Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (24 page)

 
          
It
would be a two- or three-day drive to Ramsey's home in
Dayton
,
Ohio
—closer to four, Winter told herself with brutal frankness, if she
considered how tired she was likely to get and how many stops she'd have to
make along the way. She could drive to
Newark
Airport
, though, and be in
Ohio
within a couple of hours by plane.

           
And
if the plane's electrical system blows on the way?
Not that it was really likely—the
serpent fed on her emotions, and, at least so far, it had never managed an
appearance when she was completely calm. But while the need to reach Ramsey was
imperative, now that she'd seen Janelle, Winter felt strangely reluctant to see
what cruel tricks Time had played on her other college friends. A few days by
car wouldn't make a lot of difference, she told herself, and that way she'd
still have her car with her when she arrived in
Dayton
and wouldn't need to rent one.

 
          
As
Janelle had said, places were different distances depending on who was going
there. Winter thought that for her, the distance between
Rappahoag
,
New Jersey
, and
Dayton
,
Ohio
, would be short enough to drive.

 
          
But
going anywhere at all today would be foolish. Winter spent the morning in a hot
bath—much to the annoyance of the maids, who wanted to turn out the room—and in
the afternoon she called Janelle again. She had to be completely sure that
something terrible hadn't happened to her—or to Denny—last night.

 
          
"Hello?"
Janelle's voice was slurred and slow as she answered the phone, although it was
well after one in the afternoon.

 
          
"Janelle?"
A sudden pang of terror made everything go faint and cold. "Is Denny all
right?"

 
          
"He's
at work," Janelle said dully. "He's fine." There was a ghost of
resentment in Janelle's voice, and it was all too easy for Winter to imagine
the reason her friend sounded that way. A sudden fierce prayer filled her
heart.

 
          
Grey Angels, whatever you are, come down
from the
Hudson
and look into Denny's heart. And Janelle's, too. But make something right
happen in her life. . . .

 
          
"It's
Winter,
Jannie
. How are you?"

 
          
"Oh
... hi, Winter. I didn't ... I thought you had to
get
an early start?" Janelle's voice was leaden, her interest
forced.

 
          
"My
plans changed. Look. We didn't get a lot of chance to talk yesterday, why don't
I come out, and—"

 
          
"I'm
busy." There was life in Janelle's voice now—life, and fear. "I've
got a lot of things to do today, and—"

 
          
"
Jannie
!" Winter cried.

 
          
"Go
away," Janelle whispered. "Just—go away." The line went dead.

           
Winter stared at the phone in her
hand until the strident warble of the off-hook sound dragged her attention back
to the present. Slowly she hung up the line.

 
          
There
were people she could call about what was happening to Janelle, agencies she
could notify. She could even call the police. But if Janelle refused to
acknowledge what was going on, refused to admit what was happening, there was
so little anyone could do for her. The transformation had to come from within.
Winter couldn't accomplish it for her.

 
          
Winter
stared at the
Taghkanic
yearbook on the bed. It was
open now to Janelle's picture. She could still see the ghost of that girl in
the woman she'd visited yesterday, but that girl had been fearless.

 
          
Or
had seemed to be ...

 
          
Winter
turned the page in the yearbook, and looked at the smiling, dark-haired young
man in the turtleneck and dark jacket. Time had not yet written its book on the
pages of his face; it was an innocent face, lacking, in 1981 when the yearbook
picture had been taken, the ingrained stamp of personality. Her flickering
memories of Ramsey were all sunny, with never a cloud.

 
          
But
how much had changed for him in fourteen years?

 
          
"Don't give up now."

 
          
The
words and the tone were Grey's, dredged up out of some sinkhole of traitorous
memory. If she turned the page of the yearbook Winter could see his frozen
image—but if she closed her eyes, she could see him leaning against the wall of
the hotel room, wearing cowboy boots and blue jeans tighter than sin, arms
crossed over a snugly fitting
Taghkanic
College
T-shirt, regarding her mockingly through lowered lashes.

 
          
"Don't give up now. Work yourself up to
the verge of success and quit then. Be a
BIG
failure."

 
          
She
opened her eyes, but of course there was no one there. There never had been.
The wisp of memory remained, however: Hunter
Greyson
,
perverse overachiever. She turned to his page in the yearbook and stared at his
portrait. The face that looked back at her was unfinished. So ... young. Innocent
in a way, although of course they'd all thought themselves the height of
sophistication at the time.

 
          
Winter
felt a faint smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She could feel the pull on
the muscles with the unaccustomed use; she hadn't had any reason to smile in a
long time. But Grey had always had the knack for turning disaster inside out
like a paper bag; things still were just as important, but somehow they managed
not to hurt as much.

 
          
She
could use a little of that knack now.

 
          
Where
was Grey, and could she find him? With money and private detectives almost
anyone could be unearthed from anywhere, from Elvis to your birth-mother, but
private detectives took time—sometimes years— to find a person, and even though
Winter had a lot of money and an investment portfolio that brought in a tidy
sum each year, if she went on spending like
Ivana
Trump, there'd be a piper to be paid sometime. She closed the yearbook and
slipped it into her suitcase again. Going on as she had been still seemed to be
the best choice—at least until something changed.

 
          
Or
until the creature stalking her lost its patience.

 
          
It
took Winter the rest of the afternoon to work up the nerve to call Ramsey.
She'd dialed the number several times and hung up before the fourth ring, and
in between she'd even called Cassie in
Berkeley
, although Cassie's number just rang and
rang until Winter had hung up in disgust. How
could
Cassie not be there when Winter was actually feeling brave
enough to talk to her?

 
          
At
8:00—
7:00
Ohio
time—Ramsey finally picked up the phone.

 
          
"Hello?"

 
          
For
a moment Winter sat paralyzed on the edge of the hotel bed, listening to the
half-remembered voice across the miles.

 
          
"Hello?"
Ramsey said again.

 
          
"Ramsey
Miller?" Her voice was a dry croak.

 
          
"Who
is this?" There was a thread of suspicion in the pleasant masculine tenor
now, as if he might be about to hang up—and if he did, Winter wasn't sure she
had the courage to call him back.

 
          
"I
don't think you remember me; my name is Winter Musgrave; we went to school
together? College?"

 
          
"Winter!"
The warmth that filled his voice made her giddy with relief. "Of course I
remember you—where are you? Are you in town?"

 
          
"I'm
in
New
Jersey
,
Ramsey, but I was thinking of coming out to
Dayton
and seeing you, if that would be
okay?"

 
          
She
suddenly realized that she and Janelle had done almost no talking yesterday
about their shared past and their college days—the one thing you'd expect old
friends meeting after a long separation to do. Yesterday had challenged none of
the blanks in Winter's memory. She had to make sure things would be different
with Ramsey.

 
          
"Okay?
It'd be great! You're calling at a good time; things are pretty quiet
here—"

 
          
With
a sinking heart she heard the change in Ramsey's voice; the tension that meant
there was something he didn't want to say—something bad. Winter resolved to go
anyway.
At least 1 won't find him being
beaten by his husband. I hope.

 
          
"
—so I can meet your plane. When is
it coming in?" Ramsey finished, and Winter realized she'd lost a few
sentences out of the conversation.

 
          
"I'm
going to be driving, Ramsey; I've got a new car and I'm dying to break it
in," Winter said with spurious cheer. "Is there a good hotel in the
area?"

 
          
In
OHIO
? a part of her mind asked in mocking disbelief.

 
          
"Hotel,
nothing. You're staying out at my place, and I don't want to hear any
arguments. Look, I'll give you directions—"

 
          
There
was nothing to do but accept gracefully, though Winter privately assured
herself that she was more than capable of finding a hotel and checking into it
before she met with Ramsey. For some reason it seemed important to have a
secure line of retreat available, just as if Ramsey Miller had ever been
capable of hurting anyone in his entire life.

 
          
But
did she really remember what Ramsey had been like, or was this just another
layer of smoke and mirrors?

 
          
They
chatted for a few minutes more, with Ramsey giving her directions to his place
from 1-80, the interstate that had replaced old Route
66
as the preferred means of automobile travel from coast to coast.
Winter promised to give him a call the day after tomorrow to let him know how
far away she was, and after a few more half-empty pleasantries, Winter hung up.

 
          
She
stared at the telephone pensively. Would meeting Ramsey again be of any more
use to her than seeing Janelle had? There was no reason to do it, otherwise.

 
          
Then don't do it,
the inner
serpent-voice suggested.
Janelle's a
loser, Ramsey's a loser
—
you're the
only one who played it smart, who got into the game. And you won big, too
—
don't forget that. One look at you and good
old Ramsey's probably going to hit you up for a loan. He probably just wants to
see you to ask you for money, anyway. Who needs the aggravation? Don't go.

 
          
Winter
rose to her feet and crossed the carpet. She'd drawn the curtains earlier, but
now she pulled back both the printed room-darkening shade and the sheer liner
to look out.

 
          
There
wasn't much to see; just
New Jersey
and a scrap of the
New York
skyline in the distance beckoning like the towers of Camelot. Winter
spread her fingers against the glass, pushing gently at the cold slick-ness
with her palms. The bridges connecting the two states, lit for night, looked
like expensive diamond necklaces, so tiny that Winter could imagine lifting one
up and clasping it about her throat, there to burn like captive stars.