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 not 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, blink
ing against the glare of the sun. All she could make out was the silhouette of a tall figure. I 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 blue 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 …
“Dr. Luty’s specialty is psychopharmacology, as related to post-traumatic-stress-related disorders,” Dr. Atheling said. “He’s designed a number of quite successful drug therapies. His patients have … minimal dysfunction.”
Post-traumatic stress. The aftermath of kidnapping, rape, or other violence. “But that wasn’t Winter’s problem,” Truth said. “How could he be treating her?”
“I believe the family arranged it,” Dr. Atheling said blandly. He slanted a glance sideways at Truth and his amber eyes glowed in the sunlight. “And certainly Dr. Luty’s treatment can have a … calming effect on certain forms of stress.”
What you mean is, Dr. Luty drugged her nearly insensible! Truth mused furiously.
“Now, let me ask you a question,” Dr. Atheling continued. “Why did Winter seek out the Bidney Institute after she left Fall River?”
Truth hesitated, wondering how much she should tell this man who seemed to fit in so oddly with everything else she’d seen of Fall River. “Poltergeists,” she finally said. She might as well tell him the truth, after all; she could hardly damage her reputation—or Winter’s—further, at least in the eyes of Fall River.
“A classic presentation, wouldn’t you say?” Dr. Atheling said.
Truth looked at him sharply. Her eye was drawn once more to the bright azure spark of the scarab Dr. Atheling wore about his neck. Almost instinctively she shifted her sight to see him, not as this world saw him, but as he appeared in the Otherworld.
Blinding white light; a rigorous discipline refined down through centuries; of life after life dedicated to the Great Work …
Truth recoiled, involuntarily flinging up a hand to shield herself. Dr. Atheling was an Adept; a follower of the Right Hand Path, but unlike any such Adept she had met before. At the same moment, she saw him quickly sketch a symbol in the air; meant for defense against the Darkness and the Great Unmaking, it barely touched her.
“So,” Dr. Atheling said. “It’s true. There are … others.”
He studied her intently, as if trying to solve a riddle that Truth knew to be unsolvable. Not Black, not White, but … Gray. “What is your interest in this matter?” he added pointedly. His manner was no more hostile than it had been a moment before, but there was a stern watchfulness present now, as of a warrior awaiting the summons to battle once more.
“Winter Musgrave came to the Bidney Institute for help,” Truth said honestly, dismissing her personal curiosity for the moment. “If you’ve heard of us, you’ll know that we receive many requests for help each year from people who are certain they are haunted … or possessed.”
Dr. Atheling gazed at her intently for another frozen moment, then seemed to come to a decision. He relaxed, and smiled at her again with genuine warmth.
“And which did you find Winter to be?” he asked.
“Neither,” Truth said, accepting the tacit apology for what it was. “As you say, what our initial interview revealed was almost a classic presentation of adult-onset poltergeist phenomena.”
“Something that Dr. Luty, alas, could not bring himself to accept,” Dr. Atheling admitted. “He felt that drug therapy and the talking cure would answer—but alas, they did not.”
“The talking cure”—that quaintly old-fashioned phrase coined by the father of psychiatry to describe the science he had invented. But it had long since fallen into disuse, and no one now living could have studied with Sigmund Freud in the Vienna of the 1880s.
Could they?
“Was Winter comfortable here?” Truth asked, shifting her ground and probing for more information.
“For a while—at least, as much so as was possible to one so harshly medicated; I am afraid my colleagues consider me a bit of a naturopath, but I do not hold with the use of drugs save in extremis. But you have not come all this way to hear my views upon the proper treatment of the afflicted, but to hear about Winter.” He seemed to gather his thoughts, and when he spoke again his voice had taken on a certain formal timbre, as if he were providing Truth a carefully edited report of events.
“Taken in all, Winter spent nearly sixteen months here. I was—away—on a case of my own when she arrived, but I inquired into the matter once I returned and saw that … a case falling within the bounds of my particular interests had been admitted while I was away. Unfortunately, there were reasons I was unable to obtain direct supervision of her care; however, Dr. Luty was reasonably forthcoming. He gave me to understand that Winter was very agitated when she came in—delusional, in fact. He told me that at first she’d even insisted that she’d been in a motorcycle accident. But of course Winter has never even owned a motorcycle, and there had been no accident.”
“Are you sure?” Truth could not help but ask.
Dr. Atheling smiled, and this time there was a certain bitterness in it. “You will understand that Dr. Luty was careful to check for himself. It is not always advisable to entirely endorse the family’s interpretation of the events in a guest’s life.”
Truth’s opinion of Fall River rose slightly. Not the sort of rubber-stamp place where the inconvenient children of the rich were cached—at least not entirely.
“Her family admitted her?” Truth tried to remember if Winter had said anything about a family—but no, Winter had spoken only of her recent past.
“She admitted herself upon the advice of her
family. If she had not, it would have been impossible for her to leave in the manner that she did.” Dr. Atheling’s neutral tones conveyed nothing of the struggle that must have underlain Winter’s unorthodox departure from Fall River.
Sixteen months … “So Winter was admitted because of … stress. And then she left again,” Truth said, half questioning.
“Yes—as soon as she realized that her afflictions had their origins in external objective reality, and as soon as she was able. Even so, she was far from well, and in other circumstances I would not have been in favor of it. But as I’ve said, Winter was not my patient, and though I could advise, I could not interfere in Dr. Luty’s handling of the case,” Dr. Atheling said somberly.
They reached a gently weathered wooden bench placed at the side of one of the brick paths, and Dr. Atheling indicated that she should sit. Intrigued, Truth did as he wished, smoothing her narrow skirt over her knees. The wood of the bench was warm against her back, and some of Truth’s misgiving faded, lulled by the beauty of the place.
“But you must tell me what you have discovered as well,” Dr. Atheling said, seating himself at the opposite end of the bench.
Even with this opportunity to study him closely and in bright sunlight, Truth found it hard to gauge either his age or his ethnicity. It was impossible, however, to mistake him for anything but a trained Adept now that her senses had been awakened to the power he wielded, and Truth hoped their paths would not lead to confrontation. Dr. Atheling would be a formidable opponent.
“About a month ago, Winter Musgrave came to the Institute seeking … assistance,” Truth said, choosing her words carefully. “Dr. Palmer and I were available, so we were the ones who interviewed her. You will understand that the Institute receives a number of requests each year for … a type of help it is not equipped to provide.”
“Admirably and tactfully put,” Dr. Atheling said with a faint ghost of mockery in his voice. “And what did the Institute discover?”
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