Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (89 page)

 
          
Until
now.

 
          
"And
when was the last time anyone saw her?" he asked.

 
          
"August,"
Dylan said slowly. "As far as I can be sure. Between the end of the summer
session and the start of Freshmen Orientation."

 
          
"So
she mailed this a fortnight after she disappeared," Colin said.
"About six weeks ago, now." Another thought struck him. "Did you
spill anything on it?" He rubbed the title page between his thumb and
forefinger, listening to it crackle.

 
          
"No.
It was like that when it came. It must have gotten damp in the mail. She was
lucky I could read it at all; ink-jet printing dissolves when you get it wet. .
. ."

 
          
Colin
walked back into the living room, riffling the pages in his hand. There was
something nagging at the back of his mind.

 
          
It
was only reasonable that Rowan had destroyed her notes and drafts
—
or hidden them elsewhere
—
if she'd thought her
apartment might be searched. It would keep her hunters guessing about how much,
precisely, she knew. But why mail Dylan a copy of her dissertation after she'd
already "disappeared"? She had to assume that Dylan was under
surveillance as well
—
in fact, she knew he was, after he'd told her about those
phone calls he'd received. But she'd taken the risk anyway. Why? To send him a
message?

 
          
Old
customs, old habits half a century abandoned began to stir in the back of
Colin's mind. Tricks of tradecraft that had been carefully instilled in one
generation through careful training had become the prime-time entertainment of
the next. How many of them had Rowan known, and how many had she used?

 
          
"There
was no note or anything with it?" Colin asked.

 
          
"No,"
Dylan said slowly. "I was surprised that she'd mailed it instead of
dropping it off, of course, but when I saw what it was about I figured she was
just trying to stay out of my way until I'd calmed down. By the time I thought
to check the postmark or anything like that, the envelope was long gone."

 
          
Colin
opened the manuscript and turned back the covers. He held up the title page,
peering through it toward the light of the living room window. There were
lighter marks on the paper, almost like a watermark
—
but who used erasable,
watermarked paper to computer-print a manuscript on?

 
          
Dylan
watched him uncertainly.

 
          
"What
is it?"

 
          
"I'm
not sure yet." Colin sniffed at the page. Did it smell faintly of lemon?

 
          
There
was a floor lamp standing by the couch; Colin removed the shade and switched it
on.

 
          
"Oh,
come on, Colin, that's a copy of her dissertation!" Dylan burst out.
"What are you looking for
—
secret messages in invisible ink?"

 
          
"That's
exactly what I'm looking for," Colin told him grimly. Invisible messages,
written in an ink any agent
—
any
person
—
could easily buy and legitimately
possess: lemon juice. The stuff of old-time spy stories, long since passed into
common currency.

 
          
Under
the heat of the lamp, straggly lines of brown text slowly appeared under the
heat of the bulb. They covered the title page, written between the lines of
printed text.

 
          
"Dear
Dylan. Hope you figure this out. Attached are transcripts and notes. I'm
copying everything here and stashing the originals in a safe place
—
Nin can find the key if he
looks around the place and the rest should be obvious. Somebody has to do
something, and I guess it's me. 1 hope you aren't too mad"
the words stopped abruptly,
as if she'd meant to write more, and hadn't.

 
          
Dylan's
face was a study, caught halfway between a sense of the ridiculousness of the
situation and real worry at the fear that had caused Rowan to stoop to such a
method of sending her message.

 
          
"Who's
'Nin'?" Colin asked, handing the page to Dylan. Bringing up the writing on
the rest of the manuscript was going to be a long and tedious task; it would be
faster to find the originals Rowan mentioned.

 
          
"That
would be Ninian Bellamy, I guess," Dylan said. "They've worked together
on several occasions
—
they were in the graduate program together
—
but I wouldn't have said
they were close. I suppose I'd better call him. He's still in the area."

           
Dylan picked up Rowan's phone and
dialed a number. It seemed a tacit agreement between them that even if the
police were sometime to be called in on this case, there was nothing to find
here, no forensic evidence that they could disturb.

 
          
From
eavesdropping on Dylan's side of the conversation, Colin gathered that Ninian
was surprised to hear from Dylan and hadn't known that Rowan was missing.

 
          
"He'll
be here in about forty minutes," Dylan said, hanging up.

 
          
After
that, there was nothing to do but wait. Colin was tempted to work on the
manuscript, but restrained himself. The writing was safe for now
—
invisible. There'd be time
enough later. Colin leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. He had not
slept well last night, and most of today had been spent traveling. The
merciless inelasticity of age reminded him that he did not have the reserves of
youth to draw upon; all strength was gone, taken by time, leaving only the
skill behind.

 
          
But
sometimes skill alone was enough, if the skill were great enough. . . .

 
          
He
must have dozed off, because it seemed to Colin, with the reasonable il-logic
of dreams, that he was reading Rowan Moorcock's dissertation, and that it held
the answers to questions he had puzzled over in vain all through this life.
So
this is what it was all for. How simple
—
and how tragic. . . .

 
          
He
was jarred awake by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Colin got slowly to his
feet, shaking off the veils of sleep.

 
          
"I'll
get it," Dylan said, and a moment later, "Hi, Nin."

 
          
Ninian
Bellamy looked like a tubercular Victorian poet translated into the modern age.
He had long straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and his skin was
the milk-pale color of the Black Celt. His eyes were pale grey under straight
black brows, and he wore a dark tweed jacket with a black band-collar shirt
buttoned all the way to the throat. As an eccentric touch to his somewhat
formal outfit, he wore high-topped Converse sneakers instead of dress shoes.

 
          
"Glad
you could make it," Dylan said. "How's the dowsing business going?"

 
          
"Well
enough," Ninian said, shrugging with awkward embarrassment. He did not
seem so much hostile as simply confused about the reason for his presence.

 
          
"You
remember Dr. MacLaren," Dylan said. "Colin, this is Ninian Bellamy,
a former student of mine."

 
          
"Pleased
to meet you," Ninian said formally, though he kept his hands in his
pockets.

 
          
Colin
nodded to himself. If Ninian was making a living as a water-witch
—
an ancient profession that
modern business was willing to employ without understanding it
—
he undoubtedly had a fairly
high degree of psychic potential, and most psychics didn't like to be touched.

           
"I attended a lecture series of
yours a couple of years ago, though you probably won't remember," Ninian
said.

 
          
"And
stayed awake? I'm flattered," Colin said, making a small joke to defuse
the gravity of the situation.

 
          
"It
was interesting," Ninian said, as if by way of explanation. He looked back
at Dylan. "You want to tell me why the police aren't here if Ro's been
missing for a month?" he asked.

 
          
"Because"
—
Colin answered for Dylan
—
"we can't prove that
anything's happened to her. I think she's in trouble
—
she left some information
about it cached and a note saying you'd have the key to the depository."

 
          
"Me?"
The young man was obviously startled. "I haven't seen Ro in over a year.
I
wasn't the one who went for a doctorate in forensic psychometry that'd take
two extra years."

 
          
Colin
picked up the bound manuscript containing Rowan's invisible ink message and
passed it to Ninian. Ninian stared at it and shook his head, then looked at the
other side of the page.

 
          
"Thanks
a lot, Ro," he muttered, closing the manuscript and handing it back to
Colin. "Look, do you mind if I make myself some coffee before I try to
figure out what she was thinking
—
and I use the word in the loosest possible manner. I was
up all night trying to find an old sewer line about ninety miles north of here,
and I'm sort of bushed. I hate looking for water
—
it feels like banging on a
sore tooth," he added, half to himself.

 
          
"The
deli's around the corner," Dylan said, but Ninian shook his head.

 
          
"I
might as well make it here. She owes me coffee, for dragging me out like
this."

 
          
"You'll
have to take it black," Dylan warned. "Val's cleaned out the refrigerator."

 
          
Ninian
shrugged and walked off into the kitchen, still carrying the sheet of paper. He
might not be Rowan's closest friend, but he seemed to know his way around her
apartment.

 
          
Colin
sat down on the couch, prepared to be patient. Ninian wasn't one of his own
people; he might not be used to working with the quick decision that Colin
preferred. But on this occasion Colin had no choice: he needed everything that
Ninian could tell them, however little that might be.

 
          
But
Rowan must know as well as anyone the strange limitations that bound the use of
the psychic gift. How could she expect Ninian to find what an ordinary search
could not?

 
          
"Yuck,"
Ninian said comprehensively from the other room.

 
          
"What's
wrong?" Dylan demanded apprehensively.

 
          
"I
don't know who put
this
in the freezer, but it's time to throw it out.
Ro'd never eat something like that, and it's already melted anyway
—
see?"

 
          
Ninian
walked back into the living room, opening the carton of ice cream that Colin
had noticed earlier. There was a thick fuzz of ice crystals atop a smooth white
surface two inches below the top of the carton
—
it was as if the ice cream
had melted into liquid and then been refrozen.

           
"Well, toss it, then,"
Dylan said. "Or put it back in the fridge
—
we can take it out with us
when we leave."

 
          
Ninian
went back into the kitchen, and the other two heard clattering as he looked
around for coffee and sugar.

 
          
Invisible
ink,
Colin thought, still half-drowsy. Boys' Own Paper
cloak and dagger
stuff Why not believe in a literal key as well, hidden somewhere that Ninian
would find, once he started looking for it? But he wouldn't come here unless
someone found the note and called him
—
he said himself that he
hadn't seen Rowan since he graduated. So someone would have to call him. But if
it wasn't someone he trusted, he wouldn't be rummaging around the kitchen. . .
.