The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  When he heard Truchi’s story, the plow’s operator had used his radio to call for help. Before another hour passed, the sheriff and several cars full of deputies arrived at Deerskin Lodge, along with two ambulances.

  One of the ambulances left promptly, carrying a load of corpses for the coroner—Catherine Reverie, Mac Westward, Arthur Reeson. The other took Lara Hardhouse, Queenie Drayton, and Sam to the nearest hospital.

  The sheriff arrested Joseph Hardhouse, naturally. He also impounded Reeson’s chest and Lara’s cocaine, and asked the rest of us a lot of questions.

  Those questions could’ve gotten me into trouble pretty quickly. Hours earlier, however—in fact, right after Truchi left on the snowmobile—Ginny had called the survivors together and told them how she wanted to save my life.

  We didn’t need much time, she explained. Just a few days, say until Sunday. For that long, she asked the Altars and Sam and Mile and Maryanne and Connie to tell the cops the same lie she did. On Sunday they could switch to the truth. They could even explain why they’d been lying. Unless the cops found Simon first, in which case the whole question would become academic.

  Only Mile objected. He had a score to settle with Ginny and me—but mostly me—and betraying us to el Señor sounded fine to him. But Maryanne worked on him for a while. She spent the credit she’d gained by apparently saving his life. And when that didn’t work, she let him know that if he refused Ginny she’d lose respect for him—which, she hinted broadly, would involve telling his friends back home about his sexual practices.

  He gave in with his usual grace.

  So Ginny introduced me to the sheriff as Simon Abel, and no one contradicted her. Under questioning, we all agreed that Mick Axbrewder had gone up into the hills tracking Reeson and hadn’t returned. No one mentioned locking Abel in the wine cellar. Or the hole in Axbrewder’s stomach, for that matter. The sheriff had no immediate reason to doubt us.

  Which meant the police reports and newspapers would tell el Señor that I was missing and presumed dead. He wouldn’t send anyone else after me until he learned the truth.

  Ginny and I had that long to get out of the state.

  Unless one of the Hardhouses decided to talk. But neither of them knew what we were doing. And they had both apparently concluded that silence was their best defense, at least until they could bring in some legal talent. Since they didn’t say anything, they didn’t give me away.

  Some of the deputies started a search for the body. They weren’t organized or equipped for the job, however, and the snow hampered them. Our lie might well last until Sunday.

  While the sheriff asked baffled questions, groping to make sense out of what we told him, one of the deputies drove away with Joseph Hardhouse. On his way out to the unit, he passed Ginny and me in the den. As charming as ever, he paused under the heads of dead animals to tell her, “You still don’t understand. That claw really is the most desirable thing about you.”

  His smile radiated happy malice in all directions.

  I watched the muscles bunch and release at the corner of her jaw, but she didn’t retort. He’d already had all the response he was ever going to get out of her.

  I wouldn’t have had any idea what was going on with her myself if we hadn’t talked about it earlier.

  When I followed her out of Sam’s room after Hardhouse’s confession, I’d found her in the kitchen, making a sandwich as well as she could with one hand and a prosthetic device, and munching vitamins like candy. She still hadn’t tried to clean the powder burn off her cheek, and that impacted mark accentuated the pallor of her face, the vulnerability in her gaze. The damaged skin probably hurt too much to touch. Fortunately the wound in her shoulder hadn’t resumed bleeding. Only her eyes bled. Tears streaked her face while she chewed.

  Despite my own exhaustion, her distress went through my heart. Years had passed since the Ginny Fistoulari I knew had let me see her in a state like this—let me this close to her. For the time being, however, I’d apparently used up my fear of her. Of her and for her. I was willing to take risks that would’ve scared me to the core of my bones a day ago.

  Propping my pain and fever on the edge of a counter, I said, “I don’t think much of your taste in men.”

  A snarl twisted her mouth. “Is that your subtle way of reminding me that I made a mistake with Joseph, or are you just putting yourself down again?”

  I shrugged. “Some of both, probably. I’m not terribly impressed with my contribution to this case. I’ve been in such a sweat about losing you that I couldn’t think.” I groped for the description I wanted. “Which is an expensive problem. I should’ve taken Connie’s advice years ago.”

  And Sam’s.

  I guess I was being cryptic again. Ginny glared at me and demanded, “Huh?”

  “I forgot, you weren’t there. While you were out, Connie made a hell of a speech. To Joseph, of all people. If I heard her right, I’ve been treating everything you and I do together like a contest. I had to prove I needed you so much that you wouldn’t have the heart to ditch me. And I had to prove I didn’t deserve you so that I wouldn’t hate you for letting me fear you’d ditch me anyway.

  “But she said”—I remembered it exactly—“‘it is impossible to live on the assumption that any contest can exist between persons.’” Then I shrugged again. “I know what the words mean. I need to learn what it means to live like that.”

  Ginny’s eyes continued to spill tears. The effort of seeing through them made her look furious. “And you think I don’t?”

  Well, at least she was listening. I shifted my weight against the counter, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Ginny, I don’t give a shit whether you do or not. I’ve got enough problems of my own. I can’t tell you what to do with yours. All I’m trying to say is, I intend to stop. I want to stop treating you like you’re the enemy.”

  A quiver she couldn’t control moved her lower lip. “What for?”

  I faced her straight. “You and I will never get back to where we were. We used to love each other—it all used to seem pretty simple. We’ll never get that back. But I can think of reasons to go on.”

  Her voice was so small that I almost missed the words. “Like what?”

  “Like”—I paused to be sure that I was ready—“your claw isn’t the most desirable thing about you.” She flinched when I took that chance, but I didn’t back down. Instead I stroked the tears on her undamaged cheek and showed her my wet fingers. “Neither is this. The most desirable thing about you is that you aren’t Lara or Maryanne. You aren’t Cat. You sure as hell aren’t Faith, and you also aren’t Connie or Buffy. You’re Ginny by God Fistoulari, and no one can take your place.”

  That was honest, anyway.

  Fortunately I didn’t expect a gratified response. If anything, my assertion had the opposite effect. “Stop it,” she murmured, fighting distress. “I can’t deal with that right now. You’re too far ahead of me. I thought I’d have to carry your self-pity and your stupid drinking around on my back for the rest of my life. I wanted to believe I was strong enough, but I knew I wasn’t. I couldn’t do it. That’s why I didn’t see what was wrong with Joseph. I felt like such a failure around you. He offered me a way out. He wanted me—and Lara wanted you, so that was all right. At least for a few days, I could stop carrying you around.

  “I was helpless to really look at him. At what I was getting myself into.

  “I don’t know what to do with you if this isn’t a contest.”

  I lowered my head. It felt too heavy anyway, and besides I couldn’t pretend that what she said didn’t hurt.

  But I was braced for it. And the time had come to put up or shut up. If “no contest can exist between persons,” I had nothing to lose. Sure, she could walk out of my life—but she couldn’t take my life with her. And she couldn’t take away the fact that I’d told her the truth at least once or twice.

  When I felt ready to say it without sounding bitter, I looked back up
at her and asked, “So what do you want to do?”

  She didn’t meet my gaze. With the same disdain she had for the burn on her cheek, she didn’t wipe her eyes or her nose.

  “You want the truth?”

  “No,” I said. “I prefer comfortable lies. The truth hurts. But I finally figured out that lies kill.” Sam told me, actually. “I’d rather we both stayed alive, if we can manage it.”

  She nodded hard enough to hurt her neck. Harshly she answered, “The truth is, I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how I feel about you. I don’t like cripples.” She couldn’t say the word without turning it into a curse. “I don’t like being one, and I don’t like you when you’re one.”

  Then, before I could accept the implications and let her go, she added, “No, that isn’t the truth. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. It isn’t enough.”

  Abruptly she raised her eyes. Tears blurred her gray gaze, confusing everything she saw. In a tight voice, she said, “I want you to go away with me. Somewhere out of el Señor’s reach. Somewhere we can think. If we have reasons to go on, I don’t know it right now. And if we’re finished, I’m not going to admit it until I’ve had a chance to think.”

  Well, by God. And just when I was getting set to ride off into the sunset, too.

  I was no Queenie Drayton, but I smiled with everything I had. “You devil. You always could sweet-talk me into anything.”

  That was honest, too.

  For a while, she dropped her gaze. Without saying anything, she chewed on her ragged sandwich.

  When she looked up again, her eyes had cleared.

  “In that case, we need a better way to keep you alive. Doing security for mystery camps obviously isn’t the answer.”

  Which wasn’t exactly the same thing as a sign from God. But it sufficed.

  After she finished eating, I went to my room for some sleep.

  I remembered to take my pills before I climbed into bed. And again when I got up to see Truchi off.

  The sheriff wasn’t much fun to deal with. He had too much stubbornness, and not enough imagination to back it up. But eventually he allowed us to go home.

  We were all ready by then. While the sheriff interrogated one or another of us, the rest made our preparations. Connie had packed the Draytons’ stuff. Truchi put our bags in the van.

  Ginny and I stood on the porch as if we were still in charge, supervising Murder on Cue’s departure. We’d preceded the others by a minute or two, but the Carbones were out in the cold with us, sharing a brief vigil for the dead—and the living.

  “Will you be all right with Faith?” Ginny asked Ama. “We could take her into town with us. If she has any family, we could get in touch with them.”

  Ama had worn a stony expression for days, but now her face softened. “I am the one to care for her,” she replied. “I have known her long. And I have known Mr. Reeson.” Apparently she’d never been on a first-name basis with her boss. “I can assure her that she was not wrong in him. His love was a thing to be trusted. Perhaps it will redeem him in her God’s sight.”

  Ginny shrugged and let go of Faith’s fate.

  Houston Mile and Maryanne Green left first. He was in a hurry and didn’t give her a chance to speak to anyone.

  After them the Altars emerged from the lodge. In a forlorn murmur, Sue-Rose said a few words of thanks, but she didn’t wait to see how Ginny and I took them. As if she’d aged a decade in the past few days, she went stiffly down the steps and climbed into the van. In the passenger seat.

  Her husband scanned the hills to avoid our faces. Distantly he asked, “Where should I send your check?”

  Ginny grimaced. “I don’t want a check. I need cash.”

  This didn’t surprise him. He knew what we were doing, and why. “I have money at home.”

  “That’s fine,” she answered. “We’ll follow you there from the Camelot.” Where we’d left her car.

  He paused a moment longer, still gazing away. Then he said, “I don’t know how to pick up the pieces after something like this. I think we’re going to need help.”

  Mostly because I knew how he felt, I said, “There’s nothing wrong with needing help.”

  He sighed. “I know. I’m just not used to it.”

  Stooped and gray, he trudged out to the van.

  Constance Bebb came last. For both of us, Ginny asked her, “Will you be all right? I mean, without Mac? What are you going to do?”

  Connie dismissed the first question. To the second, she answered, “I’ll try to write another Thornton Foal novel. It will be difficult without him. He was always the better writer. But I’ve learned a few things I can use.”

  On impulse I leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  The way she pulled back made me think that I’d frightened her. Then I saw her blush.

  Nevertheless her dignity didn’t forsake her. “Thank you, Mr. Abel,” she said firmly. With a slight smile, she added, “Try to take better care of yourself on your next assignment.”

  With her head high and her back straight, she descended the steps.

  Ginny nudged my arm. “Let’s go.”

  I looked over at Petruchio Carbone. The antique droop of his mustache reminded me of our only conversation. As a way of saying good-bye, I remarked, “You were right. Everyone who comes here is crazy.”

  He looked at me with a mixture of sadness and contentment, like a man whose heart had been broken and healed so long ago that the cost no longer mattered.

  “Not you,” he said distinctly. After a moment, he nodded toward Ginny. “Not her.”

  He surprised me. But when I considered, I thought he might be right. Maybe Ginny and I were finally on our way to sanity.

  Past my shoulder, she told him, “If you think that, you’re loonier than he is.”

  I wanted to laugh. “I hope so.”

  Together she and I went to the van to make our getaway.

  Note:

  This novel has been slightly revised since its original publication.

  By Stephen R. Donaldson

  The Man Who Killed His Brother

  The Man Who Risked His Partner

  The Man Who Tried to Get Away

  The Man Who Fought Alone

  The Chronicles of

  Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever

  Lord Foul’s Bane

  The Illearth War

  The Power That Preserves

  The Second Chronicles of

  Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever

  The Wounded Land

  The One Tree

  White Gold Wielder

  Mordant’s Need

  The Mirror of Her Dreams

  A Man Rides Through

  The Gap

  The Gap into Conflict: The Real Story

  The Gap into Vision: Forbidden Power

  The Gap into Power: A Dark and Hungry God Arises

  The Gap into Madness: Chaos and Order

  The Gap into Ruin: This Day All Gods Die

  Short Fiction

  Daughter of Regals and Other Tales

  Reave the Just and Other Tales

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  Ginny barked “Freeze!” in a voice that threatened to crack the floorboards. Her .357 lined up straight on his face.

  He didn’t freeze. Maybe he was too scared. He wheeled away as if she’d already fired.

  Inadvertently he blundered against the door and knocked himself down. Snow blew across him from the porch. Eighteen inches of it had accumulated outside, and it was still falling.

  Ginny rushed forward, crouched nearly on top of him. Then she corked the muzzle of her gun on his nose.

  Eyes white with alarm, he gasped out, “Don’t shoot! I killed her! I confess! Don’t shoot me!”

  I stopped. Ginny didn’t need me. Not now. Maybe she never did.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

&nbs
p; THE MAN WHO TRIED TO GET AWAY

  Copyright © 1990, 2004 by Stephen R. Donaldson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  eISBN 9781429973076

  First eBook Edition : March 2011

  First edition: November 2004

  First mass market edition: November 2005