Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (35 page)

 
          
Steve
said everything that was proper, but Claire could tell that he was grateful
when his partner pulled up at the curb a few minutes later and he could leave.
She knew that he could imagine too vividly that it could have been him lying in
that parking lot. It could have been any of them.

 
          
"I'm
so sorry. Oh, Claire, my dear girl, I'd hoped this would never happen to
you," Elisabeth Moffat said.

 
          
Why
are you so worried?
Claire wondered, faintly puzzled.
Peter is dead.
There's nothing more we can do. There's nothing to worry about.
And deep
inside, she felt a sense of relief that the waiting was over, and pride that
Peter had never known what it was she waited for, all those long weeks.

 
          
"It's
all right," she said meaninglessly. Unheeded tears rose up in her eyes;
for a moment she could not understand why her vision had blurred, then she
blinked them away. "Why don't I make us a nice cup of tea? And then I suppose
we need to think about what to do."

 
          
Not
that it mattered. Not that anything mattered, or would matter again for a very
long time.

 
          
The
funeral was the following Monday, and in defiance of everything seemly, it was
a beautiful day. The sky was cloudlessly blue, the sunlight was golden, and the
air was summer-hot. The gravestones and tall monuments were brilliantly white.

 
          
The
department turned out in force for the funeral, of course. Peter had been well
liked. The minister from their church conducted the service; there was no need
for Peter to be laid to rest by the words of strangers who had never known him.

 
          
Colin
had come, thank God. Claire did not think she could have stood it otherwise.
Elisabeth was steadfast, calm and composed, but now she had buried both her
men, husband and son, and the strain of it etched stark lines into her face.
Elisabeth Moffat had always seemed an incorruptible rock, but she seemed to
have aged twenty years overnight, and Claire feared for her well-being. For
herself, she feared nothing. She did not think she would feel anything, ever
again. That part of her had died with Peter, killed as surely as a summer rose
withered in an early frost.

 
          
Some
part of her knew that she would live past this moment, that time, if nothing
else, would numb the insistent pain of this amputation and teach her to find
life good again. And so she would
—
even in the shock of her
first grief Claire knew that
—
but the reckless merry part of her that Peter had opened to
joy was gone forever.

 
          
"Claire."

 
          
The
graveside service was over, and everyone else was gone, but Claire couldn't
bring herself to leave. Terrible as this moment was, she clung to it, because
when it was over, her life without Peter would begin.

 
          
"Colin.
A fine hello this is," she managed to say.

 
          
"I
wasn't expecting dancing girls, all things considered. I know it sounds trite
and superficial, but if there's anything I can do
—
"

 
          
"Not
unless you can resurrect the dead," Claire shot back before she could stop
herself. "I'm sorry, Colin. That was unworthy. This isn't your fault. It
isn't anybody's fault
—
except that little bastard with the shotgun, and they've
picked him up." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. They were dry, but only
because she had cried so much already. "So there's a happy ending after
all, isn't there?"

 
          
"I
don't think anyone can claim to be that detached," Colin said. He put an
arm around her shoulder. "And anyone who tries to tell you that this is
all for the best is a coward and a sadist."

 
          
Claire
rubbed at her eyes. "I suppose I ought to cry, but I'm just too tired.
Everything seems so pointless, somehow. I know its just shock, but
—
" She shook her head.

           
They turned and began to walk back
to the car.

 
          
"
'But' nothing," Colin said firmly. "You've suffered a grave loss.
Take the time to grieve before trying to get on with things. Peter was a good
man. We will all miss him."

 
          
"But
it didn't help, did it, Colin? Being good, or ... anything. He still died,
didn't he? So what's the point? What's the point of doing anything?"

 
          
Colin
had no answers for her.

NEW YORK
,
WEDNESDAY,
APRIL 30,  1969

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long
unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for
a hand.

—
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

 
          
"THE
SUN! COMES THE SUN/ BY OAK AND ASH AND THORN, THE SUN.' COMES THE sun!"

 
          
He
was in some kind of temple, but he had never seen its like. Not dedicated to
the Light, nor yet tainted by service to the Great Dragon. Not Black, not White
—
but Grey, grey as mist. . .
.

 
          
"The
sun is coming up from the South!" cried the red-robed woman. "I call
thee: Abraxas, Metatron, Uranos
—
"

 
          
The
ancient Names echoed through the temple. Twelve great stones set in a ring, and
where the thirteenth should have been a great oak, its bark grey with weather
and age. The trunk split, and out of it stepped a Horned Man.

 
          
There
was a woman clothed in the sun; she stepped from the shadow of the red-robed
Caller to greet the Lord of the Oak. "Come, the Opener of the Way,"
she said.

 
          
"By
Abbadon! Meggido! Typhon! Set!" cried the red-robed woman. "Open now,
open now the Way!"

 
          
But
instead the Serpent raised its head, coiling over the three of them, dragging
them down into the Great Darkness as the church bells rang.

 
          
And
rang. . . and rang. . . .

 
          
Ringing
. . .

 
          
His
hand found the cold plastic of the receiver and lifted.

 
          
"Colin?
Colin, is that you? Please, Colin, are you there?"

 
          
The
words spilling out of the telephone in the dark were frantic, mixing
disorientingly with the dispelling mists of sleep in Colin MacLaren's mind.

           
"Yes, yes I'm here. Give me a
minute."

 
          
He
sat up, still clutching the receiver, and groped for the switch on his bedside
lamp. Outside the window he could hear the hiss of traffic on the rainy streets
outside his first floor right apartment. April in
New York
meant inclement weather,
and a proper spring storm was battering at the windows of the old brownstone.
The lights shining from the street made each separate droplet on the glass into
a tiny crystal prism.

 
          
Finally
he found the switch and turned on the light. Instantly the room shrank to its
daylight contours and he felt more awake.

 
          
"Colin
—
" the voice keened
through the open line, and finally he recognized it.

 
          
"Caroline?
Caro, is that you?"

 
          
Caroline
Jourdemayne was Katherine's twin sister; she worked as a librarian in a little
town called Rock Creek far up the
Hudson
in
Amsterdam
County
.

 
          
"Yes!
Oh, Colin
—
I didn't know who else to call, and
—
There are police
everywhere, and I don't know what to do. There's been a terrible accident
—
"

 
          
"Calm
down, Caroline. Of course I'll come. I'll be there as soon as I can. Where are
you?"

 
          
"Thorne's
place. Shadow's Gate. It's in Shadowkill
—
you just take the Taconic
north to Dutchess, then take 43 to 13. Please hurry, Colin!" He could hear
the tears in Caroline's voice, the terror that she tried so hard to hold at
bay.

 
          
"Caroline,
what's
—
"
Colin started to say. But the line went dead.

 
          
A
peal of thunder echoed through the sky, and the lights flickered; reason enough
for the connection to have been broken without him needing to think up any
darker explanation for it. Fortunately the service was still fine at this end.
Colin sighed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He pulled the phone over to
him and dialed another number. He glanced at his watch.
Three
A.M. Colin
groaned quietly, listening
to the distant ringing through the receiver. A hellish hour at which to have to
awaken someone.

 
          
But
his fears were groundless; Claire wasn't home. When her mother-in-law's death
—
of a stroke
—
had come only weeks after
Peter's murder, Claire had wanted a complete change of scene, and had accepted
Colin's suggestion of a move to
New York
. He'd been worried, when
the double tragedy had struck, that Claire would not survive it. Her initial
flight from everything she'd known, the violent rejection of her old life and
all connected with it, could have been the start of a downward spiral, but
Claire had pulled herself together and painstakingly rebuilt her life again.
Never, even in her darkest moments, had she rejected the promptings of the Gift
that infallibly led her to the side of people in trouble.

 
          
Colin
sighed again, then got up to dress. He would have liked to have had her with
him, but she was working as a private duty nurse these days and spent many
nights away from home. He'd phone her again from the road if opportunity
presented itself, otherwise, he could phone from Shadow's Gate.

           
Cornby's Garage, where Colin kept
his car, was just around the corner, and the walk finished the job of waking
him. By three-thirty he was on the road, heading north.

 
          
He'd
never been to Shadow's Gate, Thorne's magickal Elysium, before. Their
friendship had cooled a great deal since that day in the park, but the terms on
which he and Thorne had separated hardly mattered. Caroline had appealed to him
for help, and she would have all the help Colin had to give.

 
          
He
called again from the road. The phone lines were still down at the house, and
Claire still wasn't home
—
and even if she had been, it was a bit over two hours from
Manhattan
to Shadowkill. By the time
she could get here, the crisis would be over, so Colin hoped. He dreaded to
think what he'd find by the time he reached Shadow's Gate.

 
          
All
that he knew of Thorne's current activities came from seeing Thorne on
Johnny
Carson
last fall along with millions of other Americans. Thorne had been
wearing a silver headband set with moonstones, a pair of python-skin jeans, and
sunglasses which he'd refused to remove all the time he was on. He'd talked
about purchasing a magickal retreat, where he and his followers hoped to engage
in cutting-edge research into the nature of human reality.

 
          
Whatever
exploitation Thorne was engaged in these days, it seemed to be doing well for
him. He'd looked sleek and prosperous, a far cry from the scruffy and far-out
idealist that Colin had met in what now seemed like another lifetime.

 
          
The
sky was lightening with the first rays of dawn by the time he reached Shadow's
Gate, and the storm had blown over, leaving the sky scrubbed and clear, filled
with the last faint stars of morning. The gatehouse of Thorne's estate was
already barricaded by state and local police, two cars drawn across the
entrance, lights flashing.

 
          
"Sorry,
mister. Nobody's allowed in." The state trooper, faceless beneath his
broad-brimmed hat, leaned into Colin's car.

 
          
"My
name is Colin MacLaren," Colin said. "I'm a friend of the
family." Fortunately, Colin had continued to work with the police when
he'd relocated to
New York
; he pulled out Martin
Becket's card and offered it to the patrolman.

 
          
"You
can check my bona fides with Martin, if you like. His home number's on the
back." Detective Lieutenant Becket headed up NYPD's informal Occult
Crimes Unit, and he and Colin had worked together more than once.

 
          
"May
I take this for a moment, sir?" The statie's manner was a little more
respectful. He walked away, and returned with a quiet man in a grey suit and
hat who might as well have been wearing the letters "FBI" embroidered
on his suit pocket. Colin's heart sank. What kind of trouble had Thorne gotten
himself into now? Drugs?

 
          
But
Caroline had known Thorne from his
San Francisco
days, and a simple drug
bust would not have prompted such a frantic phone call.

 
          
"Dr.
MacLaren," he said. "I'm Special Agent Cheshire. What can we do for
you today?"

           
"You can let me in," Colin
said, beginning to become irritated. He plucked Becket's card from
Cheshire
's fingers. "A friend
of mine called and asked me to come here. She said there was some trouble, and
it looks as if there is. What's going on?"

 
          
"And
who would that be?"
Cheshire
asked, ignoring Colin's
questions.

 
          
Colin
debated telling him. The man had no right to question him
—
or, at least, Colin had a
right not to answer
—
but stonewalling Special Agent Cheshire wouldn't get Colin
into Shadow's Gate.

 
          
"A
friend of mine, Caroline Jourdemayne. She called me about two hours ago, but we
were cut off by the storm. Is she all right, Mr. Cheshire? She seemed to be
pretty upset."

 
          
The
agent smiled thinly. "An officer will drive you up to the house, Dr.
MacLaren."

 
          
Colin
didn't bother to argue. He got out of his car and climbed into the back of a
Dutchess County Sheriff's car. The car pulled away smoothly, passing through
the
mock-Neuschwanstein
ornament of the gatehouse, and heading up the
long drive. Shadow's Gate was set at the back of a hundred-acre parcel, and it
was almost a mile to the house.

 
          
"It's
good to see you here, Mr. MacLaren," the sheriffs deputy said. "You
won't remember me, but my name is Lockridge. Frank Lockridge. I was at an
interdepartmental inservice about Satanism and cult crimes that you spoke at
down in the city about eight months ago? It's been a real help
—
especially since
he
moved
in up here. I don't know who whistled you up this time, Professor, but I'm
damn glad to have you here."