The Little Country

by Charles de Lint

  Daddy was sending Jim Gazo over to serve as her bodyguard, but there was no way Jim would make it here before tomorrow morning at the earliest. Until then, she was on her own. If she called her father, and Daddy got Madden to call Bett off, Bett would come by to take it out on her. He’d probably go ahead and kill Mabley anyway, then come back and hurt her, and damn the consequences. Just like he really would kill Felix if she didn’t find a way to keep him here tonight.

  Michael Bett was just that kind of man.

  Until tomorrow, she was on her own. Neither Daddy nor the Order could help her until then. Which brought her circling back to that same question: Just what the hell did she do now?

  Self-preservation came first. No question there. But the Mabley woman . . . Could she really just stand by and let Bett kill her? And what about Felix? She was having very weird feelings when it came to him. She found she didn’t want to lie to him. God help her, she wanted a chance to win him away from Janey Little, honestly and without subterfuge.

  It wasn’t going to work. None of it was. So she was going to have to settle for a trade-off. Mabley’s life in exchange for the lie that would keep Felix here. And maybe, when it all came out in the end, he’d understand. Because Mabley was Felix’s friend as well, wasn’t she?

  She picked up the phone again.

  “Hello, Willie?” she said when the connection was made. “No, don’t worry. He’s not around. Yeah, I don’t much care for him either. Listen, this is important. Remember that friend of Janey Little’s that Gavin was with this morning? That’s right, the Mabley woman. Someone’s going to try to kill her tonight.

  “No, I don’t know who,” she lied. “It’s just important that she isn’t hurt. Can you call that friend of yours in Mousehole and have him deal with it? No, right now. The last I heard, she was on her way home from the Little house. There’s a thousand dollars in it for you”‌—let him figure out the exchange rate‌—“if she makes it through the night‌—the same again for your friend.

  “Thanks, Willie. I kind of thought you’d be interested. Just make sure you don’t screw this up, because‌—”

  There was a knock at her door.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Willie,” she said and hung up.

  She ran a hand through her hair and looked nervously across the room.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Felix.”

  Okay, she thought. I’ve done my part, now it’s up to you to do yours, Felix. Because if you blow it, we’re both screwed.

  “Just a sec,” she called.

  She gave herself a quick look in the mirror as she hobbled over to the door, wincing when she put too much weight on the bad ankle. The pained look on her face when she opened the door owed nothing to acting.

  “I’m sorry to be coming by so late,” Felix began, “but‌—”

  “God,” she said, interrupting him. “You look terrible.”

  He gave her a faint smile, but she didn’t miss the pain that was lodged there in his eyes. He was soaking wet, short hair plastered to his scalp, clothing drenched. He had a duffel bag over one shoulder, a square black box on the floor by his side. In his hand he held a cane.

  Got it from Clare Mabley, she thought, with a twinge of uneasiness. Willie, you’d better come through for me.

  “Come on in,” she added.

  “I can’t stay. . . .”

  “That’s okay. Just come in for a moment. What did you do, go for a swim?”

  “No. It’s just that it’s raining‌—”

  “I can see that.” She took the cane from him and used it to step back from the door. “That’s better. You’re an angel, Felix. Really. Where did you find it? Come in,” she added when he hesitated out in the hall.

  “I really can’t stay.” He dug about in his pocket and handed her a business card. “The cane belongs to a friend of mine‌—”

  “The friend?”

  He shook his head, the pain deepening in his eyes. “No. But I saw her tonight. She‌—that is we . . . I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “So don’t. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Felix.”

  “I just came by to give you the cane. I got it from the woman whose name is on the card. If you could just drop it by the shop when you’re done.”

  “No problem. It was kind of her to lend it.”

  “Yeah, well, Clare’s a good person.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting her.”

  Don’t screw up, Willie, she thought.

  “I’m heading on to London,” Felix added. “I just have to get away.”

  Lena nodded. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.” She gave him a sympathetic look, then added, “Will you come in? Just long enough to dry off a bit, at least. You look like‌—well, now I know what they mean about something the cat dragged in.”

  “I don’t think‌—”

  “I won’t bite.”

  When he still hesitated, she moved forward‌—putting on a good show of how much the movement hurt her‌—and reached for the black case by his foot.

  “Okay,” he said, picking it up for himself. “But just for a moment.”

  Lena moved back to clear the doorway. “Why don’t you hang your coat on the chair by the window where the heater can dry it off a bit? I’ll put on some tea. It’s nice the way English hotels have a kettle and the makings in each room, don’t you think?”

  She kept up a cheerful chatter as he hung up his coat and then lowered himself onto the sofa. Little puddles formed on the carpet around his shoes. Outside, the drizzle had turned into a real downpour. A gust of wind drove a splatter of rain against the window.

  “Listen,” Lena said after she’d put on the water and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It looks to me like you’re on the road because you don’t have a place to stay.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I’m sure you will, but why don’t you stay here tonight? No strings. You take the couch, I get the bed. The trains aren’t running at this time of night anyway, are they?”

  Felix shook his head. “I just have to get out of town.”

  Would that be enough? Lena wondered. She ran Bett’s conversation back.

  You’re going to keep him there, in your room, and you’re not going to let him leave. . . .

  No, she realized. It wasn’t going to be enough. Because when it came to Bett, she didn’t trust what could happen.

  She glanced at Felix who was staring at his shoes, shoulders drooped.

  Shit. And he wasn’t going to stay.

  That didn’t leave her any other choice.

  She wore a ring on either hand. Each had a small storage space under the gem. The settings were fixed in such a manner that only using the one hand, it was just a moment’s work to twist the ring around, open the secret compartment, and spill its contents into a drink. The powder in each was completely tasteless. The one in the right was a knockout drug. The one in the left was something a little more special. It was based on a variation of thiopentone that had been developed by a member of the Order, and worked not only as a general muscle relaxant and reflex suppressor, but simultaneously broke down the will, leaving the target utterly susceptible to suggestion.

  Lena considered which to use. The new feelings that Felix had woken in her told her that rendering him unconscious was all she needed to do to fulfill her bargain with Bett. But considering that she wasn’t going to have another chance‌—not like this, not ever with him. . . .

  If he’d only loosen up.

  But he wouldn’t.

  She felt both guilt and excitement as she made her decision. With her back to him, she emptied the contents from the ring on her left hand into a teacup, then poured the tea over it.

  “Milk? Sugar?” she asked.

  “A little of both.”

  She added the two and stirred vigorously. Felix appeared at her shoulder, startling her, but he’d only come over to save her
the awkward trip back to where he was sitting.

  They talked some more, Lena eyeing him surreptitiously, waiting for the drug to take effect. She didn’t have that long to wait. Very soon Felix began slurring his words. His movements grew more languid, until finally he just sat there with a glazed look in his eyes.

  “Felix?” Lena said.

  “Mmm . . . ?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Uhmm. . . .”

  “You must be feeling a little uncomfortable in those wet clothes. Why don’t we hang them there with your jacket and let them dry out.”

  She got up and, using the cane to keep the weight off her ankle, went over to help him stand. She started him on the buttons of his shirt, and soon he was removing it, and the rest of his clothes, on his own.

  “You’ve got a very nice body,” Lena said. “Have you ever done any weight lifting?”

  “Uhmm. . . .”

  The drug didn’t do much for conversation, but Lena wasn’t in the mood for conversation anyway. It had been developed for one of the Order’s rituals that she wasn’t yet privy to, but she knew it was of a sexual nature‌—something dreamed up by one of the elder members, no doubt, who used it to get their rocks off with some sweet young things that they couldn’t otherwise get close to. Sex magic wasn’t an aspect of the Order’s teachings that Lena had explored to any great extent, preferring to keep that aspect of her life as entertainment.

  And she was being entertained now; the last of her guilty feelings fled as she led Felix to the bed. Removing her own clothes, she got up beside him and ran her hands up and down the hard length of his body.

  How much was he even going to remember of this? she wondered as she began to stroke his penis and felt it stiffen under her manipulations. Not much, if her previous experiences with the drug were anything to go by.

  But she’d remember.

  And he’d have such dreams, never imagining their source. . . .

  2.

  It was a dark and stormy night, Clare said to herself as she made her slow way home. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; but hark, what light through yonder window shines . . . ?

  A faint smile touched her lips.

  You do read too much, Mabley, she thought.

  The trouble really was that she remembered everything she read‌—especially cliches and homilies and the like. She liked to string them together into nonsense sentences and paragraphs‌—a habit picked up from too much time spent on her own when she was young. Other similar amusements included taking the top thirty songs from the current music charts, or the headlines from the various newspapers in the newsagent’s while she was queued up to be served, or titles from a row of books on one of the shelves in the shop, and seeing how they read, all bunched and tumbled together.

  Take Thomas Hardy.

  Under the greenwood tree, far from the madding crowd, a pair of blue eyes. . . .

  Did what? Juded the obscure?

  She shook her head. Adding the “D”‌—that wasn’t quite fair.

  Perhaps if she included poem titles.

  Under the greenwood tree, far from the madding crowd, the ghost of the past, god-forgotten, weathers the return of the native.

  Not bad. There was almost a kind of poetry in the way it‌—

  She paused and peered back down the steep incline of Raginnis Hill, aware of the sudden sensation that she was no longer alone. But there was no one there. Turning, she had the wind in her face. She wiped the rain from her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand and continued up the hill, the titles of Thomas Hardy’s books and poems forgotten.

  The night’s damp chill had got under her nor’wester and jumper, but that didn’t account for the unexpected chill she felt. There was an odd feeling in the air‌—an electricity that owed nothing to what lightning there might be lurking in the storm clouds above her. Everything seemed a bit on edge‌—or it had ever since this whole business with Felix and Janey and the Gaffer had come about. People skulking around Mousehole, looking for old William Dunthorn manuscripts. The burglary.

  Shakespeare, she thought, trying to take her mind from the peculiar turn it had taken.

  Much ado about nothing . . . the tempest. . . .

  Bloody hell.

  She looked back again, the skin on her back crawling, but could still see nothing out of the ordinary. Just peaceful Mousehole, mostly dark now because it was getting late and no one stayed up much past closing time anyway‌—even on a Saturday night. The narrow dark street, unwinding steeply behind her between the houses, slick with rain. The shadows thick in the alleyways. . . .

  She was spooking herself and she knew it, but couldn’t stop herself because nothing felt right.

  Don’t be a silly goose, she told herself.

  Chiding didn’t help either.

  She tried to hurry, but with the damp in her bones and the steepness of the road, she could only go so fast. A turtle could walk faster. A slug could crawl more quickly. She simply wasn’t an efficient walking machine, and that was all there was to it.

  The wind quickened, buffeting the rain against her with such force that she had to bend her head, her free hand pulling the neck of the nor’wester more closely to her chin. Under her hat, the skin of her neck was prickling in unhappy anticipation of something horrible‌—the feeling growing so strong that she finally had to turn again only to find‌—

  She jumped, she was so startled, and nearly lost her balance.

  “My God,” she said to the muffled figure who had come up behind her. “You gave me quite a turn, coming up on me like . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she took in the long raincoat, the hat with the goggles peering at her from just below its low brim, the scarf pulled across the lower part of the face, effectively hiding all features. Her heart jumped into a double-time rhythm as the stranger took his left hand from his pocket and brought out a large folded knife. As though by magic, the knife’s blade came out of its handle with a quick snap of the man’s wrist.

  “N-no,” Clare said. “Please. . . .”

  “We’re going for a walk, you and I,” the man said, his voice muffled by his scarf. “Up by the cliffs, I think.”

  Cold fear paralyzed Clare’s muscles for long moments, then she gathered her wits about her and swung her cane. The man dodged the blow easily. Clare wasn’t so lucky when he struck her with his free hand. The blow knocked her cane from her grip and sent her down to the road where she scraped her hands on the pavement. Her bad leg offered up a protesting flare of pain at its mistreatment.

  Before she could scrabble away, the man was down beside her, right hand on her shoulder, forcing her down, the knife held up near her face.

  “We can do this pleasantly,” he said. “A stroll up by the cliffs and no pain. Or I can drag you up there by your hair and we’ll see if the rain can wash away the blood as quickly as I can make it flow.”

  The goggles stared at her, soulless bug-eyes that offered up no hope.

  “It could take some time,” he added.

  Clare opened her mouth to scream, then closed it with a snap as the point of the knife touched her cheek just below her left eye. The rain streamed onto her face, making her vision blur.

  “No cries.” The voice was so damned conversational. “No screams. Wouldn’t do you any good, anyway. There’s no one to hear you‌—not tonight.”

  The knife pulled back a bit, floating in the air between them. The man held it with a casual familiarity. Clare stared at its menacing point. Dimly she took in the nightmarish image of the man‌—just a shadowy bulk, featureless with his hat, goggles, and scarf. She had an odd moment of total objectivity. She noticed the crease in the brim of the hat, as though it had been folded in a pocket for too long. The missing button at the top of the raincoat’s right lapel. The odd little tattoo on the man’s left wrist.

  Then he hauled her to her feet and gave her a shove in the direction of the coast path. He closed the knife and retur
ned it to his pocket.

  “My‌—my cane. . . .”

  “Do without it,” the man said.

  “But‌—”

  The knife appeared again, the blade flicking open with a snap.

  “You’re beginning to bore me,” the man said. “Don’t bore me. You wouldn’t like me when I’m bored.”

  The knife moved back and forth in front of her face. She took a staggering step back, but he closed the distance again easily.

  “You wouldn’t like me at all,” he said softly.

  3.

  Janey was having a miserable time of it. The wipers of her little Reliant Robin had decided to work only at half power, which left them less than effective in clearing the heavy rain from her windshield. The defrost wasn’t working properly either, so she had to drive with the driver’s side window open. By the time she was halfway to Newlyn, her left shoulder and arm were soaked.

  And then there was the reason she was out on the road tonight in the first place. . . .

  She drove through Newlyn and Penzance, going too fast, but not really caring. Her attention was divided between keeping the Robin on the road, trying to spot Felix on either side of the verge, and roundly cursing herself for the fool she’d been when he’d come by the Gaffer’s house earlier. Why couldn’t she have listened to him, instead of going off half cocked the way she had?

  It was her bloody temper.

  She banged her fist on the steering wheel in frustration by the time she was on the far side of Penzance. The buses and trains weren’t running at this time of night, but what if he’d been hitching? He might have already gotten a ride. . . .

  She cruised back through Penzance, crisscrossing through the town and going slower now, without any better luck. Finally, she pulled over to the side of the street just before she reached the Newlyn Bridge at the end of the North Pier. She stared morosely out the windshield. The wipers went feebly back and forth, pushing the rain about more than clearing the window.

  This was pointless. He could be anywhere.

  Then she remembered Clare saying something about Felix planning to drop off a cane to that Lena woman before he left. On a night like this, he’d be mad to try hitching out of town. Maybe he was still in the woman’s room.