[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind (19 page)

"You led them on, Pat, and they followed you. You
promised them fame and fortune and the key to a world
they see only in the movies.
Galleries.
Cocktail parties.
Women and men fawning over them, trying to touch their hems.
Museums bidding for their work.
Books
written about them.
Top of the heap before they're
thirty."
He sighed, long and softly. "I know how they
feel, because that was me, Pat. Jesus, that was me before I knew better.''

"But I didn't," she said. "Greg, we've been over
this before, and you know I didn't promise them any of
that."

"No, but you implied the possibility, and for a young
. . . person like that, there is no difference. And
—"

"No," she said. "Please, don't talk for a while, okay?"

He shifted, a hand snaking over her stomach. She laid her own on top of it and pressed it hard into her
flesh. She wanted to feel both sides of him simultaneously, palm and knuckles, smooth skin and bone, to
feel the reality of him, because what they were talking
about, here in the dark, wasn't real at all. It was an
intellectual
exercise in madness. A college professor
did
not have enemies who hated her so much they would do
anything to drive her out of her mind.
To drive her away.
To . . . kill her. That was the ingredients of a fever dream, of paranoia.

But you've been through all that, she told herself,
and by god it
is
real and someone
is
trying to ruin (or
end) your life.

And suddenly there were glimpses of red in the dark,
glimpses of an eye,
glimpses
of a massive foreign thing
rushing at her from a nightmare.

There was nothing else she could do
—she screamed.

"Are you all right now?"

"It was like turning on a light when you come home
at night. It hit me so hard I couldn't help it."

"But you are all right."

"Yes. Well, maybe."

"You scared the hell out of me, you know."

"You should have been in my place."

"I'm sorry.
My fault.
I should have kept quiet."

"It's
not your fault, Greg. But you just don't come
up against something like this every day, you know. It
takes a while."

"Yeah, but you've seen it. I haven't. It's easy to believe when you see it right out there."

"Oh god, Greg," she said, "
you
don't know how wrong that is."

The light came so quickly she thought in disorienta
tion there was someone on the porch roof searching for
her, poking a worn flashlight into each of the small
windows on the second floor. She wondered as she
flung aside the bedclothes how they'd found her here on
Raglin
Street, how they'd known she'd been picked up
by Greg and had gone home with him. Then she stopped,
the cold of the bare floor reaching up through her soles to grab at her calves. She rubbed her eyes with her
forefingers and sat on the edge of the mattress. Her heart calmed, her breathing grew less shallow; there was no one outside, it was dawn. Somehow, whether by sheer exhaustion or a retreat from fear, she had fallen asleep.

And Greg wasn't in the bed.

She padded out to the hallway and listened, hugging
herself, then moved cautiously down the stairs to the
front room. Greg was sitting in front of a small fire
place, naked, cross-legged, staring at charred logs with
his palms cupping his cheeks, his elbows propped on
his knees. She sat beside him and waited, anticipating
speech and yet starting when he spoke.

"Question," he said.
"A couple, actually.
Why didn't
that thing chase you into the woods? It could have gotten you easily, and it didn't. Two: what the hell is
it? Three: what the hell does whoever it is that's doing
this want? Four: why the hell am I sitting naked in the
middle of the
livingroom
talking about monsters from B
movies when I should be in bed, trying to figure out a
way to stay home instead of going to work?"

She shook her head.

"Five," he said then. "What do we do about it? Sit around until it shows up again?" He raised a fist,
thumped it hard on his knee. "Damn! Damn, I ought to
have my head examined."

"Why?" She shifted to face him, a hand on his
thigh, searching his
stubbled
face for signs of retraction.

"Because," he said.

"That's no answer. That's something a kid would say."

"Well, isn't this stuff we've been talking about more
suited to kids than to adults? Isn't it? Great hulking beasts rising out of empty fields and quarries, winds that come from nowhere, smashed sheds and stone
thrones
—my god, Pat, have you really been listening to
what we're talking about here?"

"Have you been down here all night thinking about
that?"

He nodded. "And unless I get my butt in gear, I'll be
here for the next hundred years."

She stood, offered him her hand, and he took it,
allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"I'm hungry."

"Shower first, food second, school third."

He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders. "You
mean
—''

"You said it yourself, Greg
—what are you going to
do, just sit around and wait for something to happen? I
don't know about you, but I can't do that. Besides, if
we go outside maybe we'll learn something.
Anything.
Don't ask me what, I don't know." When he headed for the stairs she followed. "Greg, about . . . about
what we were saying last night about all those people—
did you decide anything?"

Halfway up the staircase he paused and looked down
at her. "No," he said. "As a matter of fact, I was
talking off the top of my head. It all sounded good, pro
and con, but now ... I don't know. It could be anybody." His grin was strained.
"Even me, babe, even me."

She didn't echo his laugh, nor did she follow him
when he
sprinted
the rest of the way to the second floor.
Her flesh was tight with a chill that had nothing to do
with the temperature in the house, and her hands were
unable to keep from fluttering mindlessly. So many people, she thought
—reluctantly keeping Greg's name
at the bottom (very bottom) of the list—and I have to see them all today. No sense. Life made no sense.

And she remained silent through breakfast, through the ride to
Hawksted
, barely acknowledged her colleagues when they waved to her on the Long Walk.

She didn't like what she was thinking.

She didn't like thinking that Greg might have tried to
put her onto someone else just to keep suspicion from
himself.

And she didn't like thinking that somewhere out
there, waiting with the wind, was a force that had been
created by someone who hated.

AT
 
ten o'clock, Danvers summoned her into his
office. He was in tweeds, his mustache waxed and gleaming, his thumbs hooked into waistcoat pockets.
She thought he looked too damned smug for what he'd just lost in his department, but she said nothing, only
nodded when he gestured to the chair cornering his desk. Then he shifted his gaze from her face to the series of theatrical posters framed behind glass on
the walls. And it wasn't until then that she noticed for the
first time the deep short lines about his eyes, the defiant
and melancholy thrust of his chin.

"About the meeting, Doctor," he said, still refusing
to look at her. He waited. She said nothing.
"The, uh,
car business."
He swallowed quickly as if trying to hide it. "I've had that car for thirty years, Miss Shav
ers. I suppose I shouldn't have placed so much value on
it. And on top of your . . . well, it has been made
rather clear to me that I behaved badly. For that I
apologize."

She hesitated a moment before saying, "There's no
need, really. I understand."

"Well, I do anyway. It's the right thing to do, hardly
makes
up for the harsh words, but . .
."He
waved his
left hand expansively. "You do understand, of course,
that your new position does not mean an abdication of
your responsibilities to the department as it now stands. Of course you do. I simply wanted to make that clear so
there'd be no misunderstandings in future. Thank you
for coming, Doctor. I'm sure you have plenty of work to do."

She rose, nodded to the back of his head, and left.
Feeling nothing.
Stopping in the corridor to glance back and gnaw on her lower lip thoughtfully. What Greg had
said the night before came back to her, dimly, and she
tried to imagine Danvers stooping to something as un
civilized, literally, as traffic in the occult. No, she decided; Greg was right, there, but for the wrong reasons
—Ford didn't have it in him to do something like that. He was too preoccupied with veneer and
pomp to resort to nightmare. He was the kind of man
who demanded grandstand performances, an audience
for his monologues, and a sweeping exit which would
leave her alone on the stage in a fading spotlight.

But there was no relief as a result.

She walked through the next two hours jumping at shadows, staring at faces, examining every word said to
her for menacing nuance, every glance leveled at her
for lethal connotations. By the time she had finished lunch in the Union she was trembling so hard Janice
asked her twice if she wanted a sweater, complaining at the same time of the lack of heat in all the buildings.
Apparently, a boiler had broken down during the night,
producing an overload which, in turn, collapsed the rest
of the ancient system.

In her office at one, she quickly turned on the over
head light and the desk lamp when a cloud sailed across
the sun.

She could not concentrate on a letter she felt she had
to write to the Trustees because her door was open, and everyone who passed was stared at, scrutinized, as she
sought to label them friend or deadly.

She knew what she was doing to herself, but no
matter how often and how harshly she scolded herself she was unable to stop. Having accepted the reality of
her dream-demon, she suddenly found new focus and
uncompromising clarity in everything she saw. A new
and unsettling dimension to every sound she heard. She
did her utmost to accept the myriad and heartfelt con
gratulations that swarmed around her, heard
herself
talk
ing glibly about the triumph and her plans without giving a single thought to the import of her words.
Nothing mattered. Nothing but the shadows and the fear
and the prayer that Greg would end his seminar early
and take her home, lock her in the closet, go out
and do battle so she could attend to her life without
complication.

At two-thirty it struck her she hadn't seen any of the
Musketeers at all that day. Four times, then, she reached
for the telephone to call Harriet's home or the dorms,
and four times she pulled her hand away and watched it
close into a fist. Twice she did call Kelly's apartment;
there was no answer. As a last resort she called Gold
smith, got him on the eighth ring.

'"Mr. Goldsmith? This is Pat Shavers."

"Yep."

"Mr. Goldsmith, have you seen Abbey or Kelly around today?"

"Nope."

"Did ... did the police talk to you yet?"

"Yep."

Her grip tightened on the receiver. Laconic was one
thing, but playing a New England Gary Cooper was too much for her nerves. She rang off without saying goodbye, grabbed her coat from the rack and walked down to
Greg's room. It was empty,
his own
coat gone. She
frowned and went down to the first floor, looked out the
side door and released a held breath when she saw the VW still in the parking lot. At the Union, then, she
thought, and hurried outside, not wanting to use the tunnel
system in spite of the sharp-plunging cold.

He wasn't there.

She walked over to Administration, to the library,
checked the main parking lot and all the lounges in the
dorms.

He wasn't there.

She returned to Fine Arts and her office, sat at the
desk and watched the red slowly fade from her fingers, felt warmth reassert itself with an unpleasant needled
tinging
. When the telephone rang she grabbed it franti
cally, nearly dropped the receiver and was panting when
she answered. It was Wes Martin, asking too politely if
she would mind stopping by the station on her way
home. She tried to pry information from him, but he
turned officious on her and simply repeated his request.

Kelly, she thought then; my god, he's found Kelly.
Or Abbey.

The chair slammed against the wall when she
rose
suddenly, the door vibrating in its frame when she
slammed it behind her. And when another tour of the campus failed to turn Greg up, she accepted a ride offer from a student she knew vaguely, was dropped off on
Centre Street across from the station.

She didn't want to go in there. Though the building
didn't look at all foreboding, the simple fact of the high,
barred windows overlooking the street was enough to make
her hesitate. If something had gone wrong, she might be in there in an hour or so, and who would she call? Her parents were less than useless, and Greg had . . .

With a hand covering her mouth she crossed to the
opposite corner just as Martin climbed out of a patrol
car. He smiled and waited for her, held her elbow as he
guided her inside, around the raised desk and through the
lefthand
door at the rear of the room. Down a short
corridor broken by a door on
either side and
one at the
end; it was through the latter that he took her into an
office bare except for a long conference table in its
center, chipped and polished and imposingly thick. Eight chairs had been set around it. Martin took the head and
motioned her to his left. There were no windows; the
only light came from a brass fixture on the wall over her head.

"Do I need a lawyer?" She said lightly as she pulled
off her gloves, fluffed her hair.

"No," he said. "Don't be silly."

"Then why all this?" she asked without demanding.

"Because I need to talk to you, Pat, and
its
too public out front."

"Kelly?"

He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands
on the table. She kept silent, because he seemed to need
the time to gather his thoughts. He was trying to find
the right way to say what was on his mind; she knew that
instinctively, and she was grateful he didn't just pounce
on her with . . . whatever it was, whoever it was.

"I just came from King's," he said then, reached
into his trouser pocket and pulled out three small plastic bags. When he dropped them on the table she could see
they were labeled, though she couldn't read the letter
ing, and they contained fragments of stone. She pulled
away, and questioned him with her eyes.

He touched the one in the middle. "This is from your
workshop, the one in your apartment." He lifted a finger to still a protest. "This one here contains what was found on the floorboards of your car."

"I told you how I am," she said nervously. "Damn it, Wes
—"

"And this," he persisted, "is from the car that Susan
Haslet was driving the night she was killed."

"What?"

"People . . ."He gathered the bags together, fenced
them with his palms. "People have a tendency, Pat, to
think that just because we're a small place here we have small operations. They forget the money behind us.
Especially folks who haven't been here a long time."

"Well, that lets me out."

His smile was brief. "Indeed.
Right.
The reason I'm
saying this, though, is so you understand the police
don't have to run to a big city to run accurate, thorough
tests when we have to."

"So?" She was getting angry now, taking exception
to his lecturing tone, to the manner of his posture, to
the way he looked around the room without looking at
her. He was behaving exactly as Ford Danvers had that
morning
—hiding from her without actually leaving the
room. "Come on, Wes!"

"This is all from the same block.
From a block taken
from the quarry.
Now I know," he said quickly, raising his voice to forestall her, "you have this stuff in your
workshop, and I know how it got there, how it got in your car. What I have to know now is, Pat, how did it
get in Susan Haslet's car?"

She opened her mouth to tell him she hadn't the
faintest idea, snapped it closed when she realized the
implications of what he was saying. "Now wait a damned
minute, Wesley Martin! Are you trying
—
"

He shook his head wearily. "I'm not trying to say
anything, Pat. Just hold your horses."

"Hold my horses?" She stood and walked to the far
end of the table, turned and slipped her hands into her
pockets; otherwise, she thought, she might go for his
throat. "Hold my horses? That collection of marble you
have there is from my workshop. I'll take your word for
it. Now you tell me it was in this Haslet girl's car, too,
and whether you know it or not, you are definitely
implying a connection of some sort. But I didn't know
her. To see her, yes, but she wasn't in any of my
classes, none of them. And I was never in her car, so I didn't drop that stuff there. Besides, how should I know
what a
drunk
girl will
—"

"Who said she was drunk?" he demanded quietly.

"What?" She was confused, passed a hand over her
face to gain some time. "But I heard
—"

"You heard wrong, Pat. The girl was perfectly sober when she died. We think, but we don't have any proof,
that she was forced into that telephone pole. She was hit broadside and slammed sideways into it. Drinking had
nothing to do with it."

"Oh." She turned around before she remembered there were no windows to look out, turned back and took hold of the nearest chair. "Oh."

"The car," he said then.

"What?"
Distractedly.

"Your car, Pat.
We brought it in, remember?"

The room suddenly seemed much smaller, much
warmer. What wasn't touched by the light seemed sud
denly darker.

"Pat . . . Pat, we found blood on the door."

She sat, hard.

"The window was broken in, I told you. On some of
the glass embedded in the door's
weatherstripping
there
we found blood. Minute traces not very old. The idea
being kicked around is that Kelly was in the car when
the window was smashed, and whoever did it reached in and dragged her out. Cut her face or her hands, probably, or her legs if she was wearing a short coat.
We also found threads, green ones. Pat, did Kelly have
a green coat?''