Holes in the Firmament

Part 15

Dana Barrett

"Damn him," I growled, slamming down the phone hard enough to crack it if it had been a genuine Princess. Modern plastics are wonderful.

I tapped my finger on the phone twice while I tried to think. The last time Yeager had contacted me was more than two years ago, and I'd thought I'd made it plain at the time I didn't want to hear from him again once our business was done. Sighing, I reached for the drink I'd set on the bar next to the phone when it rang and sipped; the Gibson's had turned ice cold in the few minutes of conversation and begun to melt the ice in the glass. I swirled the mix of water and gin and sipped again; better.

"Problems, sweet Dana?"

A pair of arms wrapped around my waist a second before sharp teeth nipped at my neck and I felt myself shiver. I twisted in my entertainment's grip and smiled at him, pale, watery sunlight filtering through the drapes and turning afternoon to early evening.

"Just the director, letting me know about some rehearsal changes." I smiled into intense brown eyes before shifting my weight and letting one hip press briefly against his crotch. The hardness there was very promising. "Nothing to worry us, dear Janosz."

"Excellent," his voice was raspy and I felt the edge of his teeth on my throat before his mouth moved to the top of my shoulder. I heard a zipper and then cool air and hot flesh scraped along my back while my dress slid to the floor. Turpentine and acetone had roughened the skin of Janosz' hands, and the slight abrasiveness felt good.

I stepped back and Janosz let me, reaching again to set my drink down. I shook my hair back, feeling the auburn lengths brush soft along my pale skin. I was beautiful, desirable in stockings and heels, and it wasn't just the look in my new admirer's eyes that told me so as I led him down the short hall to my bed.

I knew it because I'd paid for it.

I woke several hours later, the light from the kitchen spilling palely down the hallway. Janosz slept next to me, his breathing heavy and animal, much as he'd been when we'd first fallen onto my sheets. I slid carefully from the bed, wincing slightly from the ache in my thighs and back. Janosz had been as enthusiastic as I'd thought he might be, an artist who was starved for more than one thing. I understood his new position with the Museum of Art was something important enough to keep him from being hungry much longer.

Fortunate for him, as my own hunger had fed from his talent and now lay curled inside me, sated for the moment.

I studied him, lying tangled in the bedclothes, olive-tinged golden skin gleaming in light reflected from the hall, and lightly traced the line of his hip, enjoyed the feel of his skin and the warmth in my stomach, my own talent full and purring. I knew exactly how it would proceed, could picture it in my mind's eye, the next time he picked up a brush. He would stand there in front of the canvas, blank or partially so, and find himself unable to paint. At first he would put it down to lack of inspiration, or a vague sense of not feeling 'right'. Soon, his frustration would grow, as the same lack appeared each time he approached the easel. He would paint then, anything and everything, throwing paint at the canvas in an attempt to create, but nothing would satisfy.

Then would come the time of paint and shred, paint and shred, when Janosz would take a knife to each canvas, destroying what he desperately wanted to build. Eventually he would turn fire and steel on his finished pieces, and then finally, desperately, on himself. Another failed starving artist, sacrificed on the altar that was New York ; his obituary would be two lines on a back page, the last fifteen minutes of fame he ever got.

Pity.

Quiet in the dim light I slid from the bed and peeled off the shreds of my stockings, then threw on a light wrap before returning to the kitchen and flicking off the light there. In darkness I dumped the remnants of our drinks out and poured myself a fresh one before moving to the loveseat that looked out the balcony window.

The sun had set, but bottom-lit storm clouds poured themselves into ever-changing molds against the backdrop of blackness and scattered stars. Below me, Manhattan sprawled like a beacon, neither fair weather nor foul stopping it from living. Paris was the City of Lights , but Manhattan was the City of Life .

I shivered and curled my legs tighter underneath me, burying my toes in the cushions for warmth, the plush velvetiness tickling along my feet. I sat in darkness, suspended between heaven and earth, and the coldness of it clawed at my throat, dispelling the last of the heat from my feeding.

Sipping slowly at the gin, I held the coldness in my mouth and closed my eyes, concentrating on the taste. The liquid warmed in my mouth and vapors drifted in the back of my throat, winding their way into my nose. I swallowed, finally, warmth sliding down my throat to my stomach. That was all there was, the heat and cold, wet and dry.

Water in my mouth, rain between my legs.

Sixteen years since I'd last tasted food or drink.

Memory flashed and I felt my head drop to the back of my couch, eyes closed while I struggled to force it down, back, lock it in the closet with everything else I hated about my past. My past wasn't me, wasn't now, and me and now were what was important. I fought them, conjuring flames to burn them away, summoning the raucous cacophony of the orchestra tuning up, the precise way notes marched across a score and it was, inevitably, the music that betrayed me, just as it always had.

Violins.

Mama loves violins, I thought, smiling, as I made my way across the room to the punchbowl, enjoying the rustle my new dress made. Pale green, taffeta and silk, just the slightest bit of old-fashioned elegance in the style, and bought for my upcoming fourteenth birthday. I loved the way it looked, and for once it was a dress that improved my own plainness to almost-pretty.

Papa was talking to one of his many business partners when I arrived. He smiled down at me with approval and I couldn't help but smile back.  Steve might have been his son, but I was his daughter, and our relationship was different from Steve's and his. Papa patted me on my shoulder, squeezing just a hint too tightly, in the way that always told me that we would have our special time together after the partygoers had left.

Then his hand left my shoulder and the smile turned to a disapproving frown. For a moment I thought he might have changed his mind, that perhaps there was something about my gown or comportment that he didn't like, until I saw where he looked. Steve, just coming in the front door in his new tux, bought for his graduation and acceptance at Columbia , and right behind him my knight.

Peter looked magnificent and uncomfortable, as if the tux he was wearing was lined with needles. A rental, I realized, catching the tell-tale hints of a poorly fit coat. But still, the black and white suited him, showed off the leanness of his body and the pale skin. His green eyes were glowing, and even from here I could see a slight mushiness around his mouth, as if he'd been slapped.

Or kissed.

And I knew which one my money was on.

Papa waved to Steve, who nodded back and turned to say something to Peter. I watched Peter slip away, blending into the crowd in that way of disappearing he had. I knew what to look for, and kept my eyes on where I knew he'd reappear. Sure enough, less than a minute later he reappeared in the shadows by the stairs.

Not wanting to be there when Steve and Papa went another round over Steve's wanting Peter at his graduation party I did my own fade out and made my way back to my nook at the window seat. From there I could sit behind the edge of the curtains and watch the entire party; more importantly I could watch Peter watching the party and pretend he was looking for me.

I was well into a nice dream of Peter as the nervous suitor finally getting up the courage to make his way over to me and introduce himself when somebody else took their own refuge in my nook.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone else was here."

I looked up at an old man, tall and thin, and oddly put together. His suit was good quality, and there was something about him that reminded me of the priests at Saint Kate's, with an edge of rotten meat. I said nothing, waiting to see what he wanted. This was my house, after all.

"You must be Dr. Barrett's daughter. I'm Dr. Yeager." He held out one hand and carefully took my own, shaking it formally before sitting down next to me. "I'll be one of your brother's teachers at Columbia next year, as well as one of his mentors. But tell me, Miss Barrett, hat are you thinking about, sitting here by yourself with such a happy look?"

That had been the beginning of our infrequent associations. Two years later I'd found myself naked on the roof of a building while he fucked me in exchange for what I'd thought I wanted. He'd never mentioned that my talent would be at the cost of feeding it off others, or that food would be like ashes on my tongue. Never mentioned that while Peter would be mine, that didn't mean he'd stay, or that he'd even recognize me. I'd put that down to the change in my appearance, from ugly duckling to swan, but over the years I'd begun to doubt that Peter had ever even really seen me as anything except Steve's little tagalong sister.

I'd kept tabs on Yeager over the years, meeting him occasionally at my parents' house at parties or business gatherings, University fund-raisers mostly. At every chance I'd nag him; when was Peter going to be mine? All the rest I'd gotten just as he promised, from movie-star looks to Julliard-graduation. It was years after before Peter fell into my bed and showed me exactly what my brother had seen in him. Yeager had put it down to not having been able to find him, but since Peter had attended Columbia and was an active alumni, I knew Yeager had to be lying. After that weekend I'd quit hounding Yeager, certain I could win Peter over on my own now that we'd been together once, but since then Peter had never gone beyond flirtation no matter the opportunity I gave him.

Two years ago Yeager had approached me again, this time looking for an introduction to one of the music students at Columbia, one I hadn't been anxious to give since at the time Peter still hadn't asked me out. Imagine my surprise at my Peter's interest in pursuing me once Yeager needed something from me.

As a celebrated alumnus with a prominent position at the Symphony, the staff in the music department at Columbia were fairly well known to me, making it an easy request to grant. Introductions made, I forgot about the whole thing until a passing glance at the Times revealed the boy had disappeared, only to resurface a week later, victim of some bizarre ritual leading to attempted murder.

Just as I'd known what happened to Steve that weekend, I knew instantly Yeager was responsible for Monroe 's disappearance. Oh, not the details; my parents had never shared those with me, and, frankly, I didn't really care. The Golden Boy had gotten what he deserved, leaving the way clear for me to finally take center stage.  But because I'd helped Yeager with Steve, arranged for Yeager to know times and places, I'd become a party to murder myself, making it impossible for me to say anything to the police. Not to mention the implication I'd been the one to set up the Monroe twit for attack.

Now Yeager wanted my help again, and just the memory of Peter moving against me was enough to make me yield to the request. Besides, I was already chest deep in one murder and one attempt, how much more tarnished could I be by finishing off the second one?

Then something else occurred to me. Based on past performance, Yeager had no way to guarantee that Peter would be mine to keep, the knight finally falling at his princess' feet forever. But what if I not only found the Monroe kid, but kept him until I was sure Yeager could deliver? From campus gossip and the occasional follow-up report on the news, the kid was still catatonic and nobody knew if he'd ever come out of it. It would be easy enough for someone resourceful to tuck him away in a certain Vermont cabin I knew of with a private nurse and plenty of supplies for six months or so.

Ice water dripped from the side of my glass to my leg, startling me out of my thoughts, pleasant though they were. I set the glass on the coffee table and stood, the beginnings of a plan forming, but most of the details would have to wait until morning. In the meantime, Janosz was still in my bed, and although I'd already consumed the bulk of his talent, there was probably still enough left for a nibble or two, and my own beast was still feeling a bit—peckish.

Janosz, it turned out, not only had a few tidbits of talent left, he had enough left over to satisfy us both twice more. When morning finally came and he left me for his own apartment, I hoped his job at the museum restoring several lost masterpieces and putting together an exhibit was enough to distract him from his own loss for a while. I really wanted him to chase me into bed a few more times before he killed himself.

I showered and changed, choosing a beige wool suit that made me look conservatively glamorous, and left my apartment for the first stop on my list of things that needed to be done. The elevator was on the floor above mine; anticipation itched at me but went unscratched when it reached my floor and there was no Peter Venkman on board. Instead I moved aside for the cleaning lady to move her cart out, then stepped in and hit the button for the lobby. Worse yet, the damn thing stopped six more times on the way down, and I had to made conversation with a smug, acne-scarred middle manager for half of the ride. His hand touched the small of my back when he ushered me out, casually drifting across my rear when his arm dropped. I shot him a glance meant to freeze him out until I caught sight of a very promising bulge that changed my glare to a smile.

A need for talent wasn't the only hunger Yeager had left me with; my looks needed to be—appreciated on a regular basis as well.

But really, first things first, and a stop at a local florist provided four different arrangements as well as half a dozen cards, two of which I signed using different handwriting styles, the other four going into my purse for later.

Next stop was Columbia itself, and the music department. Shortly after nine and the campus was packed. It took me almost twenty minutes to find a parking spot where I was fairly sure my car wouldn't get damaged by some kid with a Pinto and no insurance. Fortunately for me, the constant rain of the last weeks had eased, and the occasional patch of pale blue could be spotted here and there. The turn in the weather made my walk across campus much more pleasant.

The Dodge building was much the same as it had been when I'd been a student, despite the millions of dollars in endowments the department received every year. I reached the doors just as classes ended, and ducked out of the way just in time to avoid getting hit by them when the swarm of anxious students poured out. Making my way inside I debated waiting for the ancient elevator but instead settled for the stairs and started down to the basement offices.

My heels rang hollowly in the stairwell and I walked inside the office just in time to watch a plump little blonde aide slam the phone down hard enough to strike the chimes.

"Ungrateful, miserable, louse!" The young woman shook one fist at the phone while she dug in her desk with the other, coming up with a slightly battered box of tissues. She plucked one from the box and blew her nose, tossing the package back in the drawer and slamming it shut before returning to her typewriter.

"Maybe you should just dump him," I suggested cautiously from the counter when it appeared the blonde girl hadn't noticed me.

"Oh," she gasped, spinning in the ancient chair. Face forward she appeared to have a porcelain doll sort of prettiness, her pale, round face topped with a mop of short curls. Her faded blue tshirt proclaimed she was "sarcastic and proud" and matched her faded blue jeans perfectly.

"Can I help you?" she asked, recovering from her surprise.

"I hope so," I said, giving her the most gracious smile I could produce. "I'm looking for Dr. Michaels, is he in?"

She rose and walked around her desk to the counter, a faint frown gathering around her chin. "He's in class right now, but if you just need a drop signed I can do it for you."

I laughed; good heavens, what did the chit think I was, some kid's mother? "No, no," I paused and arranged my words. "I'm…Dana Barrett. I used to attend school here; Dr. Michaels was one of my professors and I just wanted to ask him something."

Her chin came up and the frown deepened. "Well, I can take a message if you don't want to wait."

I hesitated, as if considering. "It's just that—did you know Alex? Alex Monroe?"

Baby blue eyes went big. "Sure, everybody knew Alex, poor kid."

I nodded and smiled, making it a little warmer while I smothered a laugh at this child calling him 'kid'. "Maybe you can help then. It's just, a lot of us with the Symphony thought he had a lot of talent, a lot of promise. We were talking about him at rehearsal last week, and thought we ought to do something to help out his family." I made a helpless little gesture with my hands. "So here I am, with a car full of plants and cards, and a check from the Director and nowhere to send them. I thought Dr. Michaels might be able to give me his parents' address, or even just a phone number?"

Some of the suspicion eased when I pulled out the handful of cards I'd stuck in my purse and waved them in front of her. "Alex was a really nice guy, and I know his folks have been having a hard time with the whole mess," the girl said. "I guess it would be okay if I gave you the address, it's listed after all."

"Thank you so much," I said sincerely when she turned away to search for the listing. After all, she'd just shortened my job by at least an hour; I'd expected to have to dig a little harder to find someone this easy to persuade. "Don't they live in Pennsylvania ?" I asked her back, knowing perfectly well they did. Out of state residency was one of the reasons Yeager had picked the kid; people were less likely to wonder when he didn't return after spring break.

"Yeah, I think so," the aide said. "Here it is," she turned to her desk and scribbled something down on a sticky note. "Cardinal, Pennsylvania ." She passed me the note, looking much happier. "I guess you really did know him."

"Why do you say that?" I asked, glancing at the note before sliding it into my purse.

She shrugged. "Well, if you'd just been guessing you'd probably say he was from New York ; most of the students here are, after all."

"I see," I looked back at the girl and gave her a bright smile. "Well, thanks so much for your help, if I want to get there before dinner I better hit the road."

"Say 'hi' to Alex's folks for all of us," the blonde waved as I walked out the door.

"Oh, I will," I called back over my shoulder. "After all, a live lump is much preferable to a dead one in this case," I muttered, careful to make sure nobody heard me.

Cardinal, it turned out, was a former mining outpost just over the border. I stopped for lunch at about my halfway point, and arrived at the outskirts of town a little after four. This late in the year the sun set early, and even though the skies had cleared by the time I hit the state line the light was dim. Streetlights helped a little, but dusk light was uncertain, and I missed the street and had to stop at a grubby pink diner to get directions. Even as rumpled as the long drive had made me I noticed several more-than-admiring glances aimed in my direction from some of the locals, although they gave the same looks to my car.

I backtracked for a few minutes and made the turn I'd missed, then slowed and stopped in front of a white clapboard house set back only a few yards from the street. I listened to the reassuring purr of my Jag while I considered the genteel poverty of the street around me. A neighborhood of narrow wooden houses, most with some plot of grass and dirt, ornamented with wintering shrubs and brightly colored plastic toys, the aura of second-hand sameness around them made the very air gritty in my mouth.

With a last, discontented engine rumble, I stopped in front of 117 Grande and snorted at one of life's little ironies. Quickly I checked my appearance in the vanity mirror before I slid from behind the wheel, dragging my purse and one of the smaller arrangements with me. Looking around while I closed the door I noted a trio of boys, teenagers by their looks, watching me from their spot under the corner streetlight. I watched them back for a few seconds, long enough to take their measure as biggest fish in a small pond; too bad for them I learned to swim with sharks.

Turning back to the business at hand I started up the cracked concrete driveway to the gate of the small fenced yard. Before I'd made it halfway a woman stepped from the shadows by the door to the edge of the porch.

"Can I help you?" she asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

I paused at the bottom of the steps. "This is…the Monroe residence, isn't it? Alex Monroe's house? I'm…looking for his parents, actually." I let hesitance and uncertainty seep into my voice.

"Yes, yes it is. I'm Dot Monroe, Alex's mom." The woman cocked her head, birdlike, while she studied me.

"I'm Dana, Dana Barrett. With the Symphony." I reached one hand out and nearly dropped the plant I held in the other. Juggling frantically to keep from either dropping it or smearing dirt on my new cashmere jacket I didn't notice Dot Monroe dash down the steps until her worn hands deftly snatched the hapless greenery from my grip.

Her hands were strong and capable, a perfect match for the rest of her. Out from the shadow of the porch the top of her head came to my chin, and I saw she had thick, gray-streaked, mouse- brown hair cut into short curls. The curls wrapped around a slightly rounded jaw and sharply pointed chin that made me think she might have been pretty at one time, until blue-collar reality had dragged her down into middle-age. Cornflower blue eyes surrounded by permanent looking red met my own over a wry smile.

"Can I offer you some coffee?"

Momentarily confused I blinked and nodded, following the woman in the worn housedress up the steps and inside. The livingroom had the same worn-but-tidy look as the outside of the house. I took a seat on a flowered sofa, trying to keep the thing from swallowing me in the sunken spots.  Mrs. Monroe disappeared into what I expected was the kitchen, reappearing with two mugs of coffee on a tray with sugar and creamer. She set the tray on the small coffee table and picked up her own mug before taking a seat in the armchair across from me.

We stared at each other for a good twenty seconds before she broke the silence.

"So. What brings you to Cardinal, Miss Barrett?"

I swallowed my coffee and set the mug back down on the tray. "It's about Alex, of course," I said, reaching for my purse. "How is he doing?"

From the corner of my eye I watched Mrs. Monroe study me, a slightly pinched look around her mouth passing in moments. Could there be a little trouble here? Something I could exploit? Ignoring her look I kept digging into my purse and pulled out the prepared cards and the check I'd written at lunch.

"Well as can be expected, really." Suddenly she sighed and studied the contents of her cup, swirling it slightly before setting it aside. "Dr. Venkman is certain he'll come through, but—"

"Venkman? Dr. Peter Venkman?" I cut in, looking up in surprise.

"You know him?" Relief flooded her face and the half-sensed tension went out of her, along with her sense of caution.

"We live in the same building. His apartment's right above mine."

"Well. Small world isn't it?" She clapped her hands together and laughed slightly.

"Isn't it? And knowing Peter, if he says Alex is going to be fine, you can take it to the bank." I nodded sharply, emphasizing my words.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that from someone else for a change. Grey can get so—difficult—about the whole thing sometimes."

"Grey?"

"My husband." She nodded at the pictures over the mantle at the end of the narrow room. "Ever since Dr. Venkman got Alex into Morningside, Grey has been so easy to upset."

With a quick glance for permission I stood and crossed the room. Dozens of pictures, lovingly cared for and achingly posed decorated the shelf. In the center was a small family group; Dot Monroe, one arm around a tall, horsefaced and gangly boy with the same intensely cornflower blue eyes. A tall man, hair so blond it was almost white, and with the same long face as the kid's stood with his arm around her shoulders. From the background it looked like a vacation photo taken at some amusement park; maybe even Coney. I touched the gilt frame, careful that none of the glitz rubbed off onto my fingers, and returned to the couch.

"So does—Morningside, you said? Do they specialize in cases like Alex's?"

I could see her struggle; keep the tragedy in the family, or take advantage of a friendly ear, even if it's attached to a stranger. I widened my eyes slightly and gave her a soft smile.

"No, nothing like that, although now that you mention it, their patients *are* an odd assortment," she prattled on for several minutes about leukemia patients and old people while I sipped at my cooling coffee and nodded at the right places. "I'm sorry," she stopped herself suddenly, "I don't usually run off like that. You came all this way for a reason, Miss Barrett, how can I help you?"

How noble, I sneered to myself, to put aside your grief after waving it under my nose, just to help me.

"Actually, it's about Alex," I said firmly, "and after hearing about Morningside, I have a feeling it's fairly expensive?" I raised one eyebrow in polite question, watching a little of the suspicion flutter back across her face. I waited for her nod until I continued.  Probably the source of stress between her and her husband; blue collar salaries didn't usually run to exclusive sanitariums."Well, I don't know how much this will help then," I said, reaching for the check. "There were quite a few of us in the orchestra that thought Alex had real talent, could become a huge success in music if he wanted to, so we put together a little fund-raiser and then they sent me here to turn it over to you."

I watched her take the check for five thousand, three hundred, ninety-seven dollars, and thirteen cents, saw the shock on her face at the amount, and smiled.

"I…I don't know what to say." She looked up. "I can't take this, really I can't; besides, the State pays for most of Alex's care because he was—is a victim of a violent crime." She started to push the check back at me.

"You can, and you will," I said firmly, looking her right in the eyes. "We want to help, and if any of us had known Alex was in Morningside we would have visited as well as done this little bit. If you don't need to pay for his treatment," and what kind of line did she think she was feeding me with that statement, "then use it to brighten up his days."

Mrs. Monroe looked close to tears, a state I thought she probably spent quite a bit of time in. "That's…that's just so wonderful, to think that people loved his music so much, even though he wasn't planning on following that path."

He wasn't? What was this? "Yes, we were all happy when he announced his path, even though it was a blow to the department." What the hell was she talking about?

"He always had a heavenly voice, and I'm sure that God will still find a path for Alex in His service."

A priest?

I fought down nausea, reminding myself I was already damned, how much worse could this make it? Still, it took a moment to force myself to my feet. "I'm sure He will, Mrs. Monroe. But it's getting late and I'm sure you have plenty to do still tonight." I waved my hand in the direction of the plant, cards, and now check, resting on the table. "Oh, and there are three other arrangements the department secretaries sent over as well in the back of my car. Could I impose on you to give me a hand with the plants?"

"Of course," she bustled to her feet and headed for the door. "Are you staying in town tonight or headed further downstate aways?" she asked, holding the screen for me then waiting while I unlocked the doors of my car.

I passed her the two smaller arrangements and took the large basket myself. "Actually I have to start back tonight; I have reservations in Forktown, so I should make it back to the City late morning, early afternoon."

"At The Inn there?" she asked. When I nodded she kept on, "That's an excellent hotel, we always stay there on the way up and back on visiting weekends."

"I'll let them know, shall I?" I smiled brightly, setting the basket on the table next to the coffee service. Straightening I held out my hand and let her shake it warmly. "It was good to meet you," I said by way of parting. "Maybe we'll run into each other sometime."

"That would be nice," she smiled back, agreeable, then waited on the porch while I crossed the yard and slid behind the wheel of my car.

A final wave and I was off.

Frustrated beyond belief, I slammed the phone book closed with an echoing thud, meeting the librarian glare for glare at the noise it made. I'd checked every phone book and journal in the library, and all I had to show for it was a massive headache and a collection of papercuts.

Morningside didn't exist.

I heaved a sigh and rested my head in my hands, eyes closed against the throbbing in my temples. My nose and throat rasped with every breath from the dry air. All morning I could feel the pages under my fingers, sucking the juices from my skin. Dammit, if I could just think.

All right, Dana, be logical about this.

Option one: Morningside exists. It's real, with real walls, and floors, and ceilings; with electric bills and leaky water pipes. It had to have an address, as well as a phone.

Option two: Dot Monroe suspected something and fed me a prepared story. Alex had been a victim in an attempted murder, it was likely the police had equipped her with a cover story if someone came calling.

Option two made my stomach twist into a lump and I kept my head down until I was sure my face didn't show anything. Could I have just walked into a trap? Did the police know more than Yeager suspected? Was he setting me up?

My lip twitched at the last thought. No, Yeager wouldn't dare set me up. I might be guilty as an accomplice, but his hand held the blade. Hell, I hadn't even been present when it happened. I had air tight alibis, as well as enough information to push any threats back in his direction.

I stood up and collected my purse, leaving the stack of yellow pages on the table. Something told me Dot Monroe wasn't lying. Morningside existed. Which meant it was time to go to the horse's mouth, and see if I could get my dear, dear, doctor to open up a little.

Traffic was light for mid-week and mid-afternoon and I made it across the bridge and home in record time, habit guiding me in the right moves and turns. I locked my car in the park and noticed Peter's was still in its own place.

How…odd. It was rare that he was here during the day; his practice always seemed to take precedence over everything with him. Something that I sincerely loathed, even though I knew it meant he could continue to keep me in my current lifestyle after we were married. But if he were still home, then I had a good chance of catching him if I staked out the lobby.

The doorman, Luigi, or whatever it was, opened the door for me seconds before I reached it. His thick glasses flashed creepily and the sloppy grin on his face always struck me as more of a leer.

"Good afternoon, Miss Barrett," he said, looking up and down the street before shutting it behind us. "You didn't happen to see the drugstore guy, did you?"

"No…ah," what was his name? Oh, well. "No, I didn't." Something occurred to me. "It's not for Dr. Venkman is it? He's not sick? His car's still here…."

"Not that I know of, he seemed fine yesterday. I just ordered some vitamins." He stretched and flexed his arms in his uniform, the garish polyester jacket bunching around his neck. "You never know when some nut might try to break down the door and rob the place, so I always try to stay in shape. Like yesterday, I taped 20 Minute Workout and played it on fast forward; got a great workout and it only took ten minutes!"

"Ooookkaaay. That's…that's really innovative." And waayyy too much information. I could feel the skin on my back starting to creep. I edged my way towards the elevators, the soft chime of an arriving car giving me hope of a quick escape. Yeager hadn't said when he needed that information by; Peter could wait for later.

Fate, it seemed, had something else in mind, and the beautiful, silk-wrapped Dr. Venkman stepped out of the elevator. Gray today, from dark gray suit to pale, almost silver shirt, shining from the tips of his shoes to the top of his recently-trimmed hair, the only color from sparkling green eyes. He drifted across the lobby like a ghost in fog, giving Larry-or-whatever a delighted smile that changed to something smokier when he caught my eye.

"Afternoon, Louis," his eyes flicked down me and back up. "Dana."

Oh. Yes.  Very glad I'd gone with the slacks and cableknit. Muscles tensed and shifted, my body automatically presenting itself in the best possible way, my own smile becoming lazy.

"Peter, how nice to see you," I held out my hand for him to take and he obliged, brushing his lips across the back of it before letting go. "Coming in or going out?"

"Going out," he sighed regretfully. "Louis, there seems to be something odd going on with the electricity; my television kept coming on at all hours last night until I finally gave in and unplugged the thing. Mrs. Johnson in 2412 said the same thing had been happening with hers or I would have just thought it was my set. Can you get someone out here to look at it?"

"Right away, Dr. V!" The strange little man gave a salute and charged off for his desk by the door. Thank Heaven for small favors.

" 'Dr. V?' ," I asked, arching an eyebrow.

He smiled gently and shrugged by way of reply. "Sometimes I think Louis missed his calling; I'm sure he would have done well as either an accountant, or in one of the food-service industries. Either one gives him enough outside contact to remain human, but not so much as to try his social graces."

I laughed, genuinely tickled at the picture of our meek little doorman in a paper hat, flipping burgers and calculating how to make the most shakes out of the least ice-cream.  "And speaking of social graces, Dr. V, why didn't you ever tell me you were treating Alex Monroe? I had no idea until Dot finally told me last weekend! And it's been two years!" I tapped him on the chest to emphasize my point, glaring at him while trying to ignore the sensation of warm silk under my fingertip. Okay, two years was an exaggeration, but it had been only a little longer than that since I'd introduced Yeager to the kid.

Peter blinked and took a step back. "I didn't know you knew the family, Dana."

"Well I do." I leaned forward into his space and put my hands on my hips. "Two years, Peter Venkman, that woman has been holding on by her fingertips, and I think her grip is slipping. How is Alex, really? And when can I see him?"

He wrapped my hand in his, warm and slightly roughened, and pulled my fingers from his chest while he stepped forward. I could smell him, feel his heat, and for a few blissful seconds lost track of the conversation. I blinked, embarrassed at my reaction and that he'd noticed, by the smirk lurking around the edges of that so-delectable mouth.

"Alex is doing as well as can be expected and improving on a daily basis, but he's really not in any shape for visitors yet."

Improving? How? The difference between moss and roses is enormous, but they're both still plants.

I pressed forward just a touch more, my breasts pressing against his chest, trapping our hands in between for a second before I stepped back. "Well I expect a full and complete update at the party Friday." I pouted for good measure. The party was the perfect opportunity for information, and maybe something a little more intimate.

"Ah, Friday? I'm afraid I won't be able to make it."

"Not make it? The whole building will be there! You simply must!" Shocked, I stepped back, barely noticing the chill in my hand when he let go. What did he mean, not make it?

"I have a date."

Oh.

"Oh." Now what? "That's all right, bring her along. The more the merrier." I gave him a bright laugh and stepped around him, heading for the elevators, feeling his eyes on me. I waved over my shoulder. "Ciao, darling!"

I heard the doorman call out, "Dr. V!" as I ducked around the corner to the elevators. Damn him! Damn, damn, damn. How dare he? A scream of rage bubbled up into my throat and I hastily bit down on my purse strap to relieve the pressure. There would be toothmarks in it afterwards, but right now there was no way I was letting him know what the idea of another woman did to me.

I'd just have to make sure she had an accident, whoever it was.

The door buzzer broke through my anger, and in a flash I had an idea. I'd follow him. If he was treating Alex, he'd have to see his patient sometime, which solved the problem of finding Morningside. And if I saw him with some other woman, I might be able to come up with something to…distract her.

New plan. Time to put it into action.

Recovering my poise I walked quickly across the lobby, catching Lenny's eye. "Forgot something," I said with a cheery wave, letting him buzz me out, hearing the door lock behind me. On the street and out of sight of the creep I ran for my car, ducking inside when Peter drove past me towards the exit. It was almost four, so if he was heading for his office, it wouldn't be for long.

I counted out one full minute before I started my car and followed, catching sight of his car within blocks. Ten minutes later he pulled into his office parking, with me only two cars back. It took some maneuvering and double parking in the underground lot, but I was eventually able to find a spot only three spaces away and on the opposite side. Mentally I thanked Daddy for the Jag, its handling making twisting around in the narrow rows easy.

About 5:15 Peter reappeared, briefcase in hand and still impeccable. I could see him toss the case on the passenger seat before sliding in and starting his car. Headed home? I wondered, why come into the office for an hour, when he could easily make it up tomorrow?

I was a little grumpy now at having missed lunch, and beginning to feel an urgent call of nature. I followed Peter out of Manhattan , nearly losing him twice, once at the bridge and then when he cut suddenly between four taxis and made a quick right. Horns echoed in the streets and I thought I heard metal crunch somewhere to my left when I followed him in the near-suicidal maneuver.

Fortunately that was the worst part of our wild ride, and a short time later we pulled onto the Columbia campus.

"Well, Dr. Venkman," I muttered to myself, debating on how far onto the campus I should follow him. I let a beat up bug and an older pickup drop in-between us as we slowed to a cautious 25 miles per. The last rays of sunlight were fading, making it easier to track him by his headlights making a turn into staff parking. Teaching? Maybe guest lecturing? I made a note to ask Daddy about it; he still had considerable influence with the Board, and if Peter was thinking of taking up a professorial spot, I'd better make sure it was one with tenure and research privledges.

I circled the campus once before coming back and parking in the visitor's lot across from where he'd pulled in. I vaguely remembered the place as being one of the hard science buildings. As a music student it hadn't been anywhere I'd been in with any frequency, except the semester of required chemistry. Regardless, Peter was bound to be here for at least an hour, more likely two if there was a night class involved, leaving me plenty of time to hit the student center for some coffee and a sandwich, as well as finding a bathroom.

We'll probably head home after this, I thought to myself, limiting my food to a dry ham on rye that clung to the roof of my mouth, and a small cup of coffee that was hot enough to burn the sandwich remains to ashes before coating my throat. For once I was glad I couldn't taste anything.  Much more comfortable for the change of scenery—there'd been a couple of very yummy looking young men in the lounge—and the food, I made my way back to my car at a brisk pace, beginning to regret the lack of coat. Inside I snuggled against the leather and turned on the engine long enough to warm the inside but not enough to make be drowsy.

Twice more I turned the engine on and off, glad the weather had broken earlier in the afternoon and it wasn't raining, before I saw Peter's car leave the lot. I started my own and backed up, waited for another car, something white or cream colored, to leave in the other direction before I pulled onto the road.

It was nearly nine by then, and so certain was I that we were heading home that I almost missed the connecting road Peter cut across two lanes of traffic to catch. Construction forced us into a detour, and over the next hour it became harder and harder to keep traffic between us and still watch where we were going.

Eventually we ended up on a northbound highway, and the lack of both traffic and lights forced me to stay further back than I wanted.

Where could we be heading? I considered options and scenarios, occasionally glancing anxiously at the clock in my dash. Almost midnight , and we were still traveling vaguely north and east, close to the hills. Out of state maybe? Visiting his 'date' for the weekend and leaving the city early. That would explain a lot, still being at home late, stopping for his briefcase to work over the weekend. The college visit wasn't explained, but I hadn't seen a second person in the car, so it hadn't been to pick anyone up.

Peter's car disappeared around a tight curve and I slowed slightly. Flash of movement in my headlights, something small and fast-moving, running across the highway. I started to swerve.

Thu-thump!

Too late! And almost too late for me. I hit the far side of the curve in a slide, and only the superb handling and traction in my car kept me from overcorrecting a second time and going over the edge. My heart was in my throat and I was panting and shaky. More than anything I wanted to pull over to the side and relax, but Peter's taillights were disappearing in the distance.

Fear had left me clammy, but I'd come too far. I had to know where he was going, who he was going to see. A near-hysterical giggle erupted from my throat. Wouldn't it just be too much if I'd spent all this time following an ancient college professor on his way home to Vermont ?

Thirty minutes later and I was rewarded for my patience when Peter suddenly slowed and swerved to the far right of the road, braked sharply and made a u-turn. I kept going, slowing slightly to avoid any other sudden moves. I wondered; had he spotted me? Was he going to confront me?

But no, he drove past and in my rear view mirror I saw him slow again, perhaps three miles back the way we'd come. I pulled to the side and killed my lights, the black of my car blending into the black of the night. Watching patiently I saw him make a sharp right, the glow of his taillights reflecting off—something. What was this place?

I flipped my parking lights on and made a careful u-turn before turning on my headlights and starting back the way we'd just come.

And there it was.

Just to be certain I drove past and turned once more, driving slowly enough to catch it in my lights.

The sign was small, discreet, and almost hidden; more a reminder to those that already knew where they were going, than actual directions for those who didn’t. No wonder the Monroe clan stayed at a hotel on the way here and then back.

" 'Morningside turnout, two miles.' "

Unbelievable. Peter had led me to the answer to my prayers.

Just to reassure myself, I drove forward slowly, looking for the turnout I knew had to be there. And it was, hidden in the overgrowth on the side of the road. I turned into it, and my lights reflected off a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, cold metal dripping with mist. The road, probably easily visible in daylight, ended in darkness at the edge of my headlights.

I stepped out of my car and walked up to the gates, touching them cautiously, feeling the freezing wet turn my hands to ice. I shivered, and not just from the cold of the night air, but at the same time warmth grew in me, ignited by the pleasure that I was within touching distance of my goal.

Nothing could be seen in the distance, no matter how I squinted, but I knew Peter was there, somewhere. I could feel it.

"Good night Dr. Venkman," I whispered, stroking the gates one last time before sliding into the warmth of my car and heading back towards the city.

"Soon."