The sound intensified; the unholy racket of a dozen different devices, from the security system to the smoke alarm, that had all gone off at once.
"It's probably a quake," Truth said calmly. "Dr. Martello said he'd be running a series today with that new Dutch psychic, the teleport; and the machines we use to measure PK are very sensitive. But I do wish they'd shut them down." Almost as Truth spoke she got her wish, as one by one the blaring sirens stopped and there was silence again.
As if some wave had crested and ebbed, the frantic tension that had filled Winter since the discovery of the pieces of cut clothesline was gone, leaving her hungry, exhausted, and wishing only to sleep. She sat down again and took a biscuit off the tray, biting down and closing her eyes as the sweetness filled her mouth.
"Tell me, Winter, how did you come to rent Greyangels Farm? Amsterdam County isn't exactly along the beaten track," Dr. Palmer said.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Winter said. She heard the grogginess in her voice, and hoped he wouldn't ask a question that would make her admit that she had no idea how she'd come to be at the old farmhouse.
"You probably remembered the place from your student days," Dr. Palmer said. "Old Mr. Zacharias was always trying to rent the place—not that it ever stayed rented for very long," he added to Truth. "It isn't haunted, unfortunately."
"Student days?" Winter echoed blankly.
"When you were at Taghkanic ..." Dr. Palmer began, and stopped when he saw the look on Winter's face.
"I went to college here," Winter said in an uninflected voice.
Both women were looking at Dylan Palmer now. "Winter Musgrave," Dylan repeated to himself, as though making certain of getting it right. "You were Class of 'eighty-two. So was I. You audited Professor Mac-Laren's Introduction To Occult Psychology course; I can't remember why—" Dylan said.
Winter stared at Dylan as if she'd never seen him in her life. "I've been here before?" she said.
Truth felt the hairs on her neck and arms rise up in a primitive animal response to the uncanny.
"You went to school here," Dylan said, taken aback by Winter's response. Whatever he'd expected when he'd brought up the subject, it hadn't been this.
"I went to school here," Winter echoed inanely. Her voice held no inflection. "I don't remember. Why don't I remember?"
But she did remember, a little. Enough to know that Dr. Palmer spoke the truth, even though she had not suspected it until this moment. She'd come back here because she'd come from here. "If this is true, why don't I remember?" Winter repeated plaintively.
"I'm not a psychologist," Truth began carefully, "but sometimes the mind, under trauma—"
"But I haven't had any trauma," Winter interrupted. "I've had a perfect life. I had a wonderful job; I liked what I did; I was good at it. I had no problems." Panicked, she cast her mind back into the past, beyond the blurred memories of the past year. There were the details of her life, sharp and clear; a comfortable, ordinary life without surprises or disappointments.
"You don't remember anything?" Dr. Palmer asked. Winter hesitated.
"What was your major in college?" Truth asked.
And now the fear began, because Winter didn't remember that either, and everyone remembered their college major. She couldn't even remember getting her diploma! She gazed at Truth in mute appeal.
"Winter didn't graduate," Dr. Palmer said slowly, thinking backward more than ten years. "I remember you left school a few weeks before graduation," he said to her. "No one ever knew why."
The half-echo of her own thoughts started Winter into a laugh.
"Though it's really too soon to be really sure your problem is paranormal in nature," Truth said carefully, "and I can't say this particular problem is related, I think it would help both you and us if you came to the Institute for the full battery of tests."
"But all the animals," Winter said. That was really the worst—the bodies of the dead animals left in her path like some ghoulish offering. "I have to make that stop."
"We don't know where poltergeists come from," Truth repeated, "so we don't know what affects them. I know you think it's useless, but do, please, try the tea I suggested." Truth pulled a pad of paper over to her, scribbled a name on it in pencil, and pushed the pad over to Winter. "And perhaps some meditation techniques. They can't do any harm, and they may help you to ... stand up to it."
"I thought you said poltergeists couldn't be controlled," Winter said suspiciously, ripping the top sheet off the pad and pushing the paper into her purse without looking at it.
Truth shrugged and smiled apologetically; Winter realized that Truth Jourdemayne was much younger than she seemed.
"I said that—as far as has been reported in the professional literature—no one ever has. But that isn't to say that it can't be done—and I don't think you're the sort of woman who submits tamely to the vagaries of fate."
Winter forced herself to smile, feeling—if not hopeful, then at least that she was finally in a fight. "No," she said. "I guess I don't give up easily." And I certainly don't believe the first quack that comes down the pike. On the other hand. . . She hesitated. "What's the name of that store again?"
"Inquire Within. It's down in Glastonbury. Meg has a stock of their cards out front; tell her I told her to give you one. You can set up an appointment for a round of psi-tests with her, too, if you like."
/ don't think so. Winter had always been a fighter, an instinct that had stood her in good stead in her years on the Street. Just the act of putting her darkest fears into words had strengthened her against them. She could fight this, this—hobgoblin that was trying to take over her life— yes, and reclaim her own past as well. And she didn't need anyone else's help to do it. For some reason it was better to think she was haunted than that she was crazy, and this large, official-looking building, filled with researchers and machines and civil, civilized people who took all of this so seriously, made her feel that being haunted was more than an option, it was almost respectable.
"I'll . . . think about it," Winter said hesitantly. "But thank you for your patience—both of you. I don't imagine I've been the most charming guest."
"In comparison to some," Dr. Palmer said with a twinkle of mock sobriety in his eyes, "you have been a paragon of virtue. Thank you for coming, Winter—and don't hesitate to stop by again."
"Thank you, Dr. Palmer. I'll certainly keep that in mind." The next time the ghoulies start nipping at my toes, Winter thought with a faint flash of mordant humor.
But the bout of febrile high spirits that had momentarily possessed her vanished when she was out of doors once more. Winter clutched the business card that Meg Winslow had given her and blinked at the bright sunlight. She hadn't taken a good look around before. All around her were apple trees white with blossom; the spring campus looked as scenic and inviting as a painting in a book. And it ought to be familiar. She had gone to school here—so Dylan Palmer said. If she could trust anything he said.
No! She brought her wandering mind up with sharp anger. Start thinking that way and she'd be mad in truth. Dr. Palmer had told her the truth—he had no reason to lie to her, as far as she knew.
But why couldn't she remember anything?
Despite her weariness, Winter chose a direction and started off, almost at random. Maybe more exposure to theoretically familiar sights would jog her memory back into place—and if not, the exercise would at least ensure a dreamless sleep tonight.
In spite of herself, Winter shuddered. What dreams could she have that were more horrible than her awakenings?
CHAPTER THREE
A HAZY SHADE OF WINTER
The winter I'll not think on to spite thee, But count it a lost season, so shall she.
—JOHN DONNE
BUT AN HOUR OF WALKING AROUND THE TAGHKANIC campus failed to jog loose any hidden memories, and only served to remind Winter how recently out of a hospital sickbed she was, though once upon a time she had . . .
A ghost of a
memory, of a much younger Winter, running laughing among the apple trees, being chased by ... who?
She shook her head. The scrap of memory was gone, leaving her with nothing to do but follow the rest of Truth Jourdemayne's prescription.
Winter felt butterflies collect in her stomach as the taxi pulled up to the curb of the little storefront. She had only realized how reluctant she was to come here once she was fully committed to it. Here was where all the trouble had started.
No. Be honest. Here was where the trouble continued.
"I'd like you to wait," Winter said to the driver.
"How long?" Tim Sullivan said. He was young and fresh-faced, and looked more afraid of her than she was of him—a far cry from the New York City taxi drivers she was used to.
"I'll pay for the waiting time," Winter said. She knew that being outside the city, these cars were not equipped with a meter that could charge for waiting time. "Fifty dollars."
The driver's jaw dropped and he nearly choked. "Fifty dollars? But, ma'am—"
"My car's in the shop and I need a way to get around. And there isn't anyplace around here that I can rent a car, is there?"
"I—well—Dave Kelly's Garage has a loaner sometimes. . . ."
Ah, the joys of living in a small town. "Fine. Then we can go there next. If you'll wait for me here?"
"Urn . . . sure." Sullivan was dubious but faintly willing. "Just let me park this thing."
He slid the car without difficulty into a space along the unoccupied curb and turned off the engine. Winter got out of the car.
There's nothing to be afraid of. . . . Winter put her hand to the door.
It was green-painted wood, and the glass panel in the top half had been replaced with stained glass; another moon on another storm-tossed celestial sea. The whole effect was clownish rather than frightening, and the silly tableau in the window of crystal ball and pointy hat completed the impression of Saturday morning cartoon magic. This was an herbs and crystals shop, nothing more.
A bell jingled as she opened and closed the door. The air inside the store was musty and sweet-smelling, and the first thing Winter focused on was a large calico cat sitting on top of a glassed-in bookcase. It blinked green eyes at her and stretched disdainfully.
"Can I help you?" came a voice from the back of the shop.
The sixties are not dead, was Winter's first derisive thought. The woman who approached her was small and slender, with long blond hair and a kittenish face. Her hair was parted ruler-straight down the middle of her head and held in place with a braided leather headband. She was even wearing the love beads and bell-bottoms of Winter's childhood. / wonder where she finds them in this day and age?
"Can I help you?" the woman said again, coming closer. She smiled disarmingly, and Winter saw that despite the illusion of youth, the woman was closer to forty than thirty. "I'm Tabitha Whitfield; the owner. I wondered if there was something you were specifically looking for; you look a little lost."
"I came in for some tea," Winter said. She rummaged through her Coach briefbag for the paper that Truth Jourdemayne had given her. "Something called . . . Oh, I can't remember!" And the paper was not showing up.
"Oh, don't worry; I'm sure we can reconstruct it," Tabitha Whitfield said cheerfully. "You're from the college, aren't you?"
"Why?" Winter was instantly suspicious.
Tabitha laughed. "Because when people come in with—excuse me!— your particular shell-shocked expression, they've almost always been sent down by the ghost-hunters. At the lab?" she added, in case Winter hadn't understood.
"Yes," Winter said shortly. "It was a woman named Truth Jourdemayne."
"Oh, Truth!" Tabitha said. "Then I know just what she sent you for. She's quite the local celebrity—did you know her father's Thorne Blackburn?" Tabitha added, just as if she expected Winter to recognize the name.
Tabitha gestured to a stack of books on a marble-topped table in the corner. "She even wrote a book. I'll just get that tea." The proprietor disappeared behind the inevitable bead curtain into the back room of the shop.
Her interest piqued, Winter went toward the table. The calico cat stretched out a languid paw toward her as she passed.
The books on the table were all the same title. Winter saw a dust-jacket that was a collage of sixties images: love beads and pentagrams, and a man dressed up as Merlin the Magician. She picked up one of the books.
Venus Afflicted: The Short Life and Fast Times of Magister Ludens Thorne Blackburn and the New Aeon.
What the hell?
She opened it and read the flap copy. Along with the sight of a glossy, insincere picture of Truth Jourdemayne with fluffy hair, Winter discovered that the book was a biography of a sixties nutcase who'd claimed to be a warlock—and was, incidentally, Truth's father.
Winter shut the book with a snap, her lip curling in disgust. She wasn't quite sure what was so irritating about this, and she didn't feel she owed it the courtesy to find out. Anger crept back into her mind: She'd gone to the Institute for help—it was on a college campus, for God's sake; it ought to be at least a little bit respectable—and all they'd been able to field was a John Denver look-alike who said he'd gone to school with her and the daughter of the Archdruid of Canterbury!
Winter felt her heartbeat begin to race, and belatedly recognized the trap. Strong emotion—of any sort—seemed to bring on those spells of disastrous bad luck that were almost more tormenting than the visitations of the thing that opened doors and ripped animals to shreds. Even now, she felt compelled to distinguish the two, as if they were not one problem, but two. Clutching the book tightly, Winter took a deep breath, then another, groping for the iron-willed self-control that had served her so well on the Street—and felt the clutch of frightened anger fade.
"And how are you finding everything?" Tabitha Whitfield's cheery voice broke into Winter's mood of wary self-congratulation.
"Just where you left it," Winter said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. Sarcasm had always been her first line of defense against the world; a way to lash out before she was hurt. She came over to the cash register, and realized she was still holding Venus Afflicted in her hands. "I'll take this, too," she said, by way of tacit apology. She placed the book and her bag on the counter beside the small parcel Tabitha had brought out of the back room—a small brown paper package with a silver-and-white label on it. Centering Tea was written on the label in ornate purple felt-tip.
"You should take it on up to the college and get it signed," Tabitha said, opening the book to run her scanner over the bar-code. "But I can see why you were drawn to it—you're one of the Grey Angels, just the way she is. Your aura's very strong, you know; I can feel it from here—"
"What do I do with the tea?" Winter said brusquely. Whether she was an angel—gray or otherwise—she really didn't want to hear about other people's auras. The eighties were over.
Fortunately, Tabitha seemed willing to be diverted. "All you need to do is steep it in a pot like regular loose tea, and be sure to sweeten it with honey or molasses—they're much better for you than the artificial sweeteners like refined white sugar. I've got a page of directions right here—" she rummaged beneath the counter "—and a booklet of the exercises that go with the tea. That'll be thirty-seven seventy-eight."
Exercises? Whatever the explanation for that one was, Winter wasn't in the mood for hearing it at the moment. Recalling one of the very prosaic stickers in the window, Winter dug through her purse again and handed over her Visa card, incidentally turning up the piece of paper with Truth's handwriting on it. She peered at it. Centering Tea it was, whatever that was. She crumpled the paper into the bottom of her purse.
"There's a meditation group that meets here on Wednesdays after hours," Tabitha said as she validated the card. "Some of the locals and some of the kids from the college—you're welcome to come."
The offer, though flaky, had been well meant. "Thanks," Winter said. Maybe in another lifetime.
To Winter's relief, Tim Sullivan was in fact still waiting outside Inquire Within when she emerged, blinking, into the thin spring sunlight. She slung her Coach bag and the brown paper sack into the backseat and climbed in.
"Do you want to go to the garage now?" Sullivan asked.
"Sure," Winter said recklessly. The more time she spent successfully navigating the pitfalls of the world, the cockier she became. Jack had always said she was crazy and reckless with it—and that was what made a good trader.
"You've got the killer instinct, sweetheart, and you aren't afraid of blood. That's what it takes to survive here."
The killer instinct. Abruptly Winter felt as if a cold breeze had spilled over her skin. Was she a killer—and using some kind of psychic power to do it?
"I heard something funny back there." She heard her own voice, bright and high with tension, talking to block out the voice within. "The woman who owns the store—Inquire Within?—said something about 'Grey Angels.' What are they—some kind of local folklore?" The Hudson Valley was rich in folklore, Winter remembered from another lifetime, from the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow to the ghostly galleon that plied the Hudson on moonlit nights, scaring hell out of the local maritime traffic.
"That's right; you live out on Greyangels Road, don't you, ma'am?" Sullivan said. "I don't know much about it myself," he went on, "it's more a local thing, and Dad just moved up here in 'eighty-seven. The old-timers say there's supposed to be angels haunting this part of the Hudson Valley. Like ghosts, you know, only good—most of the time." How appropriate, Winter thought to herself. "Gray ones?" "I guess so." Sullivan was dubious. "All I know is, I've never seen them—but we do get pretty heavy fogs from time to time, being so near the river and all. Maybe that's them. Here we are."
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