Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (36 page)

 
          
"Could
you tell me what's going on here? If the FBI doesn't mind, of course,"
Colin said.

 
          
Colin
could see Frank Lockridge grimace in the rearview mirror. "Once the
Fibbies get into a case, that's usually the end of it. They think this
son-of-a-bitch
Blackburn
was mixed up with the
Weathermen, and that's all they care about."

 
          
"'Was'?"
Colin seized upon the word.

 
          
"Definitely
past tense, for my money. They've been waiting for dawn to search the woods,
but they aren't going to find him. He's run far and fast, and I can't say I
blame him. That, or he's dead."

 
          
Thome
dead. No wonder Caroline had sounded so upset on the phone, if that were true.
Colin knew that Caroline Jourdemayne had loved Thorne nearly as much as her
twin did, but had been unwilling to follow him as blindly. His death would
devastate her.

 
          
Colin
pieced the story together from his own knowledge as well as from what Frank
Lockridge told him on the long drive up to the house.

 
          
The
Dutchess County Sheriff's department had been first on the scene, a little
after
two o'clock
this morning. There'd been a call for an ambulance, which
had taken away one Katherine Jourdemayne, pronounced dead on the scene by the
medical examiner, autopsy pending. According to Deputy Lockridge, the whole
house had reeked of incense, pot, and worse, and there was evidence that a
Satanic ritual had been in progress at the time the girl died.

           
The authorities very much wished to
question Katherine's lover, Thorne Blackburn, but no one could find him.
Meanwhile, everyone in the house was being held as material witnesses to the
crime, if crime it truly was.

 
          
Colin
wanted to ask Lockridge a question, but just then the car came over the rise,
and he caught his first glimpse of Shadow's Gate.

 
          
The
sprawling Victorian, made of red brick and the pale local stone, had much the
same look of a fairy-tale castle as the gatehouse had. Three cone-roofed towers
set with long narrow windows rose up from the corners of the rambling
structure, and clustered around the front door were more emergency vehicles.
The surrounding grounds were covered with storm detritus, and Colin could see
the white scars of downed trees all across the grounds and into the forest
beyond. The echoes of some force greater than the storm still echoed over these
hills.

 
          
"And
none of those kids'll give us the time of day. They keep yammering on about
First Amendment rights
—
dammit, this is a murder investigation!"

 
          
Katherine
dead, Thorne missing. And the police willing to believe it's murder because of
Thome's reputation, and the FBI involved because of. . . the Weather Underground?
That's ridiculous!

 
          
"How
did Miss Jourdemayne die?" Colin asked, voice even. Thorne had never used
any safeguards in his rituals, and now the retribution had come.

 
          
"Drugs,
probably. That's what the ME said." Lockridge shrugged. "Stark naked,
and not a mark on her that I saw.
Hippies."

 
          
The
contempt in his voice was indictment enough.

 
          
The
survivors of Thome's band
—
already that seemed the right word to use
—
had been gathered in the
dining room. Other than the wan light of dawn streaming in through the windows,
the only illumination in the room was provided by candles: the power was out at
Shadow's Gate.

 
          
He
saw Jonathan Ashwell, still in his ritual robes, stroking the back of a weeping
woman. Since the last time Colin had seen him, Jonathan had grown a beard; it
was dark and bushy, and with his long hair, it gave him a passing resemblance
to the mad monk Rasputin. About half of those gathered in the room were still
wearing their ritual robes, and of the rest, some were in pajamas, some in
street clothes. Caroline, wearing a sensible pantsuit and aviator-frame
glasses, looked as if she had come from another world. Several of the women
were holding crying babies, and young children clung to the adults' legs and
whimpered. Most of the women, and some of the men, were crying, sobbing
unashamedly as children. How could anyone think that Thorne Blackburn was a
fugitive, when here in this room was all the evidence of his death that anyone
should ever need?

 
          
With
the grieving survivors surrounding him, the anguish of the tragedy was
overpowering. Sternly, Colin forced himself to concentrate, to shut out the
emotions that filled this room, the sea of agony through which the officers walked
as if it didn't exist.

 
          
"Colin!"
Caroline said, coming over to him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and
she'd been crying for so long her eyes were swollen and dry. She threw her arms
around him
—
a young woman who had suffered the most intimate of all
bereavements, the loss of a twin, desperate for comfort.

 
          
For
a moment he simply held her as her body shook with unsheddable tears. Then she
pushed herself away.

 
          
"Caroline?"
Colin asked. He needed to know what had happened here. She shook her head, as
if no matter what he said, she had no answer.

 
          
"Caroline,
where's Thorne?"

 
          
Her
eyes focused on him then, fathomless wells of pain. "I don't know. They
were all in the temple. I helped both of them get ready for the ritual. And . .
. Katherine's dead," she finished, as if it were a new discovery.

 
          
"I
know," Colin said gently.

 
          
Colin
could feel the seething currents of violence that eddied beneath every action
in this room. Thorne had not been well liked in Shadowkill, and he'd never done
well with authority at the best of times. With a pang of memory, Colin thought
back to that day in
Golden Gate
Park
. Two years ago. A lifetime
for Thorne Blackburn.

 
          
The
deputy standing in the doorway glared at Colin. "And who the hell let you
in here?"

 
          
"MacLaren's
our big city voodoo expert," Deputy Lockridge said mildly, defusing the
scene as much as he could. "Let me see if I can find Detective Hodge and
see what he wants done, Mr. MacLaren." He walked away quickly.

 
          
Colin
spared a useless wish that Claire were here. Somehow she always had the ability
to calm tense situations just by her presence. He could use a little of that
calm now.

 
          
"It's
no use," Caroline said quietly, in a voice made rough by weeping.
"They hate him too much. He made fools of them and now they're going to
destroy everything he ever worked for. It's finished. The New Aeon is
dead."

 
          
A
redhead in a red robe, her heavy makeup running down her face in black
tear-streaks, came over and put her arms around Caroline.

 
          
"Now
hush, lovey. Kate's gone on to a better place, you know that. And Thorne . . .
don't you grieve for him. He's free. No one can hurt him now." Colin
recognized Irene Avalon from Thorne's
San Francisco
days. She looked at Colin
beseechingly. "Make them let us go, Colin," she begged. "We
haven't done anything. And there are children here." She pointed at the
corner where a black-haired toddler slept on a folded blanket, clutching a battered
teddy bear to her cheek.

 
          
"Get
your hands off me!"

 
          
Colin
turned toward the familiar voice in time to see a uniformed officer shove
Jonathan Ashwell back into a chair. Colin could just imagine what he looked
like to the officer, between the long hair and the ritual robes.
Just another
wild-eyed loonie, right, boys?
Colin thought derisively.

 
          
"Just
cool your heels, sonny-boy," a uniformed officer said.

 
          
"You
Nazi Neanderthal," Jonathan snarled. "You've got no right to hold us
here. You're tearing the house apart
—
where's your warrant?
'Miranda
was ratified three years ago!"

 
          
"I'll
see what I can do," Colin said to Irene. He walked over to Jonathan.

           
"Suspicion of a crime in
progress, longhair," the officer snarled at Jonathan. "And I'll
'Miranda
your ass, you little
—
"

 
          
"Back
off, pig, or I'll have you up on charges faster than you can say 'ACLU,' "
Jonathan snarled. The mingled anger and grief with which he regarded the
policeman did nothing to make him look any saner.

 
          
"Jonathan,"
Colin said quietly. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

 
          
"Hey,"
the uniformed officer said. "The lieutenant doesn't want these guys
talking to each other."

 
          
"Arrest
me, pork rind," Jonathan sneered.

 
          
The
officer started for him; Colin hastily interposed his body between them.

 
          
"Jonathan,
shut up. Officer, I'm Colin MacLaren; I'm a consultant to the New York City
Police Department. This young man is one of my former students. I'd appreciate
the opportunity to talk to him."

 
          
Colin
had told no lies, but he had subtly managed to convey the notion that he had
been called in by the police. He saw the uniformed officer relax and step back.

 
          
"Sure.
Take him on into the kitchen. There's coffee there."

 
          
Colin
took Jonathan's arm and led him through into the house's old Victorian
kitchen. It had obviously become a base of operations for the police; there
were several cardboard boxes on the kitchen table, filled with Styrofoam coffee
cups bearing the logo of a deli down in Shadowkill. Colin sorted through until
he found two that were full, and handed one to Jonathan.

 
          
"Now.
Quickly, as we may not have much time. Tell me what happened here, Jonathan. I
have to know before I can help."

 
          
"Thorne's
gone."

 
          
The
last time Colin had seen such a look of blank bewilderment in someone's eyes
it had been in the eyes of the refugees in the DP camps after the War. He pushed
the memory aside.

 
          
"Gone
where, Jonathan?"

 
          
"Gone."
Jonathan shrugged helplessly, much as Caroline had done. "Kate's
dead," he added, as if this were news.

 
          
"Tell
me what happened," Colin said.

 
          
He
was unprepared for Jonathan's answer.

 
          
"No."

 
          
Colin
stared at him in disbelief.

 
          
"I
can't. You aren't Sealed to the Circle. I can't tell you what happened. You're
not one of us."

 
          
"For
God's sake, Jonathan," Colin burst out, before he could stop himself,
"this is serious!"
And I would have given the same answer, if our
positions had been reversed.

 
          
"So
is the Work," Jonathan said wearily. With a gallant effort, he pulled
himself together. "Do you think I don't know what's going to happen when
we tell the police that? If they're going to hold us as material witnesses, we
don't have any Miranda rights
—
not to an attorney, and not to a trial. It isn't going to
be pretty, but we haven't got any choice. But I'll tell you what I can. Maybe
Caroline can tell you more
—
she isn't one of us. Not Sealed to the Circle, at least,
but I know she believes in what Thorne's doing. Anyway, we were doing a working
tonight, during a big storm. Something . . . went wrong."