Grey Zone (3 page)

Not until stars appeared in front of her eyes did she realize she was holding her breath.

‘None of us ever wants to finish our theses. It's scary out there, academia being in the state it is. Not everyone is fit for it.' He sat back, resting those long sweaty hands on the arms of the black enamel chair. ‘That's why the department has instituted this system of reports every semester. I know some of you grumble, but it isn't only about resources. It's for the students' benefit as well as the department's. Not everyone is cut out for a doctorate.'

‘Wait, you think I don't really want to get my degree?' She heard her voice rising, the tension building in her throat. ‘You think I'm going off on tangents to avoid finishing my thesis?'

Chelowski shrugged. ‘You're probably familiar with the statistics. As a grad student, you can stay enrolled for up to seven years, as long as the department sees progress. But, as your thesis adviser, I'd be lax in my duty if I permitted that kind of malingering.'

She couldn't believe it. He thought she was off on a tangent. No, worse.
Malingering
. She didn't even know how she managed to be civil, stuttering out a promise to ‘get back to work' as she fled the room. Flame-cheeked, she clattered down the stairs and out the front door without even stopping to chat with Nancy. That little clapboard house had once been her shelter. Her safe place. But now it had a bigger shadow on it than any new building could cast. Now it had Norm Chelowski.

What a waste of time. Her shock turned to anger as she stomped down the street. Not writing. Not
wanting
to write. Dulcie found herself digging up her store of Shakespearian insults as she walked, her collar up against an increasingly fierce wind. She couldn't wait to tell Suze. Suze would understand – the next time she saw her. Or Chris. But, no, hadn't Chris said something similar, only a few hours before?

Twice thwarted, and with her academic rigor impugned to boot, Dulcie decided she deserved some comfort. And since she'd already had lunch that meant the library.

Truth was, she probably should have been there already. Reading and rereading in the hope of tracking down one more piece by her mysterious author. One more clue. Instead, she'd wasted it with that useless Norm Chelowski. And, she had to admit, thinking about that strangely disturbing nightmare.

What had that dream meant? What had the woman been writing, and what had those green eyes been trying to tell her? In front of her, a light turned just as bright, and Dulcie crossed. Oblivious to the cab that screeched to a halt, honking furiously, Dulcie found herself thinking of that final luminous vision – and of the kitten's new habit of biting her in play. Esmé didn't really hurt her when she nipped. The rough wool of Dulcie's mittens scratched almost as much against her skin as the kitten's tiny teeth. Still, it bothered her that the kitten was so aggressive. The tiny black and white puffball she'd adopted only a few months before was already looking like a cat, rangy and long. Mr Grey had come into her life as an adult cat, and he'd never been anything but gentle.

Mr Grey. Dulcie paused on the sidewalk, and it wasn't just the delayed effect of that disastrous meeting or the raw March wind that brought tears to her eyes. Mr Grey had been the cat of her heart, her devoted companion for years until his death the previous spring. No wonder the season's slow change, the barely perceptible shift from deep winter freeze to March slush, hadn't brought its usual thrill. This May would be the anniversary. One year would have passed without the large gray longhair she had loved with all her heart. Mr Grey would have listened. He'd have comforted her after a meeting like the one she'd just had. And he would never,
never
have nipped her hand.

‘Mr Grey, can you help me?' Dulcie kept her voice low, a little self conscious as she began walking again, slipping past the red-brick gate of Harvard Yard. ‘I don't know what's going on any more. Am I totally off track with my thesis? And, well, should I be training the kitten somehow?'

The wind whistled, burning her ears. But no feline voice followed. She wasn't surprised, not really. Maybe because she'd been so busy, what with classes and her thesis, the new kitten and Chris, but she barely heard from Mr Grey any more. Sometimes, she lost faith that she ever had, wondering instead if those times when her late cat had seemed to come to her had been born out of her neediness, her sadness and grief. Sometimes, she knew, she kept herself busy, too afraid to call on her spectral companion for fear he would not respond.

More reason to get to work, she reminded herself, putting her head down as a particularly nasty gust threw dust and gravel in her face. A large man, made larger by an oversized blue parka, powered by.

‘Watch it!' Dulcie stumbled off the path. ‘Hey!' She called after the large man, but he was nearly to the gate and oblivious to the fact that he'd shoved one short grad student into the semi-frozen mud. ‘Ah well, it's almost spring, right?' She stepped back on to the path and held up one boot to see how much mud she'd managed to collect. As she did, a movement caught her eye. A fat gray squirrel, its coat thick for the winter cold, stood frozen. The rude stranger must have disturbed them both.

‘Sorry little fellow.' The little nose twitched, and Dulcie felt her mood lifting. Something about those sharp dark eyes, the gray fur . . . ‘
Mr Grey
?' The squirrel flicked its tail. ‘Is that you?' Dulcie's voice sank to a whisper. ‘Oh, Mr Grey, there's been so much going on. The kitten, my thesis . . .'

But just then, two more blue parkas jostled by, deep in conversation, and the spell broke. With a leap, the small, fat creature took off, bounding over the patchy snow like his cousin, the rabbit. Dulcie's eyes followed his flicking tail as he raced toward another path and passed just behind another lone walker. A woman, if the long dark curls cascading from beneath the knit cap were any indication. Slight, almost invisible inside her olive wool cape, she was hurrying from the Poche Building. Head bent into the wind, body folded forward, she seemed to be having even more trouble with the weather than Dulcie had.

‘At least I'm not the only one,' Dulcie murmured to herself. Beyond the walker, the squirrel had stopped. Visible against the black mud, the little gray beast sat up and flicked his tail again. And then, with one giant leap, he was gone.

THREE

T
hree hours later, Dulcie felt like singing – and quickly bit her lip. Widener might seem half empty, but she'd been a tenant of the giant library long enough to know that in its depths other scholars were hard at work. Even though she now had her own reserved carrel, down three levels and tucked into a corner between Elizabethan and Jacobean plays, she sensed the more contemporary drama going on all around in the hushed mutterings, the deep sighs, and the occasional hurried footsteps. March meant midterms for most of the nearly two thousand undergrads at the university – and a flurry of deadlines and postgrad exams for everyone else. But amidst all the craziness, her equilibrium had been restored. Tapping a particularly toothsome passage in the leather-bound volume on her lap, Dulcie knew she was on the right track. This was the stuff: the author of the
Ravages
was a thinker. A strong woman, and an early feminist of the caliber of Mary Wollstonecraft.

Those critics who, like noisome beasts, would bind us with their fancies. Would drag us down—

An author this passionate did not simply stop writing.

—into their lairs, imprison'd and unprepar'd for that which life would grant us.

Unsigned, unattributed, but so distinctive, this essay had to be from the author of
The Ravages.
But this was the last. Dulcie had searched through all the periodicals, reaching beyond London to the smaller, regional presses, and found nothing. No more essays, no letters or stories. That, to Dulcie, meant the author had disappeared. If anything, her recent experience with what might be deemed supernatural – or, yes, deadly – only made her more convinced that such things happened, even in educated society. If Chelowski – or Chris – didn't buy it, she'd simply have to work harder to find proof. But she would. She was Dulcinea Schwartz, after all. That had to stand for something.

The basement carrel might not be quite the same as a mountain aerie. Might, in fact, be pretty much the opposite, but there were similarities. She could hole up to defend her thesis – if not herself – without fear. Unlike those of poor beleaguered Hermetria, the only spirits left in Dulcie's fortified keep were benign.

Had Hermetria ever gotten lonely? Dulcie looked up from the very large page of very small type to stare at the metal bookshelf above her. One of the basic tenets of her thesis was that Hermetria, an impoverished noblewoman, had been a strong and independent figure, a ‘modern woman' stuck in a stereotypical dilemma. Her only companion, the treacherous Demetria, represented all that was hackneyed about the over-the-top tales of the time.

Dulcie was lucky not to have that kind of living arrangement. She and Suze had been room-mates since sophomore year and, with the exception of one bad summer sublet, had always managed to keep a peaceful home. But in the past few months, Suze – a third-year law student – had been around less and less. Both of the roomies had spent the semester break with their boyfriends: Dulcie going down to the Jersey Shore to stay with Chris's mom, and Suze driving cross-country with Ariano. Since then, Chris and Dulcie had sunk back into their old routine – too much so for Dulcie. Computer geeks – applied math majors – tended to be nocturnal, and with Chris grabbing as many help-desk shifts as he could, he probably saw more of his geek buddy Jerry than he did of her. Once the Sox season started in earnest that would certainly be the case. Plus, Chris had started one-on-one tutoring this spring with a handful of undergrads. All of which left more time for Dulcie to work, doing the reading that might help her track down her elusive subject. But it also meant more time alone. And while Esmé, her kitten, was as playful a companion as she could hope for, the little tuxedo cat just wasn't the conversationalist that Suze was. Or Chris. Or, for that matter, Mr Grey.

Mr Grey . . . Thoughts of the elegant cat who had been such a wonderful companion flooded her, and Dulcie let the thick volume sink back to the carrel surface. The resulting thud earned her a nasty look from a pasty undergrad who had been passing, and Dulcie made a face at his back.

It was time for a break. With a sigh, she closed her laptop and shoved it into her bag. The long yellow legal pad that Suze had given her went next, and for a moment Dulcie considered the bound volume.
The Woman Question: 1785–1792, Vol. 1
had other essays besides the one she had just reread. If Chris was working again, she might be able to get back into it tonight. Yes, she'd check the book out. And she'd make some time to play with the kitten. After all, she reasoned, as she threw her bag over her shoulder, a girl deserves some fun.

Especially after a full day's work. March wasn't spring, not in New England, and Dulcie emerged from the library to a chill Cambridge dusk. Blinking to accustom herself to the low light, she stood at the back entrance of Widener, bracing herself for the bone-chilling walk home.

‘You OK, miss?' Despite several years of nodding hellos, neither she nor the portly security guard knew each other's names.

‘I'm fine, thanks.' She turned and smiled, and then stepped out into the cold. A blast coming in from Mass. Ave. made her cringe. Wrapping her long, multicolored scarf, one of her mother's knitting projects, around the lower part of her face and pulling her wool hat over her brassy curls, she started off along the inside of the Yard. Gates every dozen feet or so pierced the brick enclosure of the college green, but for those blessed few moments between, she'd be shielded from that biting March wind.

‘In like a lion, indeed,' Dulcie mused out loud. ‘But shouldn't a cat have more grace?'

Some people, she noticed, didn't seem to mind the weather. As she passed one of the prettier openings, an arched brick walkway, she saw a couple leaning together in a romantic moment. He was tall and looked as slim as Chris in profile, despite his winter wear. She was shorter and seemed to be talking intently as he bent toward her. The hanging lantern cast a golden glow over them, and Dulcie paused, just for a moment, to bask in their shared warmth.

‘No!' Suddenly, the scene changed. The woman had raised her voice and was gesturing with her hands. The man had stepped back – into the shadow of the arch. ‘You can't! I won't let you!'

Dulcie stood frozen. Was this a private argument, or something more serious? Like every other woman on campus, she'd seen the fliers warning about a recent spate of attacks. The crimes had all been minor and relatively odd – several women had entered university cloakrooms to find their coats slashed. Two undergrads had been pelted with mud from an overhead walkway. The most serious had involved some shoving in the dark, during a screening of a historical film. That had resulted in a fall and a sprained ankle. The Harvard Harasser, some wag had named the perpetrator – or perpetrators – and nobody took it too seriously. But if Dulcie was witnessing one of those attacks . . .

‘Hey!' She stepped forward, pulling herself up to her full five foot four. She tasted wool and realized her scarf must have muffled her words. ‘Hey, you.' She reached up to pull the offending outerwear from her lips. ‘Stop it!'

Scarf or no, Dulcie didn't know if her voice even carried over the wind, but the motion must have caught the woman's eyes. Pushing the man back, both hands on his chest, she turned. Dulcie had a clear view of a dark-haired young woman with full arching eyebrows over her wide set and frankly terrified eyes. For a moment, Dulcie paused – she knew this woman, although she couldn't quite place her – and then started forward, ready to help. Only, at that moment, the combination of the wind, the unwinding muffler, and the weight of the books inside pulled her bag from her shoulder, and she stumbled, grabbing at the strap. And at that, the young woman turned and ran.