The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  This didn’t seem like a good time to go into detail. “Mile jumped me,” I answered weakly.

  To my surprise, he released Queenie’s hands and got to his feet. At once he came over to me, began checking my pulse and respiration. If I’d only watched the way he moved and hadn’t looked at the darkness on his face or the hollow helplessness in his eyes, I would’ve thought he knew what he was doing. But as he went through the motions of examining me—a thermometer in my mouth, a blood-pressure cuff on my arm, a flashlight at my pupils—he asked me nothing about my condition.

  “Do you know how long we’ve been married?” He sounded like he’d worn out his voice shouting for help in a wasteland. “A year.” He checked the gauge on the blood-pressure cuff as if he had no idea what it indicated. “That’s all. A year.”

  Next the thermometer. Maybe he never actually saw it.

  “You may not realize it, but doctors have a hard time meeting eligible women. Oh, we meet lots of nurses. But they’re deadly to marry. They can’t forget we’re doctors, and then the marriage doesn’t work. Or they forget too easily, and then the profession doesn’t work. And who else is there? Secretaries? Most of them work in billing. They can’t afford to remember that the patients who have no money are still people. Or in personnel. If you work in personnel, you aren’t allowed to use your brain. Or in publicity. If you work in publicity, you don’t have a brain.

  “I have no time for singles bars.”

  Out of habit, he put the thermometer and blood-pressure cuff and flashlight away in his bag.

  “But the one thing a doctor should absolutely never do is marry a patient. It’s better if we don’t even know their names. That sounds callous, but it isn’t. It avoids confusing the illness and the person. When you know your patient is a scuzzball, you have a hard time treating him. It’s hard to make painful decisions about an illness when the woman who has it is someone you love.

  “And patients make lousy wives. They think you’re magic. They think you can save them from their problems for the rest of their lives. They confuse the treatment and the person.”

  Next he filled a syringe. I didn’t know what was in it, and maybe he didn’t either. But I didn’t care. I was listening too hard. His wasted face and worn-out voice made everything he said personal, poignant.

  “Queenie was a patient.”

  Sudden fury bared his teeth. Nevertheless he slid his needle into me as gently as a caress. Almost at once, a soothing sensation eased along my veins.

  “She should’ve died. Pure neglect. She’s as bad as a drunk when it comes to her own health. She didn’t think those lumps and all that discomfort were worth worrying about. We did a radical mastectomy on both sides and pumped her full of enough chemo to fry her brains, and she still should’ve died. But she didn’t.

  “In the middle of all that, during one of her lucid moments, I had to tell her her breasts were gone.” Tears streamed down his face. He could only talk by biting down on the words and snarling. Yet his movements were pure calm as he put down the first syringe and filled another one. “When she understood what I’d said, she gave me such a smile—I wanted to die for that smile. And she said—”

  For a moment, his throat and chest locked. He couldn’t breathe or talk. But he kept on filling the syringe. Then he held it up to the light and cleared out the air. Like a farewell kiss, he planted the needle’s little pain in my arm.

  “She said, ‘Thanks, Sam. That helps.’

  “I think she was trying to do me a favor when she let me talk her into plastic surgery—implants and so on to give her a normal figure. She wasn’t confused about me. She wasn’t in love with my power or wisdom. She just wanted to let me help her again if I felt like it. If helping her felt good to me. She didn’t need it. She didn’t need breasts. She didn’t even need me to save her. She loved being alive too much to need that. But she had room in her heart for everything I wanted to give.”

  Then he was done. Without another glance at me, he repacked his bag and closed it. Returned to the bed. Sat down again. Took hold of Queenie’s hands.

  At the same time, I felt an artificial strength returning. Any minute now I’d be able to stand up and go do something about my rage and grief and guilt.

  “Why was she poisoned, Brew?” he asked as if he’d given me all the strength he had—as if that worn-out whisper was the only cry for help he could manage. “Who wants her dead?”

  “No one.” If he’d been more alert, he could’ve heard black murder in my voice. “It was an accident. That stuff was aimed at Cat. It was put in the port before she was shot. She just never got a chance to drink it.

  “That bullet was aimed at me.”

  He didn’t react. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he knew there was nothing I could say that would change anything.

  “Sam,” I asked unsteadily, “is she going to make it?”

  I barely heard his answer. “I’m not magic, Brew. I don’t know.”

  I sat with him for a while longer. But he didn’t move or speak again. Every ounce of him concentrated on Queenie. Eventually I knew that I had to go.

  Leaving the room quietly, I went back to the den.

  21

  In the den, the situation hadn’t improved any. Only four people remained, Faith Jerrick, Sue-Rose Altar, Maryanne Green—and Houston Mile. None of them noticed my arrival. Buffy sat on one of the couches with her hands over her face and her shoulders shaking noiselessly, gripped by revulsion or grief. Beside her knelt Faith. Art Reeson’s girlfriend held her crucifix and moved her lips like a woman in prayer, but she didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t tell whether she prayed for herself or for Buffy.

  In fact, Maryanne was the only one talking.

  She’d pulled a chair so close to Mile that their knees touched. Leaning forward with her weight braced on her elbows, she spoke softly, urgently, almost pleading with him.

  “You have to understand, Houston, dear.” She seemed to be repeating herself, not for the first time. “This is for your own good. You’ve had a breakdown—like a nervous breakdown. You’re more sensitive than anyone realizes. All this violence has upset you, and you want to defend yourself. You want to defend me. That’s why you attacked Brew. But we can’t let you do that. I can’t. If Brew is honest, we need him. He’s used to violence. He doesn’t have your sensitive nature. And if he isn’t honest, he might kill you. I couldn’t bear that. Dear Houston, it’s for your own good.”

  For some reason, a moment or two passed before I noticed that Mile had been tied to his chair, trussed like a turkey. He even had a gag between his teeth. He struggled to spit it out so that he could yell something—hell, he looked like he wanted to froth at the mouth—but whenever he worked the wad of cloth loose, Maryanne pushed it back into place. Behind her gentle, pleading tone, I heard an edge that sounded, not like hysteria or fear, but like retribution. No matter what else happened, she meant to keep him tied and gagged just as long as she could.

  I approved.

  I didn’t want to listen to it, however. I needed something more direct and bloody, more like a bullet in the head than poison masked by sweet port. Roughly I demanded, “Where’s everyone else? What happened here?”

  Buffy and Faith ignored me. Maryanne glanced up, a bit startled, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead she whispered to her prisoner, “It’s Brew, Houston, dear. He’s right behind you. He has his gun. Please sit still. Don’t provoke him. I’ll try to protect you.”

  When she stood up, I saw triumph in her eyes, plain as a placard.

  She drew me a few steps away. “We couldn’t get him to stop,” she told me softly. “Ginny sent Truchi for some rope. She wanted us to join you with Sam, so you could guard us. But Houston wouldn’t stop, and Joseph said it wasn’t a good idea to put him in with Queenie. So Ginny told us to stay here. Stay together. The others are searching the lodge.

  “Buffy didn’t want Rock to go, but he insisted.” Maryanne grimaced sympathetically. “S
he got a little frantic, so Faith offered to stay with her. And I wouldn’t be any good at searching. I’m too timid.” She did her best to look timid, but at the moment she was enjoying herself too much. “Ginny said I could keep an eye on Houston.”

  That made sense. Unfortunately it didn’t shed any light on what I should do next. I had to ask, “Did anyone tell her what he said about her?”

  Maryanne looked blank for a second, then shook her head. “I don’t think anybody believed it.”

  So Ginny still believed that we had an outsider on our hands. Someone hidden in the building. She’d gone looking for him with the remaining survivors—the Hardhouses and the Carbones, Connie and Rock. She hadn’t heard Mile’s reasons for thinking that no one killer could’ve done all this alone.

  I liked the outsider theory myself. It explained Smithsonian’s phone calls. But it had problems. For one thing, Mile was right. The murders would be easier to explain if the killer had an accomplice. For another, I simply couldn’t imagine why the same killer would want me and Cat and Mac and Simon all dead. Which in turn suggested that the murders had nothing to do with any one of us personally—which made nonsense out of those calls from Smithsonian.

  And for another—for another—

  There was definitely another problem, but at the moment I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  But the insider theory was just as bad. According to Mile, it required two insiders. And I had only ten candidates, leaving out the Draytons. Seven, if I ignored the Carbones and Faith Jerrick. Five, if I crossed Mile and Maryanne off the list. Four discounting Buffy.

  That left the Hardhouses, Rock, and Connie.

  The same people helping Ginny with her search.

  When I made that connection, apprehension tingled down my back, and the skin of my scrotum tightened. Now I knew what I should be doing.

  Ginny needed backup, in case she opened a closet or turned a corner and found herself facing the missing guns.

  “Which way did she go?” I asked Maryanne.

  Apparently she hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean?”

  I made an effort to control my sudden impatience. “How did Ginny organize the search? Where was she going?”

  “Oh.” Now Maryanne understood. “She paired the Hardhouses together. Lara didn’t kill Mac, and Joseph didn’t kill Cat, so she said they were safe. She told them to search Rock and Buffy’s room, and Connie’s, and Mac’s. And she put Connie and Rock together. To keep an eye on each other. They’re supposed to search Simon’s and Cat’s rooms, and yours, and hers. She’s going to start with Mile’s and my room. Then she’s going to do the Hardhouses’. And the Draytons’.

  “She sent Truchi and Ama to check the dining room and kitchen, the storerooms. When they’re all done, they’re supposed to come back here. Then they’ll tackle the attic.”

  I didn’t have time to be impressed by the clarity of Maryanne’s grasp on these details. “Ginny’s working alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Great. Wonderful. Over my shoulder, I said, “I’ll go help her.” I was already on my way.

  Faith stopped me. She must’ve been paying attention after all. As I left Maryanne, she rose from Buffy’s side.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.”

  I wanted to brush past her. Alarms of all kinds sounded in my head. Some of them started quietly, but they were turning into klaxons, inarticulate squalls of warning.

  Nevertheless Faith’s assertiveness held me. She looked pale and determined, as if God had instructed her to prevent me from leaving the den until she’d made one last effort to save my soul.

  I didn’t understand why she hadn’t joined the search. Ginny would’ve been a hell of a lot safer with a companion, any companion.

  “What do you want?” I demanded harshly. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Murder is offensive to God,” she said with soft intensity. “It is a crime against the souls of those who die. If they are not among the redeemed, they are deprived of their hope of heaven. And it is a crime against the souls of those who kill. Life and death and hope belong to the Lord, not to men. A man who kills damns himself by claiming powers which belong to God.

  “When will these crimes stop?”

  I heard an implied accusation which may or may not have been intended—and I was in no mood for it. “If you’re so eager to see them stop,” I growled, “why aren’t you helping Ginny?”

  No, Faith hadn’t intended any accusation. She wasn’t thinking about me or my competence—or my culpability. She had a dilemma of her own. Just for a second, her gaze flicked across my face, almost met my eyes. Then she said simply, “Because I’m afraid.

  “I have a horror of violence, Mr. Axbrewder. It is true, certainly, that the Lord does not ask violence of me. But at need He asks all who serve Him to enter the presence of violence, to accept the sight and the risk of bloodshed. We are asked to love others as He loves them—and if we love them we must serve them as well as we can. It may be necessary to serve them by standing between them and murder.

  “You have done that, Mr. Axbrewder. But I cannot. God’s will is plain, yet I cannot obey it. I can only pray that He will pity me and forgive.”

  Without transition, my irritation evaporated. Instead of the contempt she probably expected me to feel, she forced me to respect her. She may’ve been a religious fanatic, deaf and blind with thoughts of God, but she didn’t make excuses. Which made her braver than I was. Like her, I’d been deaf and blind for a good part of my adult life, but I’d never hesitated to use my drinking as an excuse.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I muttered. “We’re all scared. If God doesn’t understand that, He doesn’t deserve to be worshiped anyway.”

  Driven by klaxons, I headed past Faith toward the bedrooms.

  Too late. As usual. Before I reached the nearest doorway, I heard Lara Hardhouse cry out, “Ginny! Oh, my God!”

  I forgot Faith and Buffy, Maryanne and Mile. I forgot pain and fever and weakness. And my gun. Empty-handed, I jumped at the door and hauled it open.

  Gloom filled the hall. Bulbs had burned out—or someone had switched them off. For an instant, I saw only the dim air, the condensed darkness of wooden doors, the black stretch of the carpet—

  —and a couple of shapes where the gloom solidified.

  As I ran toward them, they turned into Lara and Ginny.

  Lara stood against the wall with her hands over her mouth, braced to scream again. The dimness hid her features, but her whole body looked like panic.

  “Brew!” she cried. “Oh, my God! Come quick.”

  Ginny sprawled almost at Lara’s feet. She might’ve been trying to bury her face in the carpet I couldn’t see her move. The rug under her looked dark as blood, and she lay motionless, as if she’d been nailed there.

  Another fraction of a second passed before I made out the shape jutting from her right shoulder.

  A knife.

  I slammed to my knees beside her. But then I froze. She had a knife in her back—down in her right shoulder at an angle toward her heart. I couldn’t decide what to do. Turn her over to see if she was still breathing? Just pull the knife out? How deeply had she been stabbed? The knife didn’t look particularly long. A couple of inches of the blade hadn’t gone in. How badly would she bleed if I pulled it out?

  While I dithered, she lifted the stump of her left arm and thumped her claw sideways against the wall. In a voice muffled by pain and fury, she started cursing.

  “Ginny,” I panted, “Ginny, don’t move. You’ve got a knife in your back.” As if she couldn’t tell what had happened to her. “I don’t know how deep it goes.”

  “Brew,” she gasped. “Christ! Get that thing out of me.”

  “Wait,” I insisted, “wait, we need Sam, I don’t know how bad it is, when it comes out you’re going to lose blood.”

  Her claw hit the wall again. Squirming against the pain, she twisted her head up. “Get that thing out of me.”

&nb
sp; I looked around. No one appeared. Where were they all when I needed them? Surely everyone in the lodge had heard Lara’s yell? But Maryanne and Faith and Buffy kept to the illusory safety of the den. The Carbones might not have heard Lara from the distance of the kitchen. Sam probably wouldn’t leave Queenie for anything. Connie and Rock and Hardhouse—

  When Ginny gave me orders, I was supposed to obey.

  “Damn it, woman!” I snapped, “hold still! You need a doctor. I don’t want to make a mistake about this.”

  Then Hardhouse materialized out of the gloom, soundless on the tight floorboards. Practically skidding to his knees opposite me, he barked, “Have you lost your mind? Pull it out!”

  Before I could react, he tugged the blade loose, slapped it into my hands, and immediately jammed the heel of his palm onto the wound to stanch the bleeding.

  Over Ginny’s cursing, he commanded, “Get moving, Axbrewder! We need Sam.”

  The knife was slick and warm with blood—it felt almost hot on my shocked fingers. No one would’ve called it long, a five-inch blade at most. And it hadn’t gone all the way in. Her attacker hadn’t been very strong. Or the blade had struck on her scapula and skidded aside.

  I had enough experience with knives and wounds to see that Ginny wasn’t about to die.

  Dumbly I got to my feet. The warmth of her blood seemed to burn into me like a splash of acid. Every beat of my heart carried concentrated sulfuric. I didn’t care whether I was on my knees or standing or stark mad. I had the knife in my right hand, the handle wedged into my palm. With my left, I grabbed at Lara’s blouse so hard that her head flopped against the wall.

  Aiming the knife at her face, I demanded, “Who did it?”

  Unmistakable panic glistened in her eyes. As soon as she saw the knife she started to babble.

  “Brew, no, don’t hurt me, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I swear it, she was like that when I found her, don’t hurt me!”

  I shifted my left hand from her blouse to her chin. Hunching over her, I forced her head up. Almost softly, as if I weren’t too savage to care what I did next, I repeated, “Who did it?”