by Gene Wolfe
“Merci. My name, it is Lucie. You are Madame Schindler. You are German, I think. At least you have a German name, no?”
“My grandparents. What are you doing in the back of my car, Lucie?”
“Begging that you will please take me to the town with you, Madame Schindler. That is all. It is so very important that I go, and that woman, that Lisa at the camp, would not permit it. Because of the rain and the many things that have occurred—such terrible things, madame, they did not tell you the worst—and I should have to ride a horse.”
“I don’t blame her,” Ann declared. “I’ll have to take you back.”
“Oh, madame …” As agilely as a monkey, Lucie was over the back of the front seat and seated beside her. “You must not try to turn your large auto about here. You will be mired, madame, truly you will. The road, it is so very narrow and the ground now a paste.” She had wide, dark eyes, which were fixed upon Ann’s own in a disconcerting stare.
“I suppose you’re right, but I can turn around when we get to the gate.” Ann pushed the Buick into Drive. The road itself was getting soft; she could sense its give beneath the tires.
“That is wise, madame. That is very wise indeed. Let us go far from this terrible place. But I must find someone. It is so urgent, and he is in the town.”
Ann nodded, keeping her eyes on the gray strip of road. “A boy?”
“No, madame. A man. A gentleman, un homme comme il faut. You think him my lover? No, no! Only a man who does not know me, or only a little, though I must speak with him.”
“All right. If Lisa Solomon says you can go, I’ll take you with me.”
“But she will not, madame!” Lucie’s soft voice rose to an agonized whine. “She will say, how shall you return? No! You may not go.”
“I doubt that you should go myself, if you haven’t any way to get back.”
“You might drive me, madame, in this auto. Or perhaps your husband? Then all should be well. Do you not have to meet your husband? So you said as you left the barn. I was there behind, and overheard you.”
Ann glanced at the dashboard clock; it was seven-fifteen. “I can’t do that,” she said. “I’d like to—I’m going to be late as it is—but I really can’t. We’re just going to have to turn around and go back when we get to the gate.” It seemed to her that they should have reached it already, but no gate showed in her brights. The road wound down a narrow little valley, hardly more than a gully, that Ann did not remember at all. She asked, “How much farther is it?”
“Two kilometers, perhaps.”
How much was that in miles? About a mile and a half, Ann thought, maybe.
“It seems longer, does it not, by night?”
“It certainly does,” Ann agreed. Almost against her will, she added, “We went across a little bridge—Wrangler and I, when he was driving the car. You and I haven’t gone over that bridge yet.”
“And we will not, Dieu le veuille! There is no bridge this way. It was old this bridge, and of wood? One which shook much as you crossed? I fear always that it shall fall with us.”
Ann nodded grimly.
“Then you have taken the wrong road from the lodge, madame. You arrived by the back, which is nearer the town and now locked always by Wrangler before the light has gone. This road that we take, it marches to the main gate.”
“Is that one open?” Ann had forgotten about the padlock; she berated herself for it now. “Can we get back to town that way?”
“Oh, yes. It is farther, but that is all. You must turn to the right when we reach the big road—the high way, is that what you call him? Then it is—” Lucie grabbed at the top of the dashboard.
“What’s the matter?”
“The water! Don’t you see it? Be careful!”
Born of the rain, an infant stream formed a waterfall over a miniature cliff and cut a dark path across the road. Ann let up on the accelerator, then decided the water could be no more than a couple of inches deep, if that. The Buick’s wheels sent up geysers left and right, as she drove through it with a scarcely perceptible pause.
“I am sorry, madame. Once nearly I drowned, when I was a little child—thus I have the fear of waters. I do not know the name in English.”
“Aquaphobia, I suppose. But the water didn’t really hurt us, now did it?”
Lucie shook her head. “It terrified me, madame, and that hurts me very much. I would rather I pricked the finger.”
“Well, let’s hope we don’t have anything worse than that to cross,” Ann said.
The road wound out of the tiny valley, considerably rutted in places, and crested a small hill. Ann’s dashboard clock read 7:21. Unconsciously she drove faster, until they were rattling through the wet night at nearly thirty miles an hour. Something long—something that was not white but lighter in color than the mud and wet grass—lay beside the road. She slowed and stopped.
Lucie murmured, “It is nothing, madame. Drive on, please, I beg you.”
It lay outside the beams of her headlights, a dim hump that might almost have been a small log. Ann rolled down her window and peered at it.
“Madame, you do not know this place. Terrible things may occur. Go on, for both our sakes.”
Ann said, “That’s somebody hurt.” She got out, turning on her flashlight. The rain had stopped, leaving behind it a mist and a sense of vague disquiet. When she touched the prone man’s face, her fingertips came away warm and sticky with blood. They got him, she thought, whoever they are. They got him, and they may still be nearby.
Just as she had once or twice felt that a roast was burning before she could smell it, she felt now that Lucie was about to drive away in the Buick. She had left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. She glanced up; but the French girl was only watching her, her face taut and expressionless.
“It’s Wrangler,” Ann told her. “Come here, you’ll have to help me.”
“I was supposed to meet my wife and daughter here,” Shields told the hostess at the Golden Dragon. “I’m afraid I’m a little late. Have they been looking for me? I’m Will Shields.”
The hostess shook her head.
“My wife’s a little taller than you. Reddish-brown hair, blue raincoat?”
The hostess said, “I’m afraid not, sir. Actually nobody’s been here looking for anybody. It’s been a slow night, because of the rain.”
“Maybe they just came in and got a table?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” the hostess repeated. “But you can look for yourself if you like.”
He did. Only three tables were occupied, and none of the diners at any of them resembled Ann or Mercedes in the least.
At his elbow the hostess asked, “Would you like a table, sir? You could wait for them.”
Shields shook his head. “I’d better call. Do you have a public phone?”
“Certainly, sir. Down those steps. It’s just outside the lounges.”
Shields went down the stairs as quickly as he could. Tired and ravenously hungry, he felt as if his knees might give way on every step. The “lounges” were restrooms, of course, with a pay telephone on the wall between them. He groped in his pocket for change.
“Red Stove Inn.”
It was the old woman; he had to rack his brain for the room number. “Cabin ten, please.”
It rang and rang again.
She’s in the bathroom, Shields told himself.
A third ring.
But they couldn’t both be in the bathroom; if Ann was in there, Merc would be in the bedroom watching TV or reading.
A fourth ring.
If Mercedes was in the bathroom …
A fifth ring.
Ann had said something about running errands. She must’ve taken Merc with her. They were stuck somewhere, or some errand had taken far longer than Ann had anticipated. What were those errands anyhow? They were probably on their way right now.
A sixth ring.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past eight.
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“There’s no answer,” the old woman said. “I think probably they went out.”
“Are you certain you were ringing ten?”
“Sure was. Is this Mr. Shields?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, your wife came up to talk to Alfred and me earlier. She asked me about the camp down the road. You think she might have gone there?”
“An army camp?”
“No, for kids,” the old woman said. “They teach them how to ride and swim and so forth. Some just stay a couple weeks, but some all summer—mostly teenagers. Belongs to Syl Baxter, or it did. She’s gone now.”
“And Ann asked about this place?”
“She asked where do they have horses, and that’s the main one. Some folks have a horse or two, but that’s the main one.”
“Could you give me their number?”
“I can look it up for you. Hold the line a minute.”
“If you would, please.” Shields leaned against the wall, waiting, suddenly aware of the silence of the place, the smell of food from the dining area above. There was no one, he felt sure, in either restroom. If there had been, they would have come out by now, would have flushed a toilet or run the water. Very faintly, he heard the murmur of the diners’ voices; they faded until it seemed to him that he waited alone, in an empty building, in an abandoned town.
At his ear, the old woman at the motel said, “Here ’tis. Got something to write with?”
“I’ll remember,” Shields assured her, wondering whether he would. Whether he could.
“Three nine one—all the numbers ’round here are three nine ones. Maybe you’ve noticed.”
“Yes,” Shields said. “Three nine one.”
“Eight eight seven eight.”
“Eighty-eight seventy-eight. Thank you.”
“Happy to help,” the old woman said, sounding as if she meant it; she hung up.
He hung up as well and groped in his pocket for more coins. Another telephone, no doubt on another line, was ringing faintly upstairs, ring after ring.
He pushed two dimes into the slot. Three nine one, eighty-eight seventy-eight. A pause, then somewhere—at the camp where they had horses, presumably—a third telephone rang.
Two rings. Three.
“’Ello?” It was a young woman’s voice, not Mercedes.
“Is this the camp?” He berated himself for not knowing its name.
“Sim. Thes’ Meadow Grass.”
“I’m calling about my wife—Ann Schindler? Is she there?”
“Sheeler?” (A second girl’s voice, more distant from the mouthpiece: “Let me talk.”)
“Schind-ler,” Shields repeated hopefully. “Ann Schindler. Or our daughter, Mercedes. Have they been there?”
“This’s Sissy Stevenson,” announced a new voice. “Are you looking for Mrs. Schindler? Who are you?”
“Her husband, Will Shields.”
“Did you say Shields?” The distant voice sounded doubtful now, yet excited.
“Yes. Will E. Shields.”
“Wait a minute!”
A thunk as the handset fell, and a babble of girlish voices from a distance.
“This is Sissy Stevenson again, Mr. Shields. Do you by any chance know a Mr. L. Robert Roberts?”
The hostess’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Sir, there’s a Mrs. Schindler on the phone. She says that she’s your wife.”
10
SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
THERE WAS a knock, soft and almost furtive.
Not Seth. Seth would’ve come straight in, and she had not heard the car.
Another neighbor with another jar of soup, another covered dish. Sally wished, suddenly and detestably, that Tom had died a year ago, that Tom was already buried, that healing grass had grown and been cut over his grave all summer.
Tap, tap, tap?
Whoever it was could see that the lights were on inside—old Mrs. Cosgriff from across the street, probably. Old Mrs. Cosgriff had not come yet. Old Mrs. Cosgriff would know that she, Sally Howard, was still up. Wearily she rose and went to the door.
It was a small, swarthy, thinly bearded man in a long coat. In place of a casserole he carried a worn leather briefcase like a lawyer’s.
“Yes, what is it?” Somebody from the company, she thought. They’ve sent him from the home office.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He spoke softly, with an accent she could not quite place. For no reason she could have put a finger on, she thought of the Deep South and of its coast—of desolate, muddy beaches that lay below Washington but were much further from Washington than the moon.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
He bobbed his head. “Wouldn’t want to disturb you … saw your light—” From the back of the house there came the sound of breaking glass.
Sally stiffened. “What was that?”
The dark stranger smiled. “Only a glass, I think. Someone dropped a glass, or knocked one over.”
“My mother’s gone home,” Sally said.
He looked at her blankly.
“I’m alone in the house.”
“Per’aps your cat?” He reminded her of a cat himself.
“We don’t—I’d better see what it was.” She turned away.
“Per’aps it would be better if a man accompanied you.”
“Oh! Oh, yes.” He was not large and did not look strong, yet she knew he was right, that two people would be more apt to frighten away a prowler than one. “Thank you very much. Won’t you come in?”
Somehow he was across the threshhold and past her, walking noiselessly but swiftly down the hall toward the back of the house.
Then he was gone.
She called, “Is it all right?” and hurried after him. The rooms were dark, and he did not know the house—he was probably groping for the light switch, and the prowler might attack him, might even kill him, while he groped.
And yet she felt certain she was wrong; that there was no small, dark, briefcase-carrying stranger, and no prowler; that she was alone in the house, save for Tom’s ghost. “Tom,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me. Don’t hurt me like that, Tom.”
She turned on the light. There was no one in the kitchen, but the window above her sink had been broken. Shattered glass had fallen into the sink; more lay upon the brown vinyl-covered floor.
“Sir!” she called. “Mister? Where are you?”
There was no answer. She went from room to room, switching on the lights in the pantry, in the dining room and the bathroom and the big master bedroom; but she was alone in the house save for Tom’s ghost. When she sat down on the bed, she felt certain that the ghost was sitting in Tom’s chair, smoking one of Tom’s pipes; but when she went back into the living room, eager to see even a ghost if the ghost was Tom’s, she could not see it.
Someone pulled up outside; she heard the car door slam. It was strange, she thought, that she had not heard the small dark stranger’s car. Had he walked, or come in a taxi? Wouldn’t she have heard the taxi’s engine, the closing of the taxi’s door?
The doorbell chimed, slowly and almost sadly. It struck her that she hated those bells, and had hated them for years. They had sounded so fine in the store, so elegant when she and Tom had picked them out; the clerk had never warned them, never told her how dismal they might sound in an empty house at night.
They chimed again, and she went to the door.
This man was very different from the first, a big burly man—bigger even than Tom had been—with a wide-brimmed hat that he pulled off as she opened the door. “Mrs. Howard?” He held up a small leather case, like a wallet; there was a star-shaped badge in it. “Deputy sheriff.”
“Thank God you’ve come,” she said. “I should have called. How did you know?”
“Know what, ma’am?” His voice was bigger and deeper than Tom’s, too, Sally thought. But it wasn’t as smart. This man couldn’t manage a factory, would never be asked to take over a bigger one in Galena.
“There’s somebody in my house. Somebody’s broken in,” she told him.
“Broken in, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’ll show you.” Sally hurried off. She was always hurrying tonight it seemed, now that there was nobody to hurry for. She heard the deputy’s slow step behind her.
Foolishly she had feared that the broken glass would be gone, the window whole again—that she had dreamed everything and would look a fool; but the triangular shards still lay in the sink and on the vinyl flooring she always wanted to call linoleum as her mother did. Everything was just as before.
“See?” Sally said.
The deputy grunted, nodding. “You got any notion when this happened, ma’am?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“Five minutes?”
“I was in the living room, and I heard it—heard it break. There was a caller, a man at the door. He said he’d look, and he went back there. Then I went, too, and turned on the lights, but I didn’t see anything.”
The deputy had drawn his gun. She had not noticed it, but it was in his hand, its barrel pointed at the floor. “Where’s he now?”
“The man who was at the door?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he went back here.”
“You go through the whole house, ma’am?”
Sally shook her head. “Just downstairs. Not even all the downstairs rooms.”
“I’ve got to report this. All right if I use your phone? Then we’re going to go through your whole house and make sure nobody’s in here. You didn’t hear this fellow go out the front while you were checking the back?”
“No. He could have, of course. I wouldn’t necessarily have heard him.”
“That’s right—but he might not have, too. That’s why I’m going to look.”
Half an hour later, the deputy seated himself heavily in Tom’s favorite chair, right on top of the ghost.
Sally asked, “Can I get you something? There’s coffee, and there’s Coke and beer in the refrigerator.”
“Coffee will be just fine, ma’am.”
She went back to the kitchen, feeling there that something was going to spring out at her. Broken glass still lay in her sink and on the floor. She picked up the largest pieces and put them in the garbage; they tinkled and clashed like wind chimes.
