by Jack Cady
“I love you,” she said. “You are a good man and I love you. I don’t know why I’m saying it here and now — ” She broke off, but it was not from confusion. It was shyness, and he even understood that too.
He fumbled the flashlight, dropped the crowbar, and then held her close. He swore to himself that he would love her, he would learn how. He would learn about trust, and she would be glad, not sorry. “I want to say the same,” he told her. “It’s just that I want to say it as well as you have and have it mean as much.”
“It does.”
“But I want to say it well — ”
“Are you still afraid?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. He was not afraid. How could he be? She had just said the truest thing she felt, and he understood, even if she did not, that the house of the Trackers was not omnipotent. It was dangerous, but it was vulnerable. It became vulnerable and even stupid in the face of truth.
“Let me take you to the kitchens and we’ll get warm.”
“I wish we could leave.”
“In the morning,” he told her. “Even if it’s still storming, we’ll do our best to make it then.”
“But I won’t ever leave you. Not after this.” Her voice was so soft that he could scarcely hear it even in the silence of the house.
“I’ll care for you.” He said it almost fiercely. “If anything tries to touch you, it has to come through me first.”
“It will,” said Vera Tracker.
Amy screamed. Tracker spun around. There was no one in sight. The long, dimly illuminated hall was as empty as an abandoned tunnel.
“That tears it,” Tracker said. “I’m coming to get you and hog-tie you.” He started to move forward, looked at Amy. Her face was a mask of horror. “I’ll get you,” he said to the empty hall. He led Amy back toward the kitchens, and watched her try to gain control as they walked.
It was clear that Amy was still not used to the way things were done in the house of the Trackers.
Was he?
Chapter Eleven
The endless halls where Vera walked had long since grown beyond the original designs of Johan Traker. Even Johan’s fear of the Devil could not account for that endless building of traps. Fear cannot be sustained with so much force for so long. If Johan feared the Devil, it was likely that either Vera or Theophilus or both of them welcomed the Devil in any form.
Still, the house was originally Johan’s idea. It was fear for his soul that caused him to begin to build. History does not record exactly how Johan’s fear began. It does record that he began building the house about a year after his mother’s death.
Hildegard Schuder was Johan’s mother. She was John Tracker’s great great grandmother on his father’s father’s side. She left Berne at age seventeen for Darmstadt in unusual haste, the pressing reason being that Hildegard was ugly. She married Christian Traker, because there was no one else to marry. The casual vacation that Christian had taken returned him to Germany with a wife he never tried to understand.
Hildegard was a small woman of the kind who becomes tougher with hammering. She was not educated beyond religion, and that was an education of practice and not theory. She raised her family in the same manner. She bore seven children. Johan Traker was the first. Hildegard lived to bury three of those children and see Johan leave for America. She died at age thirty-nine when her husband was two years dead. The cause of her death was internal hemorrhage brought on by an abortion.
In Tracker family legend, mothers were not allowed to fall. It may be that those endless halls where Vera walked had their beginnings in that one incident that, while seeming only pathetic, nonetheless changed Johan’s youthful confidence to fear.
John figured Vera was not going to leave them alone, and realized he did not know how to make Amy understand that Vera would enjoy being drawn and quartered if it made her the center of attention.
When they arrived in the kitchens, John flipped a switch. A section of the floor rolled back, a table rose from the floor and the floor closed back around the table’s pedestal. He told Amy to sit on the bench behind the table. She had a wall at her back, which she huddled against.
“She’ll come looking for us pretty soon,” he said. “Meanwhile, we’ve got to eat. There’s bound to be a way to figure this out.” He opened cabinets, pulled out canned vegetables and tinned meat.
Somewhere in his memory were instructions about this. He tumbled a can over and over in his hands. To solve anything in the house of the Trackers you had to think like a Tracker.
He looked through a doorway, expecting to see Vera drifting somewhere on the edge of vision. He could feel her out there, circling the action. Of course she had a motive to hide from them — to make them afraid, to run them off. Maybe she would not show.
Trackers inevitably created tricks, traps to snare the unwary. Theophilus had learned his fear from johan, and then had built his own purposes for setting traps. Whatever a packing company could seal, Theophilus could open and reseal. Each can lid carried a code stamped by the packer. If you handled enough distressed merchandise, the way John did, you knew something about those codes.
He looked at a series of cans, then at another series. After he’d examined two dozen cans he thought of what the bad ones might contain; poison that would turn to gas when air hit it, or maybe rolls of twenty dollar bills. More likely, the latter. This kitchen was a sort of practical, functional center for the house. When the gray dog first got into the chickens Theophilus had kicked open that concealed locker over there in the wall. Guns were like money. Both could be kept for an emergency. The kitchen seemed almost homelike. He remembered…Theophilus had invented his own code. If Theophilus opened a can, replaced the contents and then resealed the can, the code on the can would contain the letter A, and the bar of the A would be broken. Any can with a broken barred A was dangerous. It was easy, after all. He found untampered cans, useable coffee, corned beef and vegetables.
“I’ll do this,” he told Amy. “You’ve had enough scares to wear anyone out.”
“It’s nice to be warm.” She no longer huddled against the wall.
“Coffee in a minute.”
He checked his watch, which now claimed that the time was 8:30 p.m.
“We’re in for a long night. When Vera shows up, don’t be afraid.”
“I will be,” Amy said. “But I want you to know she didn’t fool me into going into that maze. I just went through the doorway to be away from her.”
“And you won’t make that mistake again.” He grinned. “She’s crude, like that show of hers just now in the hallway.“
“It’s more than that,” Amy said. “Her eyes looked funny.”
“Mean?”
“Worse than that.”
The coffee began to perk, the food was warming on the stove. He marveled at how normal the kitchen seemed.
“You said you’d figured something out.” Amy’s voice was brighter. She seemed to be trying to push away thoughts about Vera. The comparative security of the kitchens and the promise of food worked a sort of civilizing magic on her. With no immediate threat, some of Amy’s early interest in the house was returning.
As they ate he explained why he believed Theophilus was still alive. He didn’t express any similar hopes about his father. Almost superstitiously he did not talk about Justice.
“Why does Vera act that way? And why do you act badly when you’re around her?”
They were sitting side by side at the table. Tracker was taking a good deal of pleasure in the food and lack of tension. “I live in the world and Vera doesn’t. We’re automatically adversaries. Long ago this place separated from the rest of the world. Theophilus and Vera despised that world out there, but they sure knew how to use it.”
“Money?”
“Sure,
money. Also tools and technology and materials. Millions have gone into this place.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I don’t know everything that’s here. I do know there’s a transportation system, elevators and conveyors. The old man could move heavy equipment around almost on a whim. “
“It really did cost a lot, didn’t it?”
“And they made a lot. Johan was a hustler. Theophilus exploited a depression, two major wars and two or three minor ones. My father was honest, and as spare in his dealings as a Yankee peddler.”
“You trained in a pretty tough school.” She actually grinned. Clearly she was feeling better.
“It answers your question about Vera. They all, except Justice, looked at people and material like so much fodder.”
“You’ve got a legal problem.” She pursed her lips, looked around the huge kitchen, then toward the smaller kitchen that she could see. She was estimating the place with a new set of facts.
“If Theophilus is alive the legal problem is nearly the same, only doubled-up.”
“It makes me almost mad,” she said. “At least it makes me feel bad.”
“Why?”
“If they withdrew, and their lives stayed here, and then the outside world came along and built a road, I can see how they’d be pretty mean.”
Except, Tracker thought, the house and the forces that built it should never have existed in the first place.
“I suppose you could say they were in a war and they lost.”
“A war with what? The Devil?”
“I used to think it was that simple. I don’t anymore.”
“As long as we’re here,” she said, “we should take a look around.”
“I think it’s more of the same. Traps and gimmicks.”
“I wonder. I can’t believe that something this big and ambitious is haphazard,” she said.
“An overall plan?”
“Something like that.”
On his return, the first time when he was frightened by the specter of Theophilus, John remembered thinking the same thought. He remembered thinking that the place was sane and orderly, if one granted that the premise on which it was built was insane.
“Let’s explore it.”
“All right,” he said. “We have to figure how to spend the night. One of us will sleep while the other watches — ”
“It’s really that bad, isn’t it?” She was excited again.
“Vera’s that bad,” he said, “and if Theophilus is alive he can’t be more than ninety.”
She looked to see if he was joking, and saw that he was not.
“Age doesn’t mean much if you can move, and if you have the right tools.”
“Especially a machine that changes the way things look,” she said.
She had to be talking about time shifts. So she had experienced them, after all.
“It isn’t a machine,” he told her. “In this house time goes haywire. It just always has.”
“Of course,” she said. “That’s what it is.”
She seemed pleased, even relieved.
“What happens? How does it feel?” He was pretending to be casual.
“Like being on stage, she said. “Like being in the second act of a play that’s going well. The props are right. The players are with you. Then you deliver a line, look around and find that you are in a different act in a different play with different players.”
“You seem to be taking this awfully easy.”
“Happens all the time,” she said. “In this place you just notice it more.”
He did not understand.
“You weren’t raised a Catholic,” she said. “You’ve never even been an actor. It’s like going to church,” she said. “People say it’s like stepping into another world. On stage you do step into another world…except it really isn’t. It’s like a frame in time that’s separate from the rest of time. That’s all. Easy.” She actually smiled.
“Hell isn’t hot,” he told her. “Hell is cold, like that storm out there. Hell imitates fire, imitates heat, but fire is the enemy of evil — ” He stopped, surprised at his inappropriate answer.
“She’s coming,” Amy said. “Is that what’s the matter? Is Vera out there?”
“This is the Middle Ages around here.” He had fumbled, and felt he was recovering badly.
“And Vera is coming?”
“I suppose she is,” he said dully. “And here we go again.” The trick was to draw your strength together, prepare yourself, and turn your face blandly toward the unspeakable.
“You’re looking better,” he now said to Vera, in flat bored tones.
“You aren’t.”
She was walking awfully slow, but there was no hesitation or uncertainty. A few hours ago she’d looked like something recently excavated. Now her face showed a faint flush of color. Her hands did not crawl or tremble.
“You look tard,” she said. “You look all crackeldy and ’bout to blow up.”
His elbow, which had ceased aching, twinged. His knee felt fine, but behind his knee was a dull torment, as though his leg had been held too rigidly in a cast or brace.
The sag seemed to be leaving Vera’s face. Wattles of loosely hanging flesh seemed tighter. Her face was old, old. She wore a red scarf over her baldness. Her eyes were brilliant and diverted his attention from her face. Her eyes seemed to demand that he concentrate on them.
And time was shifting. Was — is — will be; he didn’t know. Vera’s eyes were bright spots floating in her wrecked face. Mesmerizing spots that drew you painfully from inside yourself.
Amy clutched his arm so tightly that he had a momentary impression that she was drowning, or falling, or felt her sanity was being robbed.
It was what he needed. Protect Amy. He stared at Vera’s eyes, challenging them. As he stared, her eyes became bland. She faltered, appeared ready to fall. Her mouth moved silently. She was calling him something.
“Same to you,” he said.
Amy had helped him. Now it seemed that he was helping Vera. Before, on his return, Vera gained strength from making him hate her. Now it happened again. She stood more easily.
Amy pressed her leg against his, and his reaction shocked him and made him feel silly. He knew she was taking comfort from the contact, but it gave him feelings he believed were hardly appropriate in this situation. It was warm and personal. Sexual.
Vera was estimating Amy again, then estimated him.
“I don’t see why you bother,” she said to Amy.
It was crazy. They were feeding strength back and forth to each other, and Amy was sitting there missing what was happening.
“Leave her alone,” Tracker said. He turned to Amy. “She hits where you’re least able to stand it.”
“You aint too far over the hill,” Vera said. “With those legs you could get a real man. Lead with them legs and nobody’s gonna notice that chest.”
“Once more,” John told her, “and you get tossed in the snow.”
“Not you, ner any other man.”
“Stop it,” Amy said. “Just stop it, both of you.”
“You’re right,” Tracker told her. “I don’t know how she does it, but she always pulls me down to her level — ”
“I said stop it.”
“He’s just scairt.” Vera’s voice was not spiteful, the musical voice was back. With Amy in control, Vera was looking feeble again.
“You want something,” he said. “I’ll be civil, but spare me any games.”
“I better sit for a spell.” She was drooping, almost pitiable.
“Get a chair, John. We don’t have to behave like ammals.”
He kept his eye on Vera while he went for a chair.
Amy might think the old bat was helpless, and maybe she was, though he did not believe it. He returned with the chair, and Vera sat down suddenly, like all her strength was gone.
“Are you all right?” Amy started to get to her feet but John motioned her away.
“A sight better off than him.”
“See,” Tracker said, “see, she doesn’t let up.” He turned to Vera. “The old man’s still pooting around here someplace. Where?”
“Which old man?”
“You know. Don’t kid me. He’s here and he’s up to devilment.”
“You come back. What I want to know, why did you come back? I aint a goin’, but why did you come back?”
It would be better to lie, to tell her that he came to rob her, or find out about his father, or any other lie that was convenient. He didn’t know how she would take the truth. She was cruel, she was like everything painful he knew, but he did not want to be responsible for killing her.
“I’m sorry,” Amy put in for him. “Truly, truly sorry. Because of the new road the house is condemned.” She started to say more, saw what was happening, stopped.
Vera fell to the floor, rolled over, moaned and passed out.
“Wet towels,” John said, and knelt beside Vera. Amy ran for the sinks, fumbled in cabinet drawers, found a towel and ran water on it, breathing in sobs.
“You aren’t responsible,” Tracker said over his shoulder. “She would have known sooner or later. You said it nicely. I probably wouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t know, I didn’t know — ”
“There’s no possible way to know anything about this woman. There never has been.” He had Vera’s head raised. Her mouth was twitching and gasping, Her teeth were small, they looked like the teeth of a young woman, or even of a child. The rest of her might be stained and wrinkled, but her teeth were horrifying because they were perfect. Like her nails, he thought, things that could cut —
His grandmother was suffering a seizure. She kicked her legs and flailed her arms. As he knelt beside her and almost lost his balance her eyes opened, staring, staring. Her feet began to drum on the floor. Her dress moved above gnarled and bony knees, and Tracker, absurdly, struggled to pull her dress to cover her legs. Amy stood there, helpless with her warm towels. And then Vera hit him a sharp blow that missed the groin but caught him in the lower stomach. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the seizure left. His grandmother’s eyes focused. “You was always a hellion.”
