by Gene Wolfe
I’m really in deep shit now, Mercedes thought.
“So let me tell you a couple of things. In the first place, nobody except you and Seth Howard claims to have seen either the blond woman or the tall man. The officers who were at the scene say there wasn’t anybody there like that, and the people here at the hospital say there wasn’t anybody like that brought into the Trauma Center. Understand?”
“But—”
“And there’s no dirt road from Baker’s Knob Road to the highway—not a one, anywhere. And if you were to drive up to the scenic view on Baker’s Knob and turn around, and then go down half a mile and turn left, you’d be headed straight down a slope so steep it’s almost a cliff. You couldn’t stop and you couldn’t steer, and the first time you hit a rock, you’d start rolling. If you were lucky as hell, you might get caught in the trees. If you weren’t—”
The door opened, and a woman’s voice asked, “May I come in, Sheriff? A few pictures for the View?”
As though a switch had been thrown, the sheriff smiled. “Of course, of course. Come right in.”
It was Viviane Morgan.
“There’s been no answer to the page,” the receptionist told Sally Howard.
“You remember Dr. von Madadh, don’t you? He was sitting right here beside me. A tall man, very nicely dressed, with a reddish beard. You saw him.”
The receptionist nodded. “I saw him, but I don’t know where he is, and he doesn’t answer his page.”
“He went to look for my son,” Sally told her.
The receptionist said nothing.
“Now I can’t find Seth either. How could they lose him like that?”
“This is a hospital,” the receptionist told her, “not a prison.”
Sally stared at her.
“You son was ambulatory. I know, because Dr. von Madadh brought him out here. They hadn’t taken his clothing yet and given him a gown. And then he was angry because Dr. de Falla made him go back. So quite possibly …” She let the sentence lapse. After a few seconds she added, “Your Dr. von Madadh is not accredited to this hospital. I checked.”
“You think that Dr. von Madadh took him home.”
The receptionist turned back to her switchboard, although the telephone had not chimed and there were no blinking lights. “It would appear to be a possibility,” she said frostily, “since they’re both gone.”
Sally shrugged, sagging shoulders telling her how tired she was, how very tired. “Would you call me a taxi?”
The receptionist pretended not to hear, and when a minute or more had passed, Sally turned wearily and went out through the heavy glass hospital doors, into the wet, windy night. Most houses here were already dark.
There was no chance of hailing a passing taxi in Castleview this late, she knew—no chance at all. Even during the day, you seldom saw a taxi unless somebody had telephoned for one.
She tried to estimate the distance from the hospital to her house; fourteen blocks, she thought, or perhaps sixteen. At any rate she could walk it. She would not beg that woman for a taxi, no, never. And perhaps she would see somebody she knew, perhaps somebody she knew might offer her a ride. Or if someplace open had a telephone, she could call. Then Kate would come and pick her up. Kate liked to watch TV late; she wouldn’t have gone to bed yet.
The rain had ended; but the sidewalk was still dotted with puddles, and icy water dripped from the leafless trees. An old Cherokee Chief skidded dangerously, swinging wide for the abrupt turn into the hospital lot. It seemed to have no windshield at all, so that for an instant Sally saw clearly the drawn face of the woman at the wheel. It was vaguely, naggingly familiar; but Sally did not permit it to nag very long; she was much too tired.
Was this really the day Tom had died? The same day? That did not seem possible, was not possible. It seemed to her that it had been only a year or so ago that they had met in American History. Lost in a waking dream, she recalled how Tom’s smile had lit up his eyes.
Judy was gone. As Kate spooned powdered coffee into one of Sally’s cups, she thought about that in the same way she thought about Stan. It hadn’t worked out, she and Stan. They had never quite fitted, and now Stan—now Stan’s daughter—was gone. Kate really and sincerely hoped that the two of them would be happier out of her life than they had ever been in it, and it was nice to be able to start fresh.
Damned nice.
She should report it to the police, she knew, so that they could laugh at her, that being the key duty, the main point of police. Here was Sally’s avocado-green phone, right here on the wall, so why not?
She added boiling water from Sally’s teakettle and stirred. Sally had gotten a good man who was crazy about her, or anyway had been while he was alive. Sally liked—loved her kid, even if she understood him no better than she herself had understood Judy. No, worse—much, much worse, because Sally didn’t really understand Seth at all; because Seth was a boy, would be a grown man the next time you looked, and who the hell understood them?
Kate went to the refrigerator and found a carton of half-and-half. When she had been a little kid herself, Mom and Dad had poured thick, yellow, country cream into their coffee; now you couldn’t do it, because it made you die too soon. The CIA had a plan for spiking every samovar in Moscow with thick cream, or if it didn’t it should. So now Dad had gray hair and false teeth, and he was still working; he had even gotten loose from whoever the hell had stolen him. (Who would want to steal Dad?) And Mom bitched about her feet hurting, when she had walked to town only three times today.
I’m blasted, Kate thought. I haven’t had a thing to drink, but I’m blasted anyway because I got blasted when Stanley split, and went to bed with that salesman, and now Judy’s gone and I’m thinking drunk again. So I may as well have one—it isn’t going to make any difference.
She carried her coffee into the living room and got a fifth of Wild Turkey out of Tom’s liquor cabinet; two fingers of Wild Turkey improved the instant coffee beyond belief. Tom’s target pistol lay on the coffee table. She set down her empty cup and fingered the long, black barrel.
Back in the kitchen, there was a sticker on the wall beside the phone that gave the sheriffs number. That was convenient—you never knew when you might have your kid stolen. Kate wedged the handset between her shoulder and her ear, leaving her a free hand with which to dial.
There was only a single ring before an authoritarian female voice said, “Sheriff Ahern’s All-Night Help Line.”
“My name’s Kate Roberts.”
“And what can we do for you, Miz Roberts?”
“I’m at my sister’s house. Sally Howard’s. I’m afraid I can’t remember the address. The big old house on Pine Street?”
“What seems to be the trouble, Miz Roberts?”
“My little girl’s gone—her name’s Judy. Well, it’s really Judith Youngberg. She’s seven years old, and she has on a pink dress, her good one. And white stockings and maryjanes, because Tom’s dead.”
“Your little girl’s run away?”
“No. I mean, yes. She ran away from this man, I think. I looked down for just a moment, and I heard them running, or when I looked up, and when I looked they were gone.” Like a ghostly echo, Kate heard running feet beyond Sally’s broken window—no, hooves, galloping hooves. Riders crossing the field behind the house.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Oh, God,” Kate said. “Oh God!” How could she make them believe that this was real, that she was serious? She knew and thrust the knowledge from her.
“Who was the man?”
“I don’t know. He told me his name, I think, but I can’t remember. He said he’d bought it.” One swift motion—put the gun to her head and pull the trigger.
“He bought his name?”
“Bought this house. Listen, please, she’s only seven—”
“Then your sister doesn’t live there any more.”
Very calmly, Kate said, “Please listen, and remember this: tell Sta
n I was serious, understand? Find Stan, and tell him I was completely serious.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.
It moved not a hair. She had expected a very loud bang—a report. You were entitled to a full report before the silence, but there was nothing.
“Who’s Stan? Is Stan your sister’s husband?”
The safety, of course. There was a switch-thing on these, and unless it was on they wouldn’t fire. Kate found the safety and pushed it down with the mouthpiece of the telephone. In her mouth, that was the way.
“Three eleven North Pine? Is that where you’re calling from?”
It seemed that there was a safety on her index finger, too; it would not move. The drumming hooves grew touder—big horses, Morgans with ground-devouring legs, real rattlers.
Grandfather had always loved horses. “Why’d you call him a rattler, Grandpa?” “‘Cause that’s what he is, Katie. See, soon as our folks had gone off somewhere, me an’ Jeff would fetch out Cannoneer—that was my pa’s Morgan. ‘Hold him, Ed,’ Jeff’d say, ‘Hold him good, till I got him in the traces.’ Cannoneer’d toss his head—lifted me clean off my feet one time—but I’d hold on till Jeff had him hitched to the good buggy, an’ a good hold on the reins. Then I’d let go, and he’d rear, so I just had time to jump on. Didn’t have to crack the whip or nothin’ for him. No, sir! Off we’d go, knowin’ we was goin’ to get warmed good for it. Down the hill and over the bridge! Crackin’? Why you never seen the like, Katie! There’d be ol’ George Johnson with a load of apples, but he’d not catch sight of us for our dust. The new buggy’d sound like she was about to come apart, and then Jeff, he’d say, ‘He’s a rattler, ain’t he, Ed?’ But I wouldn’t answer a thing, just hold on with both hands, ’cause he was, for certain sure.”
“Hello? Are you still there, Miz Roberts? Hello?”
“Yes,” Kate whispered. “Yes, I’m still here.” Perhaps she could press the trigger with the thumb of her other hand.
“If you’re in somebody else’s home—”
The hoofbeats stopped, and Kate glanced at the shattered window. There was nothing, not even a pane of glass, between her and the big—the enormous—man peering in. His face was bearded; above the black hairs his skin was a pale green. His eyes met hers, and at the shock her hand tightened convulsively.
There was no report, no loud noise, only the feeling that she had been struck a terrible blow.
25
ROSARY CHEESECAKE
A WOMAN who looked Italian was saying the rosary. Ann decided it was a swell idea—she could use a big string of worry beads herself, and the prayers. She could use the prayers most of all, and so could her baby, who “just” had a broken arm, they said. (She was talking to the sheriff, okay, but what the hell did they find to talk about? “Lemme tell ya, Miss, I got me a heck of a video tape fer tomorrer night. True Grit. Yep, th’ Duke hisself.”)
So could the dying girl, Ann thought, the Brazilian girl. Sancha, that was her name.
And so could Lisa Solomon; perhaps Lisa most of all. She was sitting quietly on the other side of Bob, but her face was awful, just terrible. The Italian woman completed her rosary and kissed its silver crucifix. Could you use your knuckles?
A cup and a quarter of cookie crumbs.
A quarter cup of white sugar—castor sugar, they call that in England, God knows why.
And a quarter cup melted butter and two and a half pounds Philadelphia cream cheese. Because a sugar bowl was a castor, that was why. Sugar-bowl sugar.
Lisa said, “When she dies, will they even tell us?” It was said softly, almost in a whisper, but Ann heard her.
So had Bob; he said, “We’ll keep checking.” And then, “You mustn’t worry.”
It was when people told you not to worry that you worried, Ann reflected. More sugar, a scant two cups. That’s to go in the filling—the other’s for the crust. (The other hand now.) Three tablespoons of white King Arthur flour. Grate the rind of a big lemon.
The Italian woman had begun again; her voice floated softly across the room: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour …”
Then grate half an orange rind the same way. You’ll need five large eggs—my mother always thought the brown ones worked best. (Back to the first hand.)
The gray-haired woman at the reception desk said, “This is the hospital, can I speak to Mrs. Howard? What? Why officer—”
And besides those, two egg yolks. You have to throw away the whites, or find something else to do with them.
Boomer had a grievance. In fact he had several. There was the smell of blood, just to start with. Blood was bad, it meant bad trouble in the herd. It had sent him galloping off into the night—not that he minded night much—when he should have gotten his saddle off.
He had grazed for a while in the big unfenced meadow west of the lodge, although that was scarcely a grievance. He had pricked his ears at the strange stories the wind told, and had drunk from Indian Creek, all of which was well and even good. But now he was left standing in front of his own personal stall with nobody to unsaddle him and nobody to open the door. That was deeply and disturbingly wrong. Where was Lisa? Where was Wrangler? Where was Sissy? Where was Sancha? Where was—for that matter, though he himself had never liked her … .
These thoughts had hobbled through Boomer’s slow, tenacious mind a score of times already when, at that exact moment, Lucie strode into the barn. “There you are, you big ox,” Lucie said, “all ready to go. Fine with me—tres bien, mon boeuf.”
Boomer rolled his eyes and backed off, then made the error of trying to turn. As he swung around, Lucie caught him by the bridle.
He knew already that Lucie was not there to unsaddle him. There is a way a rider looks when she means to take your saddle off, a way when she is just making sure you have hay, a way for grooming, a way for a short ride, a way for jumping, and a way for a long ride. Lucie meant to ride far, and in a moment more she was in his saddle, reining his head hard to the right while bullying him with both her heels. He reflected with a certain satisfaction that Lucie’s seat was not quite as good as Lisa’s. There were limbs, there were trees—
“Okay, charogne, let’s see some speed.”
He went from a walk to a trot, from a trot to a canter, and from a canter to a gallop before they were out of the barn.
Less than five minutes after Mercedes was wheeled back into her hospital room, Dr. von Madadh entered it, quietly and almost furtively. “I take it that the sheriff has done his worst?”
“I sure hope so.”
“As he did with poor Seth. There ought to be a law against policemen who browbeat patients—or rather, there ought to be a law punishing physicians who permit it. I would never allow one of my own to be harassed in the way that you and Seth have been tonight, believe me.”
Mercedes sat up. “There was another couple in the car with us, and the sheriff kept going on about them. I guess I should say, about them not really being there and what’d they do, split right after the accident? They didn’t, I saw them in the Trauma Center, and—Then he said the hospital didn’t write them up.”
Von Madadh sighed. “I suppose this is the moment, although I hate to give you a shock. First, let me say that his injuries are fairly minor. Is that understood, Mercedes? They are by no means severe.”
“Seth? I thought he got cut up pretty bad.”
“No, I wasn’t referring to Seth, but to your father. Will Shields is your father?”
“Dad’s been hurt? What happened? That’s right, his name’s Will.”
“So I was informed,” von Madadh said. “A young friend of mine—a very dear friend—spoke with your parents earlier today. And I must confess to eavesdropping a bit outside before I broke in upon your tête-à-tête with the sheriff. I had hoped to learn Seth’s whereabouts without interrupting you.”
Unconsciously, Mercedes touched her hair. “Well, did you? Where is he?”
Von Madadh sighed again. “We’ll
get to that in time; I’ll track him down, you may be sure. But meanwhile, don’t you want to see your father? He’s had an accident, too; and I’m sure he would be here already, sick with worry for you, if he knew that you were here.”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Good. You were in a wheelchair when you were interviewed by the sheriff; but from what I overheard about your battle with the unfortunate Hwan, you didn’t really need it. Can you walk?”
“Sure.” Mercedes swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was very tired—so tired it seemed she stood beside herself and watched her own body as she might have watched an actress.
Von Madadh appeared to sense it. A little sadly he said, “High adventure is best enjoyed at a distance, or so I’ve heard. Take my arm, please. I will be flattered.”
Fee opened the door wide as Sally climbed the steps to the porch. “Ah, there you are! I was afraid something had happened to you. Your son is not badly hurt?”
Sally snapped, “What are you doing in my house? Get out!”
Fee closed the door softly behind her. As he had earlier, he conveyed an impression of deformity without actually showing a crooked back or a clubfoot. “Per’aps you forgot—this house is mine: I bought it from you tonight. You are welcome to stay on as my housekeeper, but you must not forget whose house it is you keep. You and I discussed this earlier, I thought, at some length.”
“I’m going to call the sheriff,” Sally told him. “I’ll be God damned if I’ll listen to this any more.” Recalling that she still had Fee’s check, she opened her purse and began to rummage through it.
“Please,” Fee said. “Mrs. Howard—Sally. Do you mind if I call you Sally? Sally, there’s something urgent we must settle immediately. Then I will telephone the sheriff for you, if you wish. What are your feelings toward your sister? Are you very fond of her? Or would you, per’aps, prefer that she intrude no more?” He waved a hand airily.
“Kate? Are you talking about Kate?”
