The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Before she left my room, I rolled over and sank back down into the depths of the pool.

  13

  When I woke up, I found sunshine splashed brilliantly across the rugs in my room, and the doilies looked positively luminous, and I was in a completely different world of fever. I felt as clear as crystal—and as empty as glass. Like a computer with no software to run it. Precise and useless.

  Obviously I’d slept too long.

  I blinked at the ceiling for a couple of minutes without once wondering why my curtains were open. The snowstorm had blown past, that was the important thing. Reeson could get out of here. Maybe we could even count on him.

  Apparently the sun had been up and doing its job for a while now. Piously setting a good example for the rest of us. No doubt I’d missed Reeson’s departure. But I felt too clear and empty to be disturbed by the mere fact that I lay abed like a debutante after a ball when theoretically I was fifty percent in charge of keeping everyone else alive. Fever seemed to be the solution to all my usual emotional difficulties.

  On that philosophical note, I got out of bed.

  I needed a shower badly. I could still smell blood and port on my skin. On top of that, a distinct whiff of something rank rose from the general vicinity of my bandages. But of course the bandages prevented me from taking a shower. And I was probably too weak for so much exertion. I didn’t bother with it. I didn’t bother with shaving. I knew I was supposed to take my pills, but I didn’t bother with them, either. What good did being clear and empty do me, if I couldn’t make my own decisions like a grown-up?

  On the other hand, I drew the line at wearing my dirty clothes again. Axbrewder the cleanliness freak. I dragged a heavy cotton sweater over my head, hauled up a pair of pants. The only thing I put in my pockets was my .45.

  My feet seemed incredibly far away, almost impossible to reach. Finally I dismissed the problem of socks. Instead I pushed my toes into a pair of loafers Ginny had packed for me. Then, feeling better than I had for days, I went out to face the world.

  It was a good thing that my head was so clear. Otherwise I might not have been able to keep my balance. My legs had different amounts of strength, and I listed to one side as if the freight inside me had shifted.

  I didn’t find anyone in the den. They were all outside, standing on the porch or up to their knees in the snow. When I joined them, none of them paid me much attention. Reeson must’ve gotten a late start. They were all watching him go—watching their hope trudge out of sight over the white horizon. I could see his tracks in the snow, running up the driveway to the gate at the rim of the valley.

  I spotted him in time to see that he didn’t turn or wave. He just plodded away, a small black figure disappearing into the background of white snow and dark trees.

  Despite the end of the storm, the air hadn’t become significantly warmer. And a steady wind blew. Reeson’s trail had already started to fill in and fade, erased by powder. In an hour or two all sign of his passing would be gone. The snow wouldn’t hold a trail until the sun or the air made it wet enough to stick.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” Connie Bebb had noticed me at last. “I’m glad you got some sleep. You needed it.”

  Then Lara Hardhouse turned. Even though she stood at Mac Westward’s shoulder, she flashed me a smile that would’ve looked friendly if it hadn’t held such unmitigated desire.

  She and Mac had kept to the porch, along with the Altars and Connie, Houston Mile and Maryanne Green. Of that group, only Lara and Mac didn’t seem the worse for wear. Connie looked wan and thin, stretched too tight. A quick frightened little twitch worked the corner of Maryanne’s mouth, as if she feared being hit. She tried to control it by compressing her lips. For his part, Mile had the sluggish self-absorbed air of a reptile about to molt.

  Rock and Buffy now resembled each other the way old married couples sometimes do. From him she’d picked up a gray tone, the leaden weight of defeat. From her he’d acquired puffy eyes and a frenetic glance. If he’d had any hair, it would’ve stuck up in all directions.

  Apparently Simon Abel still occupied the wine cellar. But Faith Jerrick stood on the porch, too, along with Amalia Carbone. Amalia’s husband, Petruchio, had joined Sam and Queenie Drayton, Joseph Hardhouse, and Ginny out in the snow. They’d clustered together like the official farewell committee, supervising Reeson’s departure.

  When Connie said my name, Ginny and Hardhouse looked at me in unison, as if they’d achieved a new partnership during the night.

  The sunlight reflecting off all that clean snow made them squint, but it didn’t trouble me. I was clear and empty, and the brightness passed through me without leaving a mark.

  Sam and Queenie faced in my direction as well. I had no idea how well they could see me.

  In my vacant fashion, I was surprised to see that Faith didn’t wear a coat—or even a sweater. Nothing more than a long apron warmed her blouse and skirt. As pale as she was, I would’ve expected her to be susceptible to chill, one of those delicate creatures whose feet are always ice. But she didn’t look cold. Folding her arms under her breasts, she stared up at the spot where Reeson had disappeared as if she could still see him—as if she’d burned his image into her retinas. Maybe that was why she never looked at other people directly. She couldn’t actually see anyone except him.

  “Does he really know what he’s doing?” I asked her. Since my life probably depended on him, I had a personal interest.

  I couldn’t be sure that she’d heard me until she said, “Oh, yes.” Naturally she didn’t so much as glance in my direction. “Art always knows what he’s doing.”

  Does he? I thought. He must be impossible to live with. But I didn’t say that out loud.

  As if my arrival were a signal, the people out in the snow started moving. Truchi strode off toward one of the cottages, unhampered by anything as minor as eighteen inches of snow. Ginny and Hardhouse approached the porch, with Sam and Queenie behind them.

  As she came up the steps, Ginny blinked the glare out of her eyes to look at me closely. Now I didn’t need intuition to tell me that something was happening to her, something important. I could see it in the muscles around her eyes and mouth. They must’ve been clenched for so long I’d gotten used to seeing them that way. Otherwise the change when they relaxed wouldn’t have seemed so dramatic.

  “I came to your room,” she said almost casually. “Before Art left. I was going to wake you up. But when I saw how hard you slept, I decided to leave you alone.” She almost smiled. “But I opened your curtains, just in case you wanted to wake up.”

  She was gone. Lost to me. Like people, relationships die. They can even be killed. The only problem when that happens is that you have to go on living.

  Fortunately the fever protected me. Instead of pissing and moaning and generally feeling sorry for myself, I shrugged a bit and said, “Thanks.”

  She didn’t trust my reaction. Frowning now, she asked, “Are you all right? You don’t look good.” A moment later she demanded, “Have you been taking your pills?”

  Hardhouse slipped his hand under her arm like he wanted to get her away from me. “Brew’s a big boy,” he said. “He’s old enough to take his own pills.”

  Briefly she did me the courtesy of ignoring him. “Isn’t that right?” Ginny murmured to me. “I’m supposed to stop taking care of you? That’s what you want?”

  But Hardhouse didn’t mean to be ignored. “You’re too good at it,” he commented helpfully. “He needs to learn the truth about himself. He can’t do that when you cover for him.”

  She glanced at him quickly, as if this perception had the power to change her life.

  Obviously the two of them had spent some time talking about me. Somehow I got the impression that his idea of “the truth” wasn’t very flattering.

  I opened my mouth and pretended to laugh, but nothing came out.

  With him somehow indefinably in charge, he and Ginny led the way back into the den. The Altars, Mi
le and Maryanne, even Connie followed like sheep. Ama Carbone did the same, but not from any herd instinct. She just had work to do.

  Faith Jerrick remained on the porch, watching the point of Reeson’s departure as if the simple intensity of her yearning could ensure that he came back.

  Sam and Queenie stopped in front of me. Concern filled their faces.

  “Don’t say it,” I said, groping for the right note of amiable lunacy. “‘You don’t look good.’ If I hear that one more time, I might believe it.”

  The Draytons were holding hands, gripping each other hard. With my new clarity, I didn’t have any trouble noticing the whiteness of their knuckles. Softly, speaking personally to Sam despite the fact that I could hear her, Queenie observed, “You could help him whether he wants it or not. I don’t think he has the strength left to stop you.”

  He scowled, not at her, but at what she said. “I don’t like doing that. I’m not sure it’s ethical. And it doesn’t usually work. As soon as he recovers a bit, he’ll just go back to trying to kill himself.”

  “That’s not your problem,” she countered. “You’ve helped people before when they were too sick or hurt to ask for it.”

  “Sure. But this is a different situation. In the hospital, or my office, I can always assume that people want my help, even if they’re too far gone to ask. I’m entitled to assume that under the circumstances. I don’t think I can assume it here.”

  She conceded with a sigh. “I just don’t like feeling so helpless.”

  “May I say something,” I put in, “or is this a private discussion?”

  Both Sam and Queenie faced me.

  “Sam is right,” I told her. “It’s none of your business.”

  Without quite meaning to, I hit a nerve. Her eyes filled with tears. His face went hard, as if I’d just lost his friendship.

  “Faith,” he said steadily, “Brew hasn’t had any breakfast. Take him inside. See if you can get him to eat something. If he won’t go with you, I’ll drag him.”

  “Yes, Dr. Drayton.” Being given something to do seemed to release Faith from her trance. Not glancing at any of us, she moved to the door and held it open.

  Queenie’s tears had more effect on me than Sam’s anger. The fever only defended me from my own pain, not hers. But I couldn’t think of anything useful to say, so I turned away and let Faith escort me back into the lodge.

  Following her, I shuffled into the kitchen. Along the way I noticed that the guns were gone from the cases in the dining room. Truchi, at least, was doing his job.

  In the kitchen, Faith pointed me at a stool at one of the counters, then moved to a refrigerator and began pulling out food.

  I sat down and watched her.

  I probably should’ve told her not to bother, but my mind was elsewhere. The empty cases had reminded me of Art Reeson and Cat Reverie and how helpless we all were. Or maybe I just wanted a distraction from Ginny and Hardhouse—and Sam and Queenie. So I asked Faith, “Is this what he does on his vacations? Go camping in the dead of winter?”

  Apparently she didn’t consider my question unexpected. In her condition, no reference to Reeson was unexpected.

  “Sometimes.”

  There’s nothing like a one-word answer to inspire the imagination. “Do you mean he sometimes goes camping on his vacations? Or he sometimes goes camping in the dead of winter?”

  She thought about this while she put a plate of cold toast and bacon in front of me, along with a pot of strawberry jam. “Would you like something hot? I can warm up the bacon. Or scramble some eggs.”

  Instead of gagging, I waited for her to get around to my question. I felt sure that she wasn’t being evasive. She simply lived in a mental world very different from mine.

  After a moment, she said, “Both.”

  “Do you go with him?” I was trying to evaluate Reeson’s ability to get through the snow and save us.

  “No,” she answered without hesitation or rancor. “Why should I?”

  I shrugged. “Keep him company?”

  She stood across the counter from me, her arms folded over her midriff again. If she cared that I hadn’t touched the food, she didn’t show it.

  “I would if he asked me, of course,” she explained as if the subject were somehow profound. Her manner was more subdued than the last time I talked to her. If anything, that made her more convincing. “But I have no reason to go, expect to please him. I don’t need to go anywhere. God is with me wherever I am. That’s all I need.”

  “I see.” I didn’t see at all. “Sometimes he goes camping in the winter. Sometimes in the summer. And sometimes he doesn’t go camping. If he wants a vacation, he does something else. And you don’t go with him.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “Where does he go when he doesn’t go camping?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, Mr. Axbrewder.” I hadn’t offended her. I’d just touched something outside her chosen world. “He doesn’t take me with him, so I don’t know where he goes.”

  “You mean, even when he does something besides camping for his vacation, he doesn’t take you with him?”

  “Why should he?” Her calm was perfect. “While he’s away, I have God for company. And after he goes away, he comes back.”

  She said this as if it accounted for everything.

  Not to me, it didn’t. “But why doesn’t he tell you where he goes?” I pursued. “Doesn’t he even leave phone numbers, in case you need to get in touch with him? What about emergencies?”

  Clearly I lacked the capacity to ruffle her. “What emergencies do you imagine I’m afraid of, Mr. Axbrewder? Truchi and Ama are here.” Almost as if she were looking at me, she went on, “God is here. If you could believe in Him, you would know there is truly nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m trying,” I muttered. Bafflement seemed to breathe a fog across the blank glass of my emotions. “It just doesn’t make sense.” For a second there, confronted by her immaculate and irreducible self-absorption, I felt something surge behind the clarity and the emptiness and the fever—something that tasted and smelled and even hurt like utter rage. Nothing to be afraid of. No question about it, I would’ve been better off with her religion, all my questions answered and no more need to think.

  Where else did she get so much trust?

  I had to get away from her before I lost my balance entirely. At the moment I didn’t give a shit whether she thought I was rude or not. I got up and lurched out of the kitchen.

  When I reached the den—which seemed unusually far away, like I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere—I found it practically empty. Maryanne Green sat alone in front of the embers of one of the fires, as if she’d been left behind. A deer’s head with glassy death in its eyes leaned over her. She looked up when she heard me shuffling over the floorboards. Something in her expression warned me not to join her.

  Too bad. I needed help—I needed to escape Faith emotionally as well as physically—and Maryanne was the only resource available. I sat down beside her and asked the first question that came into my head. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Most of us were up all night.” She didn’t turn her head—and she didn’t try to sound anything except bitter. “We couldn’t find the guns. But Simon is in the wine cellar. We’re supposed to be safe now. Ginny said she wanted to get some sleep. Everybody else thought that was a good idea.”

  Her tone did what I wanted—it hooked my attention. “But not you.”

  For maybe the first time, I looked at her closely and noticed that she wasn’t young. Until then I’d assumed that she was practically a kid. She had a fresh face, and I felt sure that Mile preferred girls to women. But the skin around her eyes had too many fine lines, and her cheeks weren’t resilient enough.

  “Houston didn’t want sleep,” she answered. “He’s scared, I guess. When he’s scared, he does things to me. It reassures him. Maybe he isn’t on top of the world. Maybe he can’t do everything he wants. But at least he c
an do what he wants to me.

  “But I’m scared, too. He doesn’t understand that. Ginny scared me. If she had just let me think Simon did it, I might have been able to stand it. I might have been brave enough. But now I’m scared. I’ve never been so scared. And what he does hurts. It hurts a lot. Sometimes I think it’s going to be more than I can bear.”

  Her voice trailed away, dying like the coals in the fire.

  I could guess what happened. “So you told him no.”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “And he threw you out.”

  She nodded again. “He says he won’t even pay my way home.” Then, before I could come up with a reply, she added, “I could kill Ginny for this.”

  She sounded perfectly sincere.

  Suddenly my balance failed. Like Faith, Maryanne touched something in me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t use, a mad blank anger. “Oh, come on,” I rasped. “What do you want her to do? Ignore the chance that Simon is innocent? If he didn’t kill Cat, someone else did. And if it’s someone else, we don’t know what his motive is.” Or hers. “Which means we can’t predict what’ll happen next. Maybe we’ll all get shot at. Ginny is just doing her job.”

  Maryanne didn’t try to answer me directly. I’d missed the point. She had a completely different grievance. Glaring at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock, she countered, “But she isn’t much of a woman, is she.”

  Oh, boy.

  “I don’t know what you see in her. Or Joseph sees. It isn’t fair. She wants to be a man. She throws her weight around and tells everyone what to do and swears like a man. She humiliates you. And you lap it up. You ought to hate her, but instead you follow her around like a puppy. She’s castrated you, and you think you like it. And Joseph can’t wait to get his hands on her. He ought to know better—a man like that. He ought to know better.

  “Do you know where they are right now?”

  No, don’t tell me that. Do not tell me that. More than anything else, I didn’t want to know where Ginny and Hardhouse were right now. Otherwise I would burst with fever and fury.