Кей Хупер - Chill Of Fear

"Why can't you just tell me whatever it is you want me to know?" Diana was looking around, trying to figure out where in the hotel they were. But the corridor was peculiarly featureless in the gray time — even more so than usual — and seemed to stretch ahead of them forever. "This isn't right," she added before Missy could reply. "This looks—"

"There's something Quentin's forgotten," Missy said, ignoring both the question and comment. "What?"

"Because of what happened to me, he thinks it's about children."

Diana only partly heard, because Missy had turned a corner as she spoke, and to her surprise Diana found herself looking at a green door. It was the only spot of color she had ever seen in the gray time.

"You have to remember this place, Diana. This door."

"Why?" Diana was doing her best to think clearly, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Because you'll be safe here. When it's important, when you need a safe place, come here."

"I thought... all places were the same in the gray time."

"Not this place. It's a special place, in your time as well as here. It's protected. Don't forget."

Diana wanted to ask more questions, but before she could, Missy was going on.

"Diana, listen to me. Quentin always believed it was about children, but it isn't. Children are easiest because they're so often vulnerable, unprotected. Easy prey. It feeds off fear. You remember the terror of a child, don't you, Diana?"

Her lips felt oddly stiff and very cold when Diana murmured, "Yes. I remember."

"It isn't about the children. It isn't even about me. It's about punishment. It's about judgment. He was judged. And punished."

Again, Diana wanted to question, wanted to understand all this more clearly. But before she could speak, they both heard/felt it.

Tha-thum.

Tha-thum.

Tha-thum!

Missy's face changed, and she said quickly, "You have to go back. Now. It can cross over too, Diana, don't forget that. And a medium's mind can be the most vulnerable of all. If it finds you—"

"Missy, I don't understand."

"You will." Missy reached out and took Diana's hand, her small one surprisingly warm rather than cold. "Don't forget the green door. But go back now. Reach for Quentin."

Diana wasn't sure she could, because her mind felt sluggish and cold, and doing anything at all required too much effort of her. But the warmth of Missy's small hand seemed to chase away part of the chill...

Tha-thum!

Tha-thum!

She could feel the floor underneath her vibrate, as though under the steps of something immeasurably heavy, and the grayness around her seemed to be darkening, shading toward black. She tried to reach out mentally, thinking of Quentin, needing to be with him.

There was a bright flash of light, then another, and between them the gray was getting darker and darker.

"Hurry," Missy said. "It's—"

"—here," Diana said, opening her eyes.

"Jesus, don't do that to me again," Quentin said.

She turned her head and looked at him, a little dazed and more than a little confused. He was holding her hand, and his felt warm and strong, and she was once again conscious of that unfamiliar sense of security.

Safe. She was safe. Now.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

"I think so."

He drew a breath and released it, clearly relieved. He didn't let go of her hand. "Another visit to the gray time?"

Diana nodded slowly.

"Another guide?"

"Missy."

That caught him off guard. "You talked to her?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Diana told him, about the green door and Missy's warning that "it" wasn't about hurting children but was about punishment and judgment.

"I don't remember a green door in this place," he said.

"Me either."

"But it's a safe place for you."

Trying to remember exactly what she'd been told, Diana said, "I think so. Something about it being a protected place here and in the gray time."

A bit grim, Quentin said, "If she offered you a safe place, it must mean she believes you'll need one."

A cold finger glided up Diana's spine. "I guess so."

"And she said it's about judgment, about punishment."

"Yes. Because he was judged and punished. That killer."

"Samuel Barton."

"Yes."

Quentin digested that for a few moments, frowning, then said, "What else?"

She didn't know if he was using any of his extra senses or if her face was an open book to him, but she knew she had to answer. So she did, telling him what Missy had said about her deepest fears of being unable to handle her abilities and becoming trapped between two worlds, about her terror over what had happened to her mother. And it was only then that Diana remembered something else.

"My God. She said 'when we visited Mommy.' That I was frightened by the people in the hospital, the people without their souls, when we visited Mommy. Quentin... Missy wasn't a half sister. We had the same father and mother."

Stephanie wouldn't have admitted it aloud, but the major reason she asked Ransom Padgett to accompany her down to the basement wasn't to help carry any files or boxes she decided to bring back upstairs. It was because she didn't want to be alone down there.

Not that he asked, of course.

He used one of the many keys on his ring to unlock the basement access door, then led the way down well-illuminated stairs, saying over his shoulder, "I'll give you fair warning, Ms. Boyd— it's hell trying to find anything down here. I told Management years ago that the place ought to be cleared out, at least of the junk, but they didn't listen to me. Don't have to, mind you, 'cause I just work here. But still."

Stephanie only half listened to him, looking around as they reached the bottom of the steps and feeling a bit sheepish now. The basement was as well illuminated as the stairs had been, and though the vast space was undoubtedly cluttered with what Padgett termed "junk," there was a kind of order to it all.

She could see a dozen big filing cabinets in a smaller, partially walled-off area near the stairs, the bulging cardboard file boxes stacked on top of them mute evidence that all of the cabinets were undoubtedly stuffed to capacity and that more storage space for paperwork had been required.

Great. That's just great. I'll be down here for weeks.

Sighing, she looked around the rest of the basement space visible from the foot of the stairs.

One section held unused furniture, presumably in need of repair or perhaps just abandoned due to changing styles and tastes, with chairs stacked atop tables and an occasional dust cloth draped over upholstered pieces to protect them. Another section was filled with boxes, most of whose big labels indicated old linens and draperies.

In yet another area, shelves held an amazing assortment of outmoded kitchen gadgets, cheek by jowl with what looked like stacks of old magazines and newspapers. And leaning against the shelves were dozens of large framed prints, again, presumably, moved down here due to changing tastes.

"My God," she muttered. "Did they throw anything away?"

"Not so's you'd notice," Padgett said in mild disgust. "Ought to, though. There's plenty of charities would love some of this junk, and God knows the textiles they saved are likely rotten or moth-eaten after so many years. There's a whole stack of rugs in one of the back corners that were probably worth a fortune in their day. Not much left of 'em now." He shrugged. "Anything's needed up in the hotel, they always buy new, so I don't get why the old and broken stuff ends up down here."

"Saving for a rainy day, I suppose."

They both listened to a rumble of thunder so low and long that they could feel the vibrations of it beneath their feet, and Padgett lifted an eyebrow at her.