Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “It looks kind of … used,” Pete said.

  “It’ll look worse before we’re through,” Kerrigan said.

  By Thursday, with the time down to nine seconds, the contraption did indeed look worse, Pete decided. It looked wilted, and frayed cloth showed around the snaps. Both shoulder straps had been torn loose. Only one garter strap remained.

  “What time is it?” Pete asked.

  “Nine thirty-five. You getting tired?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a break. How you feeling generally?”

  “My hands are tired.” Pete stood up, stretched. “I feel like I’ve unfastened that thing ten thousand times.”

  “Almost five hundred,” Kerrigan said. “Think you can cut your time any more?”

  “Gosh, Hal, I don’t see how. There’re just so many connections. I have to get each one.”

  “You got this date with Virgie tomorrow night?”

  “We’re going dancing at the lake.”

  “You feel ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Tell you what—knock off. Rest your hands. I think any more training’s just a waste of time. You can overtrain on a thing like this, you know.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re not scared, are you?”

  Pete swallowed. “Maybe a little.”

  “Don’t be, pal. You’ve got it made. Blitz! She won’t know what hit her.”

  “I don’t like that kind of talk,” Pete said. He cleared his throat with a cough. “Hal, I been thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s not really fair … kind of.”

  “Fair! Is it fair what she’s been doing? Leading you right up to that armor and cutting you off?”

  “Maybe it’s not her fault exactly.”

  “Not her fault, he says. You think she really wants to stop?”

  “Wellll … I dunno, maybe not.”

  “You know damn well she doesn’t want you to stop.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “It’s your duty, Pete.” Kerrigan lowered his voice. “You’re really saving her from her inhibitions.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way.”

  “Think of how she’s teased you,” Kerrigan said.

  “You really think she’s been teasing me?”

  “I know she has.”

  “Yeah! You could call it that.”

  “It’s nothing else. Now you get in there and fight.” Kerrigan glanced around the apartment. “You want to use my place?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  “Be my guest. Be my guest.”

  O O O

  It was Saturday high noon in the apartment, and Pete reclined on the davenport in Kerrigan’s maroon robe. He dangled a torn length of pink strap in his left hand, studied it with a pursed-lip frown of concentration.

  A hesitant knock sounded at the hall door.

  Pete ignored it.

  The knock was repeated.

  Pete raised his head. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Hal.” The voice sounded muffled, conspiratorial.

  Pete stuffed the strap into a pocket of the robe. “Come on in.”

  Kerrigan let himself in the front door, crossed to the davenport, and draped his coat over it. He leaned on the coat, looked down at Pete.

  “Hi, Hal,” Pete said.

  Kerrigan glanced around the apartment. It looked neat—everything in its place, nothing disarranged. He returned his attention to Pete, noted a smudge of lipstick across Pete’s neck.

  “You’re looking pretty good,” Kerrigan said.

  “Hal, we’re getting married,” Pete said.

  Kerrigan’s lips moved without a sound, then: “You’re getting married?”

  “Yeah.” Pete frowned up at him. “You sound like you don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Oh, it’s a great idea. Great, great.”

  “We think so.”

  “What’ya been doing here all this time if you were just going to get married?” Kerrigan demanded.

  “Are you sure you’re happy about this?” Pete asked. “You sound kind of funny.”

  “I’m delighted! I’m overjoyed.”

  “I was gonna ask you to be my best man.”

  Kerrigan passed a hand across his eyes. “Sure, Pete. Sure.”

  “I owe it all to you,” Pete said. “She was too inhibited to get married. I proposed every night last week, but she kept putting me off.”

  Kerrigan pointed to the place on the rug where Pete had practiced disassembling the contraption. “You mean … while we were working with that … every night?”

  “On the phone after we got through. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go through with it.” Pete blushed.

  “But you went through with it?”

  Pete dropped his feet to the floor, sat up. A look of animation came over his face. “Hal, I watched the luminous second hand on your mantle clock. Hal, seven seconds! Think of it: seven seconds!”

  “Yeah,” Kerrigan said. “I’m thinking.”

  Thriller and Adventure

  The Wrong Cat

  It was early dawn when the headless dog was thrown over the fence into the wisteria beside the cottage patio.

  A fat golden cat skittered sideways to circle the dead dog and get to the cottage door. It mewed twice.

  Mary Cloister heard the familiar call, but first she put the coffee pot full of water on the range, adjusted the flame. The glass coffee pot magnified the blue light of the gas flame. She paused to admire the color, wondered if she could capture that combination of blue light and sparkling water on canvas.

  Again the cat mewed—this time angrily.

  “I’m coming, Puss, I’m coming,” Mary called. She belted her short red corduroy robe tighter around her slim waist and opened the door. Puss rushed in, brushing her legs with dew-damp fur.

  Mary stepped out onto the patio, took a deep breath of the morning breeze off the sea. Her favorite view spot was near the wisteria and the fence. She crossed the patio in anticipation of the sight of the blue seawater and white fishing boats below.

  Before she could begin absorbing the peace of the view, she saw the monstrosity that had been a dog—brown-and-white fur streaked in gore and an unthinkable horror where the head had been.

  “Oh, my God!” she closed her eyes, put her hands to her face, turned, and ran into the cottage, slamming the door. “Oh, God!”

  She sank onto one of the two ladder-back chairs by the maple table, closed her eyes. “Who could be so cruel?”

  Puss brushed against her legs, purring. When she didn’t reach to pet him, he butted her ankle with his head. “Meow!” he demanded.

  She pushed his head away with the side of her foot, leaned on the table.

  Now she could be sure the pattern that had begun yesterday was deliberately malicious.

  The dead rat in the mailbox could have been trapped there. The knocking on the roof last night could have been squirrels. The sounds at her door—well, the wind blew strongly off the bay.

  She stroked her cat’s head, murmured, “That poor dog.”

  Across the kitchen, her Tyrolean clock began to chime the hour—7:00 AM. She stared at the clock. Jim had given it to her, and for the first time in many weeks, she began to cry.

  Immediately after Jim’s death, she had cried often. She and Jim had been married only two years before the accident. A drunken driver on the wrong side of the freeway, and that had emptied the happiness out of her life.

  Mary had tried to return to her painting career. But the city seemed involved in a conspiracy against art. Then Jim’s law partner, Ron Devin, had found the cottage looking down on Santa Maria Bay. He’d insisted she bring her paints and brushes for the summer.

  “You need a long rest away from … memories,” he had said.

  In the way women know such things, Mary knew Ron loved her. But also in the way of such
things, neither had ever mentioned it—or even looked as if it were true.

  The cat leaped into her lap. “It’s too soon to think about someone else. It’s been barely a year,” she said aloud, but the picture of Ron’s slim face and sun-streaked blond hair came into her mind. She glanced toward the window.

  The wisteria that framed the view forced her mind back to the horror in the garden. She shivered.

  Until yesterday, the cottage had been good for her. And now—just when the sun-warmed peace of Santa Maria Bay had begun to ease the pain in her chest—this had to happen.

  From the stove came a bubbling hiss. The coffee was boiling over. She jumped up, and the cat sprang to the floor with an indignant shake.

  “Sorry, Puss,” she muttered as she turned off the gas. She stared at the mess of coffee grounds and water spreading slowly across the white enamel stove top.

  Maybe somebody’s trying to scare me away, she thought. But who? And why?

  She crossed to the refrigerator, took out a red-and-white can of cat food.

  With a knife from the drain board, she levered a thick slab of the food into Puss’s bowl. The operation took her near the window over the sink, and she knew if she looked out that window she could see the dead dog.

  She carefully turned away without looking.

  Who would want to scare me away—and why?

  The only person she had met here was George Brett, owner of the general store and bait shop. Oh—and that poor brother of his, Willy.

  She considered Willy. Could it be that poor half-wit? But what would be the point?

  She sighed. The first thing to face was burying the dead animal in the yard. Until that was out of sight, there could be no peace for her.

  Puss finished eating, mewed at the door.

  She let him out, returned to the window over the sink, steeled herself to glance toward the wisteria.

  The body was gone!

  It couldn’t be gone! She was sure the dead dog could be seen from this window, but there wasn’t a sign of it.

  With quickening alarm, she crossed to the door, stepped onto the patio. The sun was hot on her head as she moved toward the wisteria.

  There was a crushed spot in the foliage, nothing else.

  In sudden panic, she whirled back into the cottage, slammed the door. A missing dog was more terrible than the carcass in the wisteria.

  This is foolish! She told herself. Country-style juvenile delinquents are having a game with me. Or—or some animal has dragged it away.

  Mary nodded to herself. The dead dog had become a symbol. She felt if she let this incident completely shatter her peace she might never find her way back.

  As a beginning therapy, she stepped once more into the sunshine, forced her reluctant steps toward the wisteria.

  It took a few minutes to regain calmness. She made herself gaze out at her favorite view of the bay.

  This midmorning light flattened the water far below, and only one boat was in sight, a ketch with red sails hanging limply. Not a breeze stirred. Her artist’s eye measured the light, and she wondered what she could do with that matte look to the water.

  The only sign of life between her and the bay was the bait shop store far below. It gave her some comfort to think of George Brett, the owner, puttering around there.

  The thought came to her as she stood there that peace and loneliness were only a fraction apart. When she had arrived at the cottage, she had rejoiced in the absence of neighbors; now she longed for the security of nearby humans.

  A quick movement to her left caught her eye, and she whirled just in time to see a disturbance in the hedge beyond the wisteria.

  Panic choked her. She swallowed. Somebody was hiding there. “Who—who’s there?” she managed.

  “Just Willy,” said a gruff voice. The hedge parted. A stocky man pushed through, stepped onto the patio. “Just Willy,” he repeated.

  She caught her breath. Willy. Brett had explained him in a hoarse whisper: “My brother. Willy ain’t quite right. But he’s harmless.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked. And she asked herself, Was the dog Willy’s doing?

  Willy giggled, looked down at the ground. “I just came to bury the poor little dog,” he said.

  She stared at him. “You buried the dog?”

  “Yes’m.” He frowned, worry wrinkling his face. “Didn’t you want the poor little dog buried?”

  Mary managed to swallow. She spoke carefully, as one would speak to a child. “What do you know about the dog? Did you put it in my garden?”

  Willy shook his head slowly. It was a heavy, bearlike movement. He looked at her out of tiny, intensely blue eyes. “No. I come by and seen the poor little dog. Didn’t you want him buried?”

  Mary felt sure he was telling the truth. Willy was too uncomplicated for much falsehood. “Do you know who—who killed the dog?” she asked.

  Unexpectedly, Willy raised one big arm, clamped down on his own wrist with the other hand. It was a powerful gesture, full of implied violence. “If I did, I’d sure get him,” he muttered.

  She took a step backwards. Just how harmless was Willy?

  He dropped his hands. “I wouldn’t hurt the little dog,” he said. “I loved him.”

  “Was—was it your dog, Willy?”

  “No. But I knew him.”

  The way he said that: “I knew him.” A normal man might mention a human friend in just the same tone. “Why were you walking by my back fence?” Mary asked.

  “I come by here every morning,” said Willy.

  Mary found the thought unsettling. “You do? Why?”

  “I come by to say good morning to your pretty cat.”

  We’re all alone here, she thought. What could I do if this poor half-wit became violent?

  “I’m glad you like my cat,” she managed. Then: “Why were you hiding in the hedge?”

  “Wasn’t hiding,” he said.

  Without warning, tears filled Willy’s eyes. One ran down his cheek, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. “I was looking for the poor little dog’s head,” he said.

  For a moment, Mary couldn’t speak. She was aware of pity for Willy, but no words came.

  Willy swallowed, said, “Head should be buried with the body.”

  He turned and ambled off around the house, saying, “Got to get back to the store.”

  Mary sank onto the stone bench near the house, took three deep breaths. Willy had told the truth. She felt a deep certainty of this. So he probably wasn’t the one trying to frighten her. If that was the real meaning of these … incidents. If someone was trying to frighten her away, who could it be? And why? She gazed at the bay. Was she in someone’s way?

  Something brushed her leg, and she gasped. Then she heard deep purring and put her hand on a cat’s reassuring fur.

  “Poor Puss,” she said. “Your mistress is falling apart.”

  The cat moved from under the bench, leaped lightly into her lap.

  It wasn’t Puss!

  She pushed it away sharply, stared at it.

  This was a black tom with a white bib and wide whiskers—and fatter and bigger than her golden Puss.

  At her abrupt motion, the strange cat flattened itself to a cautious crouch, then streaked for the wisteria.

  Mary stared after it. I’m really falling apart, she thought, when a cat frightens me.

  But where was Puss? He wouldn’t let a strange cat get this near his territory.

  “Puss,” she called. She stood up and crossed to the cottage door. “Puss. Puss!”

  No sign of her cat. She stepped inside, moved into the tiny living room. “Puss?”

  Mary felt her fingernails cutting into her palms as she glanced around the bedroom. No cat. She tried not to think of the headless dog.

  A tentative mew at the door made her sigh with relief. She returned to the front door, swung it open.

  The black-and-white tom stalked in, mewing sharply as it marched past her, its tail
held high. The message was unmistakable: “Why were you so long opening the door?”

  Mary stared at him.

  Without looking left or right, he crossed to a maple rocker, leaped onto the red cushion, turned once, and went to sleep.

  A chill moved down Mary’s back. There was no sunlight on the chair, but within a half hour or so, the only sunlight in the room would be right on that cushion.

  Puss had learned the same thing and often spent his mornings there.

  How did this strange cat know? And where was Puss? A cat in a strange room will always look it over before settling down—but not this silly black-and-white creature.

  For a moment, Mary considered throwing the strange cat out. But the feeling of company he gave her was too valuable.

  “When Puss comes home, you’ll get chased out fast enough,” she muttered.

  She kept reminding herself of this to keep from worrying about her cat, but by midafternoon, Puss still hadn’t returned.

  The black-and-white tom slept on in the patch of sun until the light moved across the room. Then he jumped onto the window seat and waited for the afternoon sun to find him there.

  At first Mary pretended to be amused by his confidence—but her mood soon gave way to apprehension.

  Whenever Puss slept in the sun, Mary would stroke him lightly as she passed by and he would answer with a rumbling purr.

  She tried it with the black tom, and his angry yowl made her recoil in astonishment. This was a “do not disturb” cat.

  Several times she approached the phone to call Ron Devin in the city—but each time she drew back. It was as if that unspoken attraction for her dead husband’s partner stopped her each time.

  Even thinking about going out into that cottage yard took an effort of will, but as the afternoon drew on, she realized she would have to go outside and then into the cellar for firewood. By 6:30 she knew she could put it off no longer. She couldn’t wait for darkness. She steeled herself, told herself the fear was silly, but as she emerged from the house with her flashlight for the cellar, she felt hate around her. There was no doubt in her mind that someone was trying to scare her away.

  She lifted the shake doors of the cellar, breathed through her mouth to avoid the sour mustiness of the dirt-floored cellar as she descended. One stab of the flashlight’s beam toward the fireplace wood pile, and before she could help it, she screamed.