The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  I gave him a grimace, just to remind him that he hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t hesitate. “Sure.” The cold was worse than I’d expected. I’d already started to shiver.

  “Good.” He sank his ax into the stump he used for a splitting block. From a tree branch nearby, he retrieved his shirt and wool jacket. While he pushed his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, he led me toward one of the cottages.

  Smoke gusted from its chimney, and a Land Rover sat out front. Ama and Truchi Carbone probably lived next door—that house was obviously occupied as well. So where did Faith Jerrick live?

  I learned the answer as soon as Reeson took me inside. She lived with him. We found her in the immaculate little living room, sorting laundry. Her method for folding towels and sheets made them look starched and ironed, permanently creased, and her stacks were as precise as the arrangement of the furniture, as clean as the floorboards and walls and curtains. If she’d met my gaze—just once—I might’ve considered her the ideal woman. My whole life, I’ve wanted to meet a woman as tidy as I am. And she had profound eyes.

  But she didn’t meet my gaze. She didn’t look at Reeson either. She glanced up when we came in, but she didn’t actually appear to focus on us.

  “I offered Mr. Axbrewder a cup of coffee.” Reeson’s tone eased in her presence. “He’s going to tell me about an old war wound.” If he was laughing at me, it didn’t show.

  “Call me Brew,” I put in. Then, rather awkwardly, I added, “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  I said that because her reserve made me uncomfortable. As if I were intruding somehow.

  But apparently she didn’t mind the intrusion. Setting her laundry aside, she said, “Please sit down, Mr. Axbrewder. You’re welcome here, in God’s name.”

  Still without actually facing either of us, she left the room. Through the doorway, I heard her making kitchen noises.

  I raised my eyebrows at Reeson. “‘In God’s name,’?”

  His shrug didn’t commit him to anything. “She’s religious,” he murmured. “More than religious. Ecstatic. God talks to her. She prophesies. Some time ago, I guess she decided I agree with her. I used to try to argue with her, but now I leave her alone. Let her think what she wants about me.

  “She’s a good woman.” Which sounded like an odd thing to say in that noncommittal fashion. “We all have our ghouls and beasties, Axbrewder. And we all have ways to keep them at bay. Religion is hers, that’s all.”

  And mine was alcohol, I suppose. Which explained why I was in such bad shape without it.

  “What’s yours?” I asked.

  He smiled again. “I try not to let people lie to me. I get scared when I think I’m not hearing the truth.”

  That wasn’t quite what I expected to hear. I thought he would make some reference to guns.

  “Your ‘old war wound,’ for instance,” he continued. “I get nervous when I hear things like that.”

  I was developing a distinct preference for his scowl.

  On the other hand, he didn’t have any obvious weaponry nearby. Maybe he could’ve hidden a derringer in one of the seat cushions, but I doubted it.

  We were still on our feet. For some reason I wanted to stay that way, so I forced myself to sit down. “What difference does it make?”

  He sat down too. Like his ax work, all his movements were natural, relaxed. “I’m the manager here.” His voice stayed husky. “I’m responsible for what happens. You and Fistoulari are security for Murder on Cue. I can understand why you wanted the collection locked away. What I can’t understand is why somebody who can hardly walk takes on a job like this.

  “The Altars would hire a blind man if he helped jazz up their mysteries.” Reeson clearly had no great opinion of Buffy and Rock. “But why do you want the job? If anything goes wrong, you’ll be useless. That makes me think you’re playing some other kind of game. It makes me nervous.

  “Tell me about your ‘old war wound,’ Axbrewder.”

  Faith came back into the room, carrying a tray with two melmac mugs, a creamer and sugar bowl, and a steaming pot. “Mr. Axbrewder.” She offered me a mug. I declined cream and sugar. “Art.” He took a mug and a bit of sugar. She put the tray down, then poured coffee for both of us. After that she went to stand behind his chair. Still not quite looking at me, she rested her fingertips on his shoulders.

  He reached up gently to stroke her fingers, but he kept his attention on me.

  “I got shot,” I said bluntly. “About a week ago.”

  “Guns,” Faith breathed. Just for a second, I received the full depth of her gaze. Then she slipped out of focus again. “They are evil, and all things done with them. God is love. He has no use for guns.”

  Which probably explained why Reeson didn’t have any in sight.

  But he wasn’t deflected. His scowl intensified. “Who shot you?”

  Again I asked, “What difference does it make?”

  “You were shot”—in spite of its hoarseness, his voice had force—“but you’re still alive. Maybe you’re on the run. Maybe you’re hiding out here. Maybe whoever shot you is coming after you.”

  That was a little too shrewd for my taste. I didn’t mind sitting in his living room sparring with him about how grown men keep the ghouls and beasties at bay, but I didn’t like where this conversation was going.

  “He isn’t,” I said with a grin of my own, as humorless and bloody as I could make it. “I broke his neck.”

  Take that and be warned.

  Distinctly Faith said, “I will pray for your immortal soul, Mr. Axbrewder.”

  I wanted to laugh out loud. Humorless and bloody with a vengeance. “Pray for his, Ms. Jerrick. Three other people might’ve died if I hadn’t gotten him first.” Ginny among them. “He was a professional killer, and I couldn’t stop him any other way.”

  Gravely she replied, “I pray for all who are lost to the Lord.”

  By this time Reeson’s scowl looked positively joyous. “You must be made of iron, Axbrewder. But you still haven’t told me why you took on a job like this when you can hardly walk.”

  I took a slug of coffee to hide my bitterness. It was still hot enough to scald my tongue. “I’m not ‘on a job like this.’ Ginny is. Murder on Cue only needs one of us. I’m just here so that she can make sure I take my pills while I recuperate.”

  I’m a better liar than he thought. This time he believed me. Or he acted like he did, anyway. Abruptly he slapped his thighs and rose to his feet, as smooth as a piston. But when I started to get up, he stopped me. “Axbrewder, I sympathize. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make it easier. Those people over there”—he meant the guests—“would drive me crazy. They’re all spinning lies as fast as they can. That’s the whole point of these mystery camps. Give them a chance to practice their illusions. Come over here anytime you feel the need to get away. We’ll do our best to tell each other the truth.

  “You two stay and talk to each other. I need a shower.”

  Scowling heavily, he kissed Faith.

  Maybe she was as religious as she sounded. Maybe she spent so much time communing with God she didn’t need to look anyone else in the eye. But there was nothing spiritual about the way she kissed Reeson back. Her whole body concentrated on it.

  Fascinating. She may’ve been the perfect woman after all. But I didn’t let that distract me. “Before you go, Reeson,” I put in, “answer a question for me. Do you know who did security for Murder on Cue the last time they were here?”

  His eyebrows did a little jump on his forehead, but he hardly hesitated. “Sure. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I remember who he worked for. Until now, they did all the security for the Altars. Lawrence Smithsonian and Associates.

  “Do you need to know who specifically? I could look it up.”

  “No. I’m just curious. Do you happen to know why he didn’t object to those guns?”

  “I told you. The Altars would hire a blind man if they thoug
ht he’d add to the fun. That guy was just f”—he glanced at Faith sharply, caught himself—“just kidding around. The life of the party. For him it was a vacation. You and Fistoulari are the first security they’ve had who take the job seriously.”

  “Thanks.” I was done, so I let him go.

  When he left the room, Faith moved to sit in the chair he’d vacated. Apparently she’d taken his suggestion as a commandment. But she didn’t offer me any small talk.

  Studying her made me rethink my position. Maybe I didn’t really like perfection. Ten minutes with a woman who never looked me in the eye, and I’d spend the rest of my life drunk.

  Since Faith refused to look at me straight, I didn’t have anything to restrain me, so I asked one of my less tactful questions. “You’re a devout woman, Ms. Jerrick,” and you sure as hell know how to kiss, “but you aren’t married. Why do you live with Art?”

  Maybe she didn’t look at people, but she definitely heard what they said. From her scalp to the skin of her arms, she blushed. She was so pale normally that I hadn’t realized she had so much blood in her.

  Nevertheless she didn’t evade the issue. “Art and I are married in the sight of God,” she answered firmly.

  Her assertion was open, as they say, to more than one interpretation. A cynic could’ve had a field day with it. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—it doesn’t take much to make me ashamed of myself. Her blush was enough. Backpedaling furiously, I said, “I’m the kind of man who jumps to conclusions. Right now, I’m jumping to the conclusion that he’s the reason you work here. Wouldn’t you rather live closer to your church—closer to people you can worship with?”

  That put her on more secure ground. “Mr. Axbrewder, I don’t choose my life.” As fast as it came, the red faded from her skin. “Choosing belongs to the Lord. It is in His hands. My task is not to choose, but to serve. It is a wife’s responsibility and joy to serve her husband, just as it is the soul’s responsibility and joy to serve God. Art lives here. He works here. What else would you have me do?”

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “Lonely?” She seemed genuinely surprised. “How could I be lonely? Art is with me. The Lord is with me in all things, rising and sleeping.” Her tone began to hint at the ecstasy Reeson had mentioned. “My soul is a guest at God’s great feast. Only the lost are lonely, Mr. Axbrewder.”

  Damn her, anyway. She was right. Only the lost are lonely. But I didn’t enjoy hearing it from her. I was more than a bit lonely myself.

  My backpedaling had become a rout. The Lord had made her mighty against His enemies. Mostly trying to cover up my disarray while I looked for an escape, I asked, “What about Art? Why does he work here? He seems like a man”—as soon as I said this, I realized that it was true—“who could do anything he wanted.”

  The lines of her face gave me the impression that she was mildly disappointed. She didn’t want to answer practical questions, she wanted opportunities to witness for the Lord. But apparently her concept of service included answering practical questions.

  “He likes the isolation. He likes the balance between office work and physical exertion. And his job is very flexible, Mr. Axbrewder. He sets his own hours, he works when he chooses, he takes vacations whenever the mood strikes him. The owners trust him completely.” She was proud of this. “They leave the lodge entirely in his hands.”

  What, entirely? Something about that sounded wrong to me. “But surely he checks in with them on a regular basis? He calls them when decisions need to be made?”

  He called them about the guns?

  “How should I know?” She was serene in her ignorance. “It’s not my place to watch how he serves his employers. But why should he call? He has worked here for years. He has proven his faithfulness. Good service is rewarded with trust.”

  You mean he didn’t call about the guns?

  No, I was wrong, I had no business jumping to a conclusion like that. Under Faith Jerrick’s influence, my intuitive instincts were starting to blow fuses. Or maybe in some obscure way I was being seduced.

  “Speaking of good service, I’d better go see how my partner is doing.” I reached my feet with an ungainly heave. “Like Art, she doesn’t really need anyone to check on her. But when I don’t do it, I feel like I’m goofing off.”

  Faith stood up gracefully, gave me a polite nod. I left in a hurry.

  Outside, the wind slapped my face, and the cold jolted into my lungs. Which had the effect of restoring my rationality. Very therapeutic. The weather was deteriorating. Clouds heavy with snow boiled across the treetops. Dimness filled the air like dusk. If I stayed out here long enough, I might recover active sanity. Or freeze to death.

  Or maybe they came to the same thing.

  In the meantime, however, I didn’t know what to do with what I was thinking. Reeson never called the owners about the guns? That made no sense. He’d been the manager here—the trusted manager—for years. No matter how much he liked guns, he knew how to be responsible. And Faith loved him—Faith, who hated guns. I was losing touch with reality, no question about it.

  And yet I couldn’t stop wondering if he really was a man who used telling the truth to keep the ghouls and beasties away.

  8

  My sweater didn’t protect me from the cold. You’d think all those bandages would be good for insulation, but they weren’t. My guts felt like they were being gnawed on by wind and chill.

  Unsteady as a drunk, I lurched back to the lodge.

  Through the kitchen to the dining room. Not a Hardhouse in sight, blessed be the Name of the Lord. On general principles, I stayed there long enough to eat a piece of dry toast. I needed time to get warm. Also time to brace myself to face the crew in the den.

  Ama Carbone went through the room carrying an armload of sheets and towels to the laundry. Like Faith, she kept busy trying to make the world clean.

  I should’ve helped her. Laundry is something I understand.

  Instead I braved the den.

  Murder on Cue’s guests had rearranged themselves in my absence. The canasta game was finished. Apparently the Hardhouses had gone to ground somewhere. So had Ginny. Which I took as a bad sign. But what the hell, in my condition I took everything as a bad sign. Houston Mile, Maryanne Green, and Cat had joined the rest of the group. Rock and Westward had given up their smoking contest.

  Mile was telling a story. Everybody else listened.

  He stood beside one of the fireplaces, leaning a pudgy arm on the mantel in the relaxed shitkicker pose of a good ol’ boy raconteur—what my brother used to call a “raccoon-tuner.” His timing was good, I had to admit that. I hadn’t heard the first half of his story, but everything he said sounded by-God funny, and most of his audience laughed harder and harder as he went along. It had something to do with a half-naked girl and a hoe—a hoe-er. A whore, get it?

  Hearing his story promised to be more fun than I could stomach, so I headed for my room.

  As I left, I saw him glare in my direction. He didn’t like it when people walked out while he was the center of attention.

  Well, good. Now I knew how to insult him. If I ever needed the information.

  After that, however, my luck improved. In the hall outside my room I met Queenie Drayton. Without Sam.

  “Hello, Brew.” Her voice might as well have been music.

  Involuntarily I stopped in front of her. Or maybe we stopped in front of each other.

  “Sam,” she explained in a tone of affectionate disgust, “has a talent for falling asleep at the most awkward times. It comes with being a doctor, I suppose.”

  I couldn’t tell whether it was all that life in her eyes or the way her breasts stroked the inside of her flannel shirt that made me want to propose marriage.

  “What’s everyone else doing?” she finished. “Is anything going on?”

  I hadn’t had a crush this bad since high school. Maybe I should’ve been embarrassed. But she didn’t se
em to need it. I muttered something incoherent about Houston Mile and stories. Then I pulled myself together.

  “Come to my room,” I suggested. “I’d like to talk to you.” Lamely I added, “And you’ll miss the punch line.”

  Laughter carried down the hall. She cocked her head to it for a moment—which reminded me that she liked to laugh herself. Then she gave me a smile like a gift.

  “I think I should warn you, Brew. When a man invites me to his room, he almost always ends up telling me the story of his life.”

  I snorted to disguise my pleasure. “I’ll try not to be that boring.”

  Before she could change her mind, I steered her to my door.

  Amalia had already cleaned my room. The bed was made, and I had fresh towels. Like Faith, she got her job done.

  I ushered Queenie inside, closed the door, seated her in one of the chairs, settled my bulk on the bed. Quickly, so that I wouldn’t lose the opportunity, I said, “Tell me something. How did a real honest-to–God human person like yourself come by a name like ‘Queenie’?”

  She responded with a chuckle deep in her throat. “You’re trying to turn the tables on me.”

  “Sure,” I admitted. “Why not? I already know the story of my life. Believe me, you can live without it.”

  “But you can’t live without mine.” She was teasing me.

  I made an effort to match her. “It’s all I have left.”

  Unfortunately that almost came out like I meant it. My interest was genuine, but I didn’t want to sound pitiful about it.

  Her eyes never shifted from my face—a stunning contrast to Faith Jerrick. In her gaze I seemed to see shadows pass across the background of her mind, hints of understanding, glimpses of empathy. At the same time she went on trying to heal me with the warmth of her smile.

  “Well, for one thing,” she said, “it’s not a nickname. It’s my real name. I wish I could say it’s a family tradition. I used to tell people that in college, when I was feeling especially self-conscious. ‘My mother’s name was Princess, so I’m Queenie.’ But you know, in a funny way that’s almost the truth.