by Clea Simon
‘That’s good, I guess. You must have walked a lot.’ He shrugged, and she felt the weight of the evening on her. ‘Look, it’s been a long night. I left you a message. You should – you should just listen to it.’ It was all she could do to push herself out of her seat. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t.’ The single word stopped her. She turned. Chris was back in the fridge, this time pawing open an old Chinese food container. It didn’t matter. Dulcie knew that voice. ‘Mr Grey?’ She whispered, although she couldn’t have said why.
‘Don’t leave,’ the voice continued, and as she turned again toward her boyfriend, she realized that the quiet command had been for her ears only. ‘Chris …’
‘Got it,’ she whispered to the air. ‘Chris?’
He turned, mouth full.
‘Can we talk?’
He nodded and came over, that leftover Chinese container in his hands.
‘Chris, I don’t know when that’s from.’ Dulcie shook her head.
‘It smells fine.’ He stuck his face between the cardboard wings as if to demonstrate. ‘If that’s what you were worried about …’
‘No.’ She sat and reached for his hand, forcing him to put the container on the table and revealing those long, deep scratches. ‘You still don’t remember how you got these?’
‘Oh, this?’ He seemed to be seeing it for the first time. ‘I don’t know. That must have been when Esmé went for me. I told you she was acting weird, right?’
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie remained sceptical. Since her boyfriend had come in, she hadn’t seen the cat. ‘Chris, what’s going on?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I went for a walk, I guess. And I forgot my phone. Why?’
‘You were feeling awful when I left for the party. You looked pale and I swear you had a fever. I go out for a few hours, and you suddenly recover? Chris, I called you over an hour ago, and you didn’t pick up. You must have been out all this time. It’s cold out. It’s the middle of the night. And you’re acting like you just got back from a run or something.’ She paused to look at him. It wasn’t just the cold that had made his cheeks red, she decided. In the moonlight that streamed in the window, she could see that his cheeks were still flushed. The high color hadn’t faded in the warmth of their kitchen, nor had the unnatural gleam of his eyes that reflected that bright blue-white light. And something he had just said … ‘Wait, Chris, why did you say, “I went for a walk, I guess?”’
Like a cloud across the moon, a spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face. Finally he stopped eating. Even the light seemed to dim, as the two sat in the kitchen. Dulcie reached to take that bloodied hand. It didn’t look infected. ‘Chris? What is it?’
‘I don’t know, Dulce. It’s the weirdest thing.’ The color that had seemed so unnatural was receding now. ‘I mean, I must have been out walking for hours. I feel so drained. But all I can remember is coming up our street maybe ten minutes ago. I have no recollection of how I got there – or where I’ve been.’
TWENTY-FIVE
This, she was sure, was what Mr Grey had wanted her to hear. When Chris’s unnatural – Dulcie immediately labeled it ‘feverish’ – energy had abated, she hustled him off to bed, running off only to get a thermometer.
‘But …’ he started to protest.
‘Mouth shut,’ she said. Sitting on the bed, she stared down at him, as if the force of her eyes could keep him still. When Esmé landed, with a soft thud, behind her, and made her way up to Chris’s pillow, she felt a little easier. The cat looked as concerned as she was. And although Chris hid his hands under the blanket, the little creature seemed quite calm.
While she waited, Dulcie pondered what to tell her boyfriend. He’d hear about it all eventually, but if he was sick, she thought, maybe she should let him rest. It wasn’t like he could do anything for poor Marco Tesla anyway.
‘Wait for the beep,’ she cautioned, then went ahead anyway. ‘But then, I want to know, did you find anything on Stella Roebuck’s computer? I mean, anything that would explain what happened?’
That he could talk about, she figured, without undue excitation.
‘Yah,’ he started, and she put her fingers on his mouth. As if to distract them both, Esmé extended one hind leg, drumstick style, and started washing. Maybe it was the crowd on the bed or the slant of the pillow, but she promptly fell over, provoking a smile from Dulcie.
‘Esmé,’ she said. ‘You haven’t done that since you were a kitten.’
The thermometer beeped then, and Dulcie checked. ‘No, you’re healthy.’ She paused to re-evaluate. ‘At least, you don’t have a temperature.’
‘I’m telling you, I feel great,’ Chris said. ‘Tired, that’s all. Maybe it was some kind of fast-moving virus.’
‘Speaking of viruses –’ Dulcie lay down, stroking the kitten who now curled up between them – ‘Stella Roebuck’s computer?’
He shook his head, which must have been why Esmé looked up at him. ‘Nothing. There was nothing left.’
‘Was it a virus?’ Even Esmé wanted to know.
‘No. If it had been, I’d have been able to find parts of it, most likely. The way most viruses work …’
Dulcie let him talk, even though she didn’t understand half of what he was saying. After the strange eating frenzy, he was himself again. He was even using his hands to explain, unfazed by his wounds, and while Esmé was looking up at his long fingers, she was, for now, resisting the urge to attack again.
‘Someone must have been really angry at her,’ he concluded, and Dulcie realized she’d missed something.
‘Angry?’ From Chris’s smile, she knew she’d been caught out.
‘Sorry, sweetie. I tend to go on about this stuff, I know.’ He put his hands on top of the coverlet, and Esmé curled up again, tucking her pink nose into her long black tail. ‘Basically, I don’t think it was malware. It really looks like someone got on to her computer and systematically erased whatever was there. I mean, every copy, from everywhere.’ He paused, and when he started speaking again, there was a note of admiration in his voice. ‘It’s quite hard to do, actually.’
‘Would it have taken long?’ Dulcie tried to remember how long Stella’s laptop had been unattended.
‘A little while.’ Chris considered the question. ‘Some of it would depend on whether you knew what the file was called, and if you knew her system. Why, who was there when it went missing? Kelly didn’t want to say.’
Dulcie nodded. ‘Stella Roebuck was making all kinds of accusations.’ She thought back to the afternoon. ‘Paul Barnes – he’s one of the visiting bigwigs and, I guess, her old boyfriend – was there briefly. And, well, Renée Showalter was in the area, too.’ Chris knew of Dulcie’s connections with the Canadian. ‘But she wouldn’t …’ Her voice trailed off, as another idea hit her.
‘Chris, you don’t think Kelly somehow … you know, by accident? When she was hooking Roebuck up to the audio-visual stuff?’
‘No.’ He was shaking his head. ‘This wasn’t an accident. And she said the paper had been there when she left the hotel, so it had to have happened at the Science Center. Wasn’t there anyone else there this afternoon?’
‘Marco Tesla,’ she said. ‘But he was …’
‘Her boyfriend?’ Chris emphasized the word. ‘I think we have our answer. Kelly said Roebuck was talking to that other guy, Barnes. Maybe Tesla got jealous. Maybe she was planning on dumping him. Maybe he wanted to sabotage her so she’d have to stay with him.’
He paused, watching Dulcie’s face. ‘It’s your fault, Dulcie,’ he said, his voice growing more gentle. ‘You’ve been telling me about these Gothic novels for so long, can you blame me if I see some kind of convoluted plot here? A romance gone bad, or something?’
‘It’s not that, Chris.’ She lay back on the pillow. Esmé’s fur was soft against her cheek, and she closed her eyes. The night outside was dark again, the bright moon still firmly covered by the clouds. If she could just close her
eyes and go to sleep, she could believe that everything was fine. For just a little while. Just until morning.
‘Dulcie?’ Her boyfriend’s voice was quiet, but questioning. ‘What’s going on, sweetie?’
‘Oh, Chris.’ Dulcie felt her eyes filling with tears. The night had just been too long. ‘I didn’t want to tell you until the morning. There’s been a horrible accident. At least, it must have been an accident. Marco Tesla is dead.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘And the conference is still going to happen?’ Of all the questions Chris had for Dulcie, this was the one that most stumped her. Her best intentions of letting him sleep – and keeping the night’s tragedy to herself until morning – had been blown sky high by her bombshell revelation. He had sat up at that point, provoking a squeak of dismay from the cat, and Dulcie had finally revealed all, from Thorpe’s unfortunate inebriation to the tragic discovery of Marco Tesla.
‘I don’t know, Chris.’ Dulcie shook her head. She’d tucked her feet under her by then, and was leaning against the wall. Esmé had settled back down, tucking her nose under her tail, and with both of them beside her it should have been quite cozy. If only they hadn’t been discussing the death of a fellow human being – and the possible disruption of what should have been the crowning achievement thus far of Dulcie’s academic career. ‘I don’t really see how they can cancel it.’
She could tell he was about to say something, when she continued. ‘It’s not my paper. Really, Chris.’ It wasn’t, although she knew she would be sad if her presentation were to be canceled. ‘I’ll get it published. But just think of all the people who have traveled here. Poor Thorpe.’ It might sound like a non sequitur, but she knew Chris would understand. ‘He’s going to be such a mess tomorrow.’
‘Dulcie, can I do anything to help?’ Her boyfriend reached around her. It was awkward to snuggle with Esmé between them, but it was possible. ‘Not Thorpe, I mean. For you?’
‘I think you already have.’ She leaned into him. ‘Just to be able to tell you about all this. I hope you don’t have bad dreams, now.’
‘Don’t worry about it, sweetie,’ he said, nuzzling the top of her head, before lying down again. ‘I’m glad you shared.’
‘And no matter what,’ she mused, lying beside him. As she began to drift off to sleep a happy thought had hit her. ‘I know it’s awful,’ she said to her boyfriend. ‘But it hasn’t been a total loss. I mean, because of the conference, I may end up working with Professor Barnes.’
‘What?’ The speed with which Chris sat up again almost sent Dulcie toppling off the bed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Paul Barnes.’ Dulcie turned to face her boyfriend. ‘From San Francisco?’
‘No,’ said Chris, shaking his head.
‘You know, the author of So Many Cities, So Many Hills?’
‘No, Dulcie – wait.’ He raised a hand to stop her before she listed more credits. ‘It’s not what he’s written that I’m interested in.’
‘That’s the point.’ Dulcie rushed in to explain. ‘I know he hasn’t published in a while. But he’s working on something now. He told me! And Chris, he said he wants me to work with him.’
‘You can’t.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Dulcie, stop. Listen to me.’
‘No, I can, Chris. I know I can.’ She was fully awake now. ‘I know I have to finish my thesis – and I will. But this paper is basically done, and working with Barnes would be huge. I mean, I might have to spend some time out in San Francisco. But, well, maybe he’ll end up getting the job here.’
‘Dulcie!’ Chris rarely raised his voice. He did now, and even Esmé seemed to be paying attention. ‘You’re not listening. You can’t work with Paul Barnes. Not because of whatever it is that he’s written or not written, or whatever. Not because he’s in San Francisco.
‘Dulcie, you can’t work with Paul Barnes because he’s a suspect. Paul Barnes may have murdered someone at your conference.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
She knew not at first what had awakened her, whether ’twas the storm that split the night, with Lightning that Sear’d its ragged Fissures through the clouds, or the roar of Thunder, rolling o’er the Storm-toss’d clouds. Then she heard Them, their Hellish voices riven by demonic rage. The howls, the howls of the damned, rising up to meet those white-hot shards of fury. ’Twas those that called her forth from her bed. The very shriek of the damned, cast in hellhound form, baying for their Mistress, the Moon, hidden as she was by the storm. Almost, from her window, she could see them, sense their glowing Eyes, red like the infernal flames that tormented and drove them. Almost, she was sure, she could plot their bloody steps as they tore through the forest below, scrambling up rock and river bank, stretching out upon the roadway below. Panting as their claws dug into living Rock and driven by the twin demons of their damnation – appetite and despair – as they made their last desperate push upward. They were coming, she could sense, for her only treasure – for her very life, and for that of her Child, innocent as Spring, who lay peaceful in Slumber, still, upon the unmade bed.
Dulcie woke with a start that caused Esmé, still sleeping beside her, to mew in protest. Extricating herself from the sheets, and Chris’s arm, she slipped out of bed and walked to the kitchen. The howls, what was it with the howls? The dream, she understood. It had been a harrowing night, and while telling Chris about it may have made it possible for her to fall asleep, what she had seen was bound to haunt her. His suspicions about Paul Barnes had shaken her further, and that diner coffee hadn’t helped either, she realized, swallowing the acid taste that had filled her mouth. Something soothing. Warm milk, or maybe cocoa, was in order.
Moving as quietly as she could, she put the kettle on. Instant hot chocolate was easy, and as she pulled the box from the cabinet, she heard soft footsteps approaching her.
‘What do you most fear, little one?’ The voice was as calming as any warm drink would be, but Dulcie retrieved the envelope anyway. Too often, if she turned to see Mr Grey, even his voice would disappear.
‘Thanks for coming, Mr Grey.’ She poured the powder into a mug, just as a formality. A low purr greeted her, but at the same time she felt the slight rake of claws across her bare feet. She’d been asked a question. ‘I guess I’m afraid of a couple of things.’ While the water boiled, she tried to articulate her feelings. ‘Okay, this sounds bad, and I know it, but I’m afraid that Tesla’s death is going to ruin everything.’ Another scrape, harder this time. ‘Hurt the conference,’ she explained. ‘Or, no, hurt someone I care about.’ She paused to consider her own words. ‘I don’t think that Renée Showalter can really be involved, but, well, she was there. And Paul Barnes, was too. And I – well, I really want the chance to work with him.’ She paused, hearing how selfish her words sounded. ‘It’s not just that, Mr Grey. He’s kind of a hero to me.’ No, that wasn’t it either. ‘I like him.’
She dug a spoon out of the drawer and idly stirred the powdered cocoa. ‘I guess I’m afraid that this will be more than just a horrible accident, and that it will bring down the people I care about.’
A low rumble with a distinctly questioning tone seemed to fill the kitchen.
‘Even Thorpe,’ she answered it. ‘I know he’s a pain, but he means well.’
The purr came back, and with it, a sense of peace. ‘He has Tigger now, though, right? Won’t Tigger look after him?’
The purr grew, but Dulcie wasn’t entirely satisfied. Even after all this time with Mr Grey, she had no idea how these ghostly visitations worked. ‘Well, I hope he will,’ she concluded. The kettle had started to whistle, and she grabbed it. The generous part of her wanted not to disturb Chris. The selfish side wanted Mr Grey to herself.
‘Now, now, little one.’ The purr was gone, and Dulcie felt a stab of guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grey.’ She stared down into her cup. The steam was rising in lazy curls, each turn looking just a bit like a graceful tail. ‘I know you love him, too. I know you’re bi
g enough for us both.’ The silence that followed made her afraid she had lost him, and she felt the tears start to gather. ‘I just wanted you all to myself, like the old days.’
Nothing, and as she swallowed, she felt a tear fall on to her hand. Then she felt it, the brush of fur. A cat – a larger one than Esmé – was twining around her ankles. A wet nose brushed her calf, and whiskers tickled her knee. She wanted, more than anything, to reach down and pick up the friend she knew was not there, and as she felt him circle again, she gave in. Closing her eyes, lest she dispel the magic, she reached for him. His long fur, silkier than Esmé’s, rubbed against her cheek as she buried her face where his ruff would be. His scent, like baby powder, overwhelmed the aroma of the hot chocolate, and she let the tears flow.
‘I didn’t think it would be this hard, Mr Grey,’ she said, her words barely audible as she buried her face in his unseen fur.
‘Mrrup?’ Cat-like, the question seemed to hold multiple possibilities.
‘My thesis. The conference.’ She drew in a breath. ‘Living with Chris. Everything.’
Rather than explain it all, she let the memories go through her. Living with someone who was out every night had been bad enough. Now that he was around more, she found she missed her solitary time. ‘I almost feel like I knew him better when he wasn’t around,’ she said to her one-time pet. ‘Like, these last few days, I’ve seen him a lot, but he’s different somehow.’
‘Mrrrr …’ The purr started up again, soothing the raw feelings she had just exposed. ‘Seeing is not everything, is it, little one?’
She had to smile as she shook her head. ‘No, Mr Grey. I’ve learned that.’
‘What –’ the voice grew lower and, Dulcie felt, more serious – ‘do you fear?’
‘I wish I—’ She stopped herself. Something in his voice, or the way the small body seemed to tense in her arms, had warned her. This was not a question to answer lightly. She had to think.
Maybe she was worried about him? His strange sickness – even his sudden recovery seemed unusual and unlike the man she loved. Then there were his hands, the bloody lines that ran from the back of his fingers up past his wrists. Even if they had come from Esmé, the little cat would not have attacked him unprovoked, would she? As Dulcie thought it through, a dozen other memories came flooding in. The undergraduates, talking in the café. Kelly’s tale of the unlatched door to the Science Center – and the damaged lock. Her nightmare. The howls she had heard, out in the moonlight. Those howls that she had heard before, also at the time of the full moon.