconscious level, in response to stimuli uncensored by her conscious mind. At its most basic, the trance state is the splitting of the conscious and unconscious minds so that a dialogue can be enacted between them. Rowan's clairvoyant—what that means in essence is that she's receiving information outside of normal perceptual channels. Most people do, to some extent—what else is a hunch, after all, but acting on information you didn't know you had?— but either the clairvoyant receives more information, or has better access; we're not quite sure which."

  "You don't seem to know a heck of a lot, do you?" Wachman grumbled.

  "Maybe not," Dylan said agreeably. "But at least we know we don't know it."

  "Hit it," Rowan Moorcock said again.

  "Well, according to my calculations, you found the general store, the Starking house, and the old Dellon cabin—all places she's been before, but where we already know she isn't now. But these other two are worth checking out." He rolled up the map. "I'll just drive on up and see what kind of mischief Davey's gotten himself into. Thanks for your time—and the coffee."

  Wachman strode off purposefully to the green and white sedan still parked out in front of the general store and got in.

  "Did you get anything else?" Dylan asked Rowan quietly.

  Rowan was rubbing her temples, and it was one of the few times Truth had seen the girl looking anything less than ebullient.

  "Yes, Dylan. I didn't want to say anything, but—I think she's already dead. I think she's drowned."

  SIXTEEN

  GRAVE WORDS

  There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave — under the deep deep sea. Or in the wide desert where no life is found. — THOMAS HOOD

  "i can't bear the thought of just standing around here waiting," Sinah said with a shudder, as the others prepared to resume their daily tasks. "And I suppose I have a few phone calls to make—to my business manager, for one thing," she added reluctantly. "But maybe you could swing by in a few hours, Truth, and we could run down to the IGA in Pharaoh? I'm sort of stranded without the Jeep— Wycherly borrowed it, and he hasn't brought it back yet," she added for Dylan's benefit.

  "That will be fine—around three, then?" Truth was reluctant to let Sinah out of her sight, but what harm could it do, really? If Sinah meant to sacrifice herself to the Gate there was little Truth could do to stop her when it came right down to it.

  "Perfect. And why don't all four of you come to dinner tonight?" Sinah added. "It won't be fancy, but you can at least get your laundry done and take a few showers without rationing every drop."

  "That would be great," Dylan said. "I'm afraid my plans for today are

  to drive the camper to someplace called—I swear this is true—Bear Heaven, to get the tanks flushed and topped up. Having the camper's a damn sight better than sleeping on the ground, but for every advantage, there are equal and opposite drawbacks. That's Palmer's Law."

  "See you tonight then," Sinah said, smiling. She waved and started off up the road.

  "And where do you suppose Wycherly Musgrave is?" Dylan asked Truth, when Sinah was out of earshot and Rowan and Ninian had left for their check-sites. I
t was the closest thing to a civil conversation they'd had in days, and Truth was absurdly grateful for it.

  "Probably back in Long Island by now—that is, if he hasn't wrapped Sinah's car around a tree somewhere. Three guesses who the wrecked Ferrari over there in the junkyard belongs to," Truth said absently.

  Dylan glanced briefly in that direction, where a flash of the car's blood-red paint job was still visible among the rusted wreckage of older cars.

  "And what are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, leaning back against the side of the camper.

  "Well, I was going to write up my notes, but if you're going to be driving my office ..." Truth said, striving for a light tone.

  "You could come with me."

  Once she would have accepted such an offer without question; now, recent events made her wary, searching the innocent statement for hidden traps and tests. She sighed.

  "Dylan, we need to talk," Truth said.

  "I know," Dylan said. He sat down at the table. Truth followed suit, bracing herself to be honest—and to accept honesty in return.

  "Lately it seems as if we've been going off half-cocked in opposite directions. Why didn't you tell me you were going up to the sanatorium this morning?" she asked.

  Dylan considered the question, giving it full weight before he spoke.

  "Frankly, I didn't want ... I don't know what I didn't want. But the way you've been acting since you got here . . . well, it isn't like you, Truth."

  "I'm afraid it is like me," Truth said soberly. "People change, Dylan. Mostly in their teens and early twenties, of course, when everything else

  is changing so much that it just sort of fits in. But I guess I'm sort of a case of arrested development, Dyl. I held the line against everything for so long that when I gave up doing it I guess I changed more than either of us was expecting."

  "Maybe you did. But I love you, darling, no matter what crack-brained notions you have. I just don't want to see you hurt. You're so reckless. ..." Dylan said, his voice trailing off as he envisioned the scope of Truth's recklessness.

  His expression made her laugh. "Me? Oh, no, Dylan; if you want recklessness, take Rowan! I swear it made my blood run cold to listen to her offer to tweak the tail of that psychic locus just to hear it squeak. I know what I'm doing, Dylan, even if it doesn't look like it. I'm as careful as I can be."