Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (42 page)

 
          
Dylan
stood back from the car as Truth started the engine. She waved as she drove
off, glancing back at him occasionally through the rearview mirror until she'd
passed out of sight.

 
          
The
closer Truth got to Fall River Sanatorium, the more forbidding it seemed. She
drove along a tree-lined road, edged with discreet accesses to private drives,
and tried not to think about what lay ahead. Money was power, and
Fall River
seemed to be the site of a great deal of
money—at least if the neighboring estates were any guideline.

 
          
Fall
River Sanatorium was built on a hill, a gleaming white edifice that did not so
much sprawl as recline amid lawns as green and unreal as the turf of a golf
course. As Truth drove toward it, she could catch glimpses of artfully
landscaped brick paths laid among the ornamental plantings, and once, in the
far distance, a solitary gleaming figure in nursing whites.

 
          
She
had not called beforehand, preferring not to give the sanatorium's staff an
additional opportunity to turn her away. The rich were notoriously efficient at
protecting their privacy; now that Truth had more of an idea of what sort of
hospital
Fall
River
was, she realized that it was more than likely that the doctor who had treated
Winter Musgrave would refuse to speak to her at all.

 
          
But
if Winter had been a patient at
Fall River
for any length of time the staff must have
been aware of the poltergeist phenomenon that dogged her, and the Margaret
Beresford
Bidney
Institute's reputation was almost as
well known in psychiatric as in
parapsychological
circles. Maybe she'd get lucky.

 
          
The
sign at the front gate said
PRIVATE DRIVE
, and Truth passed two more signs saying
much the same thing before she reached the building. She parked beneath yet
another one, located this time in the visitors' parking lot. Her little Saturn
looked positively frumpy next to the Mercedes and Lincolns that made up the
majority of the occupants of the lot, and Truth tried not to be covetous of the
gleaming expensive vehicles. The white BMW that Winter had told Truth she drove
must have fit right in here.

 
          
And so had Winter. Or bad she?

 
          
Truth
locked her car and walked briskly toward the main entrance, blessing the
impulse that had caused her to dress as if she were going to a particularly
conservative professional conference. Her dark wool/silk suit and severe cream
linen blouse would add an additional air of respectability to what Truth now
saw more than ever as a harebrained escapade.

 
          
No
one in his right mind would have come so far on such a slender hope of
information, but now that she was here and the compulsion to come was gone, she
recognized it for what it was: some message from the more-than-rational world;
beyond instinct, beyond intuition . . .

 
          
Yet,
having brought her so far, it had deserted her.

 
          
Now
what?

 
          
Truth
looked toward the entrance. The doorway was an imposing affair of double doors
and leaded glass panels, sheltered beneath a deep portico. As good a
destination as any. Truth put her hand to the gleaming brass latch and walked
into Fall River Sanatorium.

 
          
She
glanced around the foyer quickly, taking in the Oriental rugs, the chandelier,
the furnishings that looked like costly antiques and probably were, and her
hopes for the success of her mission slipped another notch. Everything she saw
was designed to give the illusion that the viewer had been invited into a
gracious private home—an illusion that was necessarily spoiled by the desk
with its sign-in register that stood just to the right and inside the entrance.

 
          
"May
I help you?"

 
          
The
woman standing behind the desk was in her
midtwenties
;
immaculately groomed, professionally pretty, and as formidable a guardian as
had ever guarded the gates of Hell—one more layer of defense for the
protection—or detention—of those treated here. Truth put on her most formal and
professional expression and smiled coolly.

 
          
"I'd
like to see your director of admissions, please," she said. "Or your
supervising clinician."

 
          
"Do
you have an appointment?" the woman responded promptly.

 
          
"I'm
with the
Bidney
Institute in
Glastonbury
," Truth said, letting her voice supply
the suggestion that it was a place similar to this one. She held out her card
and watched as the woman read it. Margaret Beresford
Bidney
Memorial Psychic Science Research Institute had a distinguished ring to it, and
most people confused "psychic" with "psychological," at
least at first glance.

 
          
"I'd
hoped to be able to consult with . . . ?" Truth prompted.

 
          
"That
would be Dr.
Mahar
, the director," the woman
supplied. Truth felt a small flare of victory. "Come with me, please, Dr.
Jourdemayne
."

 
          
Truth
did not feel it necessary to correct her. She did, after all, have a
doctorate—in mathematics.

 
          
Her
guide conducted Truth down a short corridor to a reception area so luxurious
and tranquilizing that Truth was sure this must be where anxious would-be
patients awaited their initial interviews with Dr.
Mahar
.
Everything Truth had seen in her few brief minutes inside the sanatorium
proclaimed to her the sort of place this was: a sort of psychological factory
where human problems were as likely to be tidied away as treated. Another
professional sentry, this one an older woman in a starched white suit and
slightly archaic gull-wing cap, rose from behind her desk as Truth and her
escort entered the room.

 
          
"Dr.
Jourdemayne
to see Dr.
Mahar
,"
the first woman said. She offered up Truth's business card to the second
receptionist and retreated in the direction of her outside post.

 
          
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."