Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07

by Bridge of Ashes

  I watched the trooper turn and head back into La Fonda. Slowly—no real hurry necessary—I leaned and uncovered my weapon. I raised it then and held it across my knees. I had already chalked the sign of the Children of the Earth on the wall beside me.

  Not too much longer now, I'd say....

  Two troopers emerged and held the doors, one of them the man who had been out to speak with the chauffeurs. They did not even look up and down the street. I shifted my weapon, pulled the stock back up to my shoulder, curled my finger about the trigger.

  Four men passed out through the doors, talking among themselves. I had no trouble with identification, at this distance. My first shot, a clean and easy one, dropped Wheeler. I twitched the barrel to the side and hit McCormack twice, as I was not sure where my first one took him. Then I lowered myself, wiped the weapon quickly but carefully as planned, leaned it against the wall, turned, crouching, and began my retreat along the rooftops. I heard shots at my back, but nothing came close.

  Now, if only my chauffeur was in the proper place, I could begin the car-switching routine that would get me out and away While I do not much care what becomes of me, I make the effort to prolong the waiting, Mother Earth, that I might serve you as you deserve. I—

  Summer.

  Vicki dropped her trowel at the mental equivalent of a shriek.

  Lydia —? she began, but by then she was aware of the cause.

  She left the greenhouse, ran through the courtyard, entered the house.

  Partway across the living room, she felt Lydia's thoughts, soothing, surprisingly controlled: It is all right. You have not been hurt. You must not get excited.

  Then, the voice she had never heard before: "My shoulder—I think it's broken! I have to get down!"

  She rushed forward, pushed past Lydia.

  Dennis had gotten off the bed. He was standing at its side, leaning against it. He clutched his right shoulder with his left hand and cast his eyes wildly about the room.

  "There!" he cried, and then he stumbled forward and fell.

  She hurried to him.

  "Victoria! Get out of here!" Lydia called.

  She raised him in her arms.

  "He's hurt," Vicki replied.

  "He is not hurt. Children fall all the time. I will have to ask you to leave."

  "But he's never gotten out before—or talked. I have to—"

  "Leave! I mean it! Give him to me and get out! I know what I am doing!"

  Vicki kissed him and surrendered the shaking boy.

  ".. . And stay out of his mind, too. That is very important. I cannot be responsible if you intervene at crucial times."

  "All right. I'm going. Come tell me about it as soon as you can."

  She rose and departed.

  As she crossed the living room, Dennis began to shout again. She looked at all the chairs, then realized she did not want to sit down. She moved to the kitchen and set some water to boil.

  Later—she did not know how much later—she found herself seated at the breakfast bar, staring into a cup of tea. When Lydia came in and took a cup, she waited for the other to speak.

  Lydia shook her head and sat down beside her.

  "I do not know," she said, "exactly what happened. It was more than a hallucination. He had hold of a genuine personality structure—an adult one. Since he lacks one of his own to override it, it occupied him completely. I was able to stimulate his sleep centers and he is now resting. When he awakens, this may have vanished entirely."

  "Do you think I should call Dr. Winchell?"

  "No, this is in no way out of line with the diagnosis. It is simply more spectacular than the early effects. Basically, Dennis has no personality, no self, of his own. He is a traumatized collection of fragments of other people whose minds he encountered before you moved here. Somehow, he has encountered another and the same thing has occurred, on a larger scale. The individual was undergoing some stressful experience, and Dennis—who is more developed neurologically now—seized hold of a larger chunk of that person's psyche. As to who and where, I did not take the time to probe at length. If there is a recurrence, I will have to. In the meantime, it may even work to Dennis' benefit. I may be able to utilize some of the new material in the structuring of his own personality. It is too early to say, of course, but it is a possibility."

  "Then he was not hurt?"

  "No. The person with whom he was in contact had been hurt. He was reacting to that."

  "I had better call Dick and let him know what has happened."

  "You may be disturbing him unduly. I think it would be better to wait and see what the situation is tomorrow. You would have a more complete story to tell him then.''

  "That is true. He is gone so much of the time now, Lydia. ... Do you think he is running away from— this?"

  "Perhaps to some extent. But the nature of his work—the new union negotiations ... You know that this is a bona fide business trip. The feeling that he is running away may be a projection of your own desires. It has been a while since you have been away, has it not?"

  "God! Yes!"

  "Perhaps when this small crisis is past you ought to consider taking a vacation. I could manage things here in your absence."

  "You may be right I will think about it, Lydia. Thanks."

  When Vicki rose, late the following morning, Lydia was already in Dennis' room. It was a warm, sunny day, and she worked in the greenhouse till lunchtime. When Lydia did not join her as usual she approached the closed door and stood there a long while before returning to the kitchen. Gentle feelers of thought had detected intense mental activity within. She pressed the general button on the news unit, cut out the viewer, pressed for a repro copy. One by one, sheets slid into the tray. She stopped it at two dozen, gathered the stack, took it with her to the table.

  Later, she went to sit in the courtyard, and after a time she slept.

  For long moments, she did not know whether she had been dreaming....

  She lay there, blinking up at the light. The shadows had lengthened. Somewhere a jay was calling.

  Then, Victoria, where are you?

  She sat up.

  What is it?

  The news ... Dennis’ fixe … The story is right here! Governor Wheeler dead, and McCormack seriously injured . . . "Assassin fled . . . believed wounded .. " Dennis was in that man's mind, was still there today. I could not sever the connection. I finally put him to sleep again. I thought he had contacted someone who was fantasizing vividly — a psychotic, perhaps— but I was wrong. This is real — and it was in Santa Fe.

  Santa Fe is over a hundred miles from here!

  I know! Dennis’ ability has apparently increased. Or else Dr. Winchel’s tests were faulty.

  I had better call the doctor — and Dick.

  We had better call the authorities, too. I know the man's name — Roderick Leishman. He is a member of that radical eco group, the Children of the Earth. I had the impression he was heading north.

  I am coming. Will you make the calls? Except to Dick.

  Of course.

  We made it to a COE farm in Colorado that evening. I had lain in the rear of vehicle after vehicle— four, to be exact—clutching my shoulder much of the time. The second driver had gotten some gauze and tape and bandaged it. He had also gotten me aspirins and a fifth of bourbon. These helped quite a bit.

  Jerry's and Betty's place is sort of a communal farm. Everyone on it is COE, but only Jerry and Betty and a guy called Quick Smith knew what I had been about and knew that I might show up in need of help. The fewer in on it the better, like always. They took me right to a bedroom they had had ready in the main building, where Jerry dug out the .38 long under a local, cleaned the wound and sewed it up, ground some bones together, plastered me up, shot me full of antibiotics and fitted me with a sling. He was a veterinarian. We did not have a reliable M.D. in the area.

  "How many of those damn aspirins did you take?" he asked me.

  "Maybe a dozen. Maybe mor
e."

  Jerry was a tall, gaunt man, who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. He had sweated away everything but sinews and calluses, leaving behind a lot of facial creases. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, and his lips grew thinner whenever he was angry.

  "Don't you know what they do to the clotting factor?"

  "No."

  "They screw it up. You bleed more. You lost a lot of blood. You should probably have a transfusion."

  "I'll live," I said. "I made it this far without going into shock."

  He nodded and his glasses flashed.

  "Give me a horse any time," he said. "Booze and aspirin. And nothing to eat all day."

  I started a shrug, reconsidered immediately.

  "I'd have chosen a better menu under other circumstances—and if I were a horse, you might have shot me."

  He chuckled, then sobered.

  "You did pull it off, though. I wasn't sure you'd make it away afterward."

  "We figured it pretty carefully."

  He nodded.

  "How do you feel about it—now?"

  "It had to be done."

  "I guess so."

  "You see any alternatives? We've got to try and stop them. We're making ourselves felt. They will be treading a lot more carefully after today."

  "I see it," he said. "It is just that I wish there was another way. I am still something of a lay preacher, you know? But it is not just that. It is mainly that I don't like to see things killed or hurt. One of the reasons I'm a vet. It's my feeling, not my thinking, that goes against it."

  "I know," I told him. "Don't you think I thought about it for a long time? Maybe too much, even."

  "I guess so. I think you ought to reconsider moving on, and spend the night here. You need the rest."

  I shook my head.

  "I know I do. I wish I could. I have to keep moving, though. I am still too close to where it happened to rest easy. Besides, the new vehicle is a van. It has a mattress in the back. I can stretch out there. Anyway, it's better for you if I move along as quickly as possible."

  "If I was worried about my own safety, I would never have gotten involved in the first place. No. That's not it. It goes back to my feeling about not liking to see things hurt or dead."

  "Well, I stand a better chance of avoiding both if I cloud the trail as much as I can."

  He moved to the window, looked out.

  "That may be your ride coming along the road now. What color is it?"

  "Red."

  "Yep. It could be. Listen, I don't want you taking any more aspirins."

  "Okay. I’ll stick with the booze."

  "Polluting your system."

  "Better than polluting the Earth," I said. "It's going to be around a lot longer. Care to join me?"

  He gave a brief chuckle, followed by a skeletal grin.

  "One for the road? Well, why not?"

  I fetched my bottle while he got a pair of glasses from the cupboard. I let him pour.

  "Safe journey," he said.

  "Thanks. Good harvest."

  I heard the van draw up. I crossed to the window and looked out. Quick Smith, lithe and prematurely white-haired, who, but for the flip of a coin, would have been in my place, moved to check it out. I recognized the driver, though. So I finished my drink without haste, returned the glass to the counter, retrieved my bottle.

  I clasped Jerry's hand.

  "Go light on that stuff just the same, hear?"

  I nodded vaguely, just as Quick came in to announce the arrival.

  "So long."

  I followed him outside, got into the back of the thing. The driver, a beefy lad named Fred, came around to see how I was and to show me where things were. There was food, a water jug, a bottle of wine, a .38 revolver and a box of cartridges. I wasn't sure what use the last might prove—if someone caught up with me, I would go willingly enough—and I was not in a position to load it too quickly anyhow. Seeing this, Fred loaded it for me and stashed it under the mattress.

  "Ready?" he said.

  I nodded and he locked me in. I lay down and closed my eyes.

  Dr. Winchell had been unable to persuade Lieutenant Martinez, but during a ten-minute phone call he had been able to convince Richard Guise. Dick had required only a five-minute call across Washington to arouse federal interest to the extent that Special Agent Robertson was at the Guise home that evening. Robertson, thirty, clean, kempt, blue-eyed, gray-garbed and unsmiling, came to sit in the living room across from Vicki and Lydia.

  "There is no file on anyone named Roderick Leish-man," he said.

  "I cannot help that," Lydia told him. "That is his name."

  Vicki looked in her direction, surprised by the tone of her voice. Lydia's chin was somewhat raised, her mouth tight.

  "Sorry," Robertson said. "No offense. They are still checking. He might have used a different name in the past. You were right about the COE connection. He did leave their sign."

  She nodded.

  "Tell me," she said. "What will become of him?"

  Robertson began a smile, suppressed it.

  "The usual. Trial, conviction, sentencing—if your information is correct. As to the details, they will depend on his attorney, the jury, the judge. You know."

  "That was not what I meant," she said.

  He cocked his head.

  "I am afraid I do not understand."

  "I was thinking of my patient," she said. "His telepathic fixation on the fugitive amounts to total absorption. I want some sort of assurance that if we assist you the man will be brought in alive. I have no idea what effect his death would have on Dennis. I do not wish to find out."

  "I cannot give you any assurance—"

  "Then I may not be able to give you any assistance."

  "Withholding evidence is a serious matter. Especially in a case like this."

  "My first duty, as I see it, is to my patient. For that matter, though, I am not even certain this comes under the heading of evidence. I do not believe there has ever been a case involving anything of this sort."

  Robertson sighed.

  "Let's not quibble over the legalities," he said. "The man has shot two governors. One is dead and the other may not make it through the night. He is a member of a radical eco group which includes violence as part of its program. He is running around loose now and you admit Dennis can follow him. If you refuse to cooperate, we can bring in a telepath of our own to monitor Dennis. You are not at all that necess—"

  "Mr. Robertson, there are very clear legal precedents in that area. You would be invading his privacy in the highest sense—"

  "He is a minor. Parental consent is all that is required, and you are not his parent."

  He looked at Vicki, who clasped her hands very tightly and turned toward Lydia.

  "Dennis would be hurt if they hurt the man?" she said.

  "I think so."

  "Then I do not give my consent," she said. "I am sorry, Mr. Robertson."

  "Inasmuch as your husband started this, it is possible that he will give us the release."

  Vicki's hands suddenly relaxed.

  "If he does," she said, "I will never speak to him again. I will leave and take Dennis with me."

  Robertson bowed his head.

  "I am not trying to be unreasonable," he said. "Can you tell me how I could possibly guarantee what you are asking? We want him alive. We want to question him. We want to learn as much about his group as we can. We are going to try to take him alive. But men will shoot in self-defense. Even then, they would try not to kill him. But it is possible. He could be killed You try to be reasonable. If you give us exact information concerning him, it will up our chances of landing him whole. What else can I offer you?"

  "Very well," said Lydia. "You make some sense. What you can do then is communicate all this to whatever field agents get involved in the pursuit."

  "Done," he said. "I will personally talk with them at whatever office gets involved. You can listen to what I say.
Fair enough?"

  Lydia looked at Vicki.

  Go ahead, Vicki indicated.

  "All right," Lydia began. "He is in Colorado. . ."

  It was still dark when I awoke. I was very thirsty, and my shoulder was throbbing. It took me several moments to recall what had happened. I leaned forward then and located the water bottle. I rubbed my eyes, ran my hands through my hair, took another drink.

  I pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window. Rocks, fenceposts, sandy soil…

  I checked my watch: 4:35.

  “Would you pull over somewhere?" I called out "My bladder's busting."

  He stopped and let me out. I went over to the ditch.

  "How much longer till the next switchpoint?" I asked him.

  "Half an hour. Maybe less. We're supposed to meet around five."

  I grunted.

  "How are you holding up?" he asked.

  "I'll be okay," I said. "Any trouble while I was sleeping?"

  "No trouble. Nothing new on the news either."

  I climbed back inside.

  It was chilly, so I sat with the blanket around my shoulders. I took a drink of the bourbon. It would seem that we had to be free of pursuit after all this time. I ran my hand over my chin. I would stop shaving, I decided, grow a beard. Let my hair get longer, too. Lay up till the shoulder was better, then get some simple job. Stay at it three, four months ... Drift west Seattle, Portland ...

  I felt the bump in the mattress. Did I want to take the pistol with me? Trouble to be found with it. Good to have, though. I considered concealing it in the sling. Good place for it. Probably ought to keep it till I recovered. Ditch it then. Wish they had picked a smaller piece, though.