Murder Is Pathological

by P. M. Carlson

  There would be a car. Probably in the lane by the fire tower, if the prowler had chosen to run this way. Nick began to hurry; he did not want his quarry to escape that way, he wanted at least to see the car. But at the same time, he knew that the fugitive might double back, or run off the rocky path into the woods again. He kept to the shadow of the trees, watching for the broken branches that might signal a shift of direction, but pausing to flash his light periodically onto the path to see if the bloody trail continued. It did; directing the beam ahead of him, he could see scattered drops on past the bushes that screened the little hollow above the path that led on toward the fire tower.

  The attack, when it came, caught him almost unaware; almost, but not quite, because he heard the extra rustle of leaves, a pebble bouncing. He whirled, his flashlight beam slashing through the dim silvery moonlight and shadows, and catching the attacker poised just above him on the ledge of the hollow. The arms held a heavy branch, longer and thicker than a baseball bat, cocked ready for a swing. The legs were tensed to leap, the face was pale and determined. Jolted with horror, Nick flashed the beam at his own face.

  The branch crashed heavily toward him, striking and numbing his left elbow but missing his skull. And then Maggie was hurling herself straight at him, and her full weight smashed into his chest.

  XI

  Nick staggered back, astonished, and clutched at her sliding body with his right arm. It took him a moment to realize that she was unconscious. He swore, lowered her to the ground, and ran his hands quickly over her. The blood was coming from her left leg. He unbuckled her belt and pulled off her jeans, and swore again. The bullet had burned across her thigh, a few inches below her bikini panties, leaving a short ugly gash that still dripped steadily.

  He pulled off his shirt and ripped it into strips, wadded part into a pad, pressed it against the wound, and tied another strip firmly around her thigh to hold the pad in place. Then he knotted the remnants of his shirt around his waist, draped her sodden jeans over his arm, and picked her up. Her car would be at the fire tower. He hoped.

  It was still a quarter-mile to the fire tower, and his left elbow was still not happy about working after the blow she had struck it. She was not light; slender, yes, but tall and strong-boned, a noticeable burden. Once or twice she moaned a little as they plodded on. It helped keep him going.

  Her car was off the lane behind the tower. He settled her in the backseat, then picked up her jeans again and fished in the pockets for the key. He wiped the blood from it and started the car, cringing in sympathy at each bump in the rutted lane.

  They reached the highway at last and he accelerated down the hill toward town. The road to the hospital branched off just this side of the university, to the east. But before they reached the intersection he heard her faint voice.

  “Nick?”

  “How are you?”

  “I thought you were Murph.”

  “I know.”

  An exhausted pause. Then she said, “Take me home.”

  “You need a hospital, Maggie.”

  “No.”

  “But you do. You’re in bad shape.”

  “I won’t go.”

  Bloodless, faint, but grimly determined. He thought a moment. “You’re worried that they’ll trace you to the lab?”

  “Damn bullet’s still in me.”

  “Jesus, Maggie! You are definitely going to the hospital!”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “Look. I know it’ll be the end of our plan, but the hell with it! You need a doctor!”

  “Monica can do it.”

  “Monica!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maggie, she’s not a doctor!”

  “Better than a doctor.” The voice trailed off.

  She was wearing herself out fighting him. Nick was torn. Taking her to the hospital was the sensible thing to do. But sense wasn’t always Maggie’s strong point. Stubbornness was. Loyalty to her friends. A fierce sense of justice. She would fight going to the hospital until she collapsed. Or worse.

  Monica had no surgical supplies, no medical degree. And although Maggie seemed to have dismissed it, she was playing around with a married man, which was usually poor judgment.

  On the other hand, she’d done a Caesarean on a rat, hadn’t she?

  And surely she would be sensible enough to know if it was beyond her capabilities.

  He came to the stop sign. To the right was the road to the hospital. Straight ahead was the university and the square brick house on Walton Street where Maggie and Monica lived. There was a little scrabbling sound in the backseat, and he looked over his shoulder at her again. Pale and dizzy, she was trying to sit up, trying to grip the handle of the back door.

  “Hey,” he said. “No need to jump, Mademoiselle. You know Monica, and you know your own state. It looks dumb as hell to me, but here goes.’’ He went straight ahead toward Walton Street.

  She lay back, but was disturbingly docile from then on, drifting in and out of consciousness in a way that made him despair. She had lost so much blood. How could he abandon her to an inexperienced roommate?

  Better than a doctor, she had said.

  He had to have faith in her judgment. Even judgment made misty by semiconsciousness. Hell.

  He pulled into the driveway. Lights were still on, thank God. She let him carry her to the door, then whispered, “Nick, go back to the lab.”

  “Maggie, please!”

  “They’ll take care of me. I don’t want Monica to know about you. It would be dangerous for both of you.”

  “You’re the one in danger.”

  “Please. It’s important. Go back and watch for me.”

  He didn’t leave immediately. He sat her carefully on the porch, dropped her jeans beside her, rang the bell, and dodged back into the bushes. Only after Monica herself came to the door, exclaiming and calling over her shoulder to the others to help her take her friend inside, did he turn away and start his long heavy-hearted walk up toward the lab again. He paused only to rinse his bloody arms and the remnants of his shirt in a drainage ditch.

  “Hey, man, you all right?” Murph, excited and worried, called out as he toiled up the driveway.

  “Yeah. Fell in a ditch and tore my shirt running through the damn woods.”

  “You didn’t catch him?”

  “No. What about here?”

  “Nobody. Did you get a look at him?”

  “Only from a distance. But he had a car parked over by the fire tower. I ran after it trying to see it better. Some sort of dark sedan, like the one I saw the other night.”

  “Did you get the license?”

  “I never got very close, and it was dark. I ran all the way along that lane to the highway, but he was gone. So I walked back on the highway. Didn’t want to lose the rest of my clothes.” He waved the tatters of his shirt, hoping Murph wouldn’t look too closely.

  Murph nodded. “Yeah. Woods are tough in the dark.”

  “What was he doing here? Did you figure it out?”

  “Big zero.”

  “Have you checked inside?”

  “Yeah. Just a quick look. But I don’t know normal from not. You’d better do it. Only thing I knew to do was replace the bar on the service door.”

  “Good. Okay, I’ll check.”

  Nick showered, changed, and made the rounds. All seemed well. Dr. Weisen’s rats studied him as he looked at them; no problem. The other animal rooms and operating rooms were all right too. What had she been up to? He’d been afraid to ask when she was already wasting her little strength on fighting the hospital. He wished she had warned him first. Then he realized that she had. It would be the incinerator. It wasn’t running tonight because there had been no dead animals today; but tomorrow Weisen’s last set would be euthanized. Go back and watch for me, she had said. Okay.

  He completed his rounds automatically; but his mind and heart were still in the brick house on Walton Street.

  Monica stared at the pa
le determined face looking up from the tumbled bed. She asked unbelievingly, “What did you say, Maggie?”

  “I said, if you take me to the hospital, I’ll tell Anita about you and Les.”

  “Maggie, you need a doctor!”

  “No. I need you.”

  Monica shook her head, glanced wildly around Maggie’s room for help, but the jumble of bedclothes, books, and coffee mugs; the piles of junk on the table shrouded by an old sheet; the neat layers of notebooks by the typewriter gave her no answers. Not even Zelle, sitting on Nick’s shirt with her big anxious eyes glued to Maggie, offered a clue. Mary Beth and Sue were gone, banished by Maggie after they had helped settle her into bed. She had confessed her problem to Monica alone. And Monica alone had to convince her to be sensible.

  She tried again. “Okay, now, listen, Maggie. I don’t know why you were messing around the lab. I don’t know why you’re so anxious to keep people from knowing it. But right now you’re on the verge of shock, you’ve got a bullet in your leg, and you need a doctor desperately. Understand?”

  “Sure,” she said. Monica could see her struggling to stay conscious. “I’m on the verge of shock, okay. I’ve got a bullet in my leg, okay. But you’re wrong on the last count. I don’t need a doctor. I just need the bullet out.”

  “I can’t, Maggie!”

  “There’s an X-Acto knife on my desk.”

  “You’re crazy! I can’t!”

  “Then I’ll have to tell.”

  “You promised not to, Maggie.”

  “So did you.”

  It was true. Concerned about her friend, stupidly unsuspicious, Monica had given her word before Maggie had consented to tell her what the problem was. And it was true that a doctor removing a bullet would be required to ask questions. Report it to the police. And they’d link the report from the guard at the lab with Maggie. Taking her to the hospital would be tantamount to telling that she’d been at the lab.

  What had she been doing there? She’d had those rats. She’d had those papers. What was she up to?

  And would she really tell Anita? Monica could not bear the thought of Anita’s knowing. Maggie had seemed so understanding about it all. But now, cruelly, she was using that understanding as a threat. Blackmailing Monica into doing something she should not do.

  Maggie’s eyes had closed. Unconscious again? She needed medical help soon. Why was she resisting so doggedly? This threat against Monica was an act of desperation. Misguided desperation. But if she was that desperate, Monica decided suddenly, she’d back her up. She knew what desperation was. Worry about the reasons later.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yeah?” The eyes flashed open, fiercely alert, as though all the life left in her was concentrated in them.

  “Compromise. I’ll take it out if you’ll go to the infirmary right after.”

  “Done.” The eyes closed again. “God, I’m thirsty as hell.”

  Monica found the X-Acto knife and started for the door to go boil it. “You’re a manipulative bitch, Maggie,” she grumbled.

  “Yep.” A grin flickered weakly across the white face. “You too, bless you. Now would you get a move on and dig the thing out while I still can’t feel anything?”

  The telephone rang at two a.m. Nick, lying worried and sleepless on his bed, sprang to answer it. Murph was scouting around outside, suspicious that another prowler might appear.

  “Carroll Lab.”

  “Hello, Rick?”

  It wasn’t her. He said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is Monica Bauer. Sorry to bother you so late, but Maggie insisted on me calling you.”

  “Oh. Yes, ma’am. It’s not late for me.”

  “Good. She said she’d lost something at the lab, but you weren’t supposed to worry about it anymore. She got it back.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Lost something? Blood, probably. “Yes, I was worrying,” he added.

  There was a note of exasperation in Monica’s voice. “She worries us all sometimes. Don’t take her too seriously, Rick.”

  “Is Miz Ryan okay?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. But earlier this evening she fell and gouged her leg on a metal spike of some sort and I had to take her to the infirmary. She’s there now. That’s why she couldn’t call you herself.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “No, no. They’re just keeping an eye on her because she lost some blood. Anyway, that’s why I’m calling. She was afraid you’d be wasting your time looking for what she lost.”

  “Well, thank her for me, Miz Bauer. I was worried about it. It was good of you to call.”

  “Sure. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough problems watching the animals.”

  “Well, yes. They’re all fine. There was a prowler outside a little while ago, but Murph and I scared him off. No damage done that we can see.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. “Good. Well, see you tomorrow, Rick.”

  “Yes, thank you. Good night.”

  Nick hung up, full of relief and warm gratitude to the competent young woman who somehow had rescued his love, even got her to the infirmary, and was now covering up with talk about metal spikes. Maggie chose her lieutenants well.

  On Wednesday morning, Maggie was released from the infirmary. Monica picked her up; she seemed tired but content, her leg stitched and bandaged, her blood volume restored by intravenous saline solution, and her mental if not physical liveliness in evidence again.

  “I’m going to be lame and anemic for a while, they say,” she reported cheerfully, “but they think I’m healthy underneath it all.”

  “You don’t look too bad. A little pale.”

  “They told me to watch out for spikes in the future, and I promised very solemnly that I would.”

  “What the hell were you doing at the lab, Maggie?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Monica, after the way you rallied around. But it’s a secret, and I don’t tell secrets.”

  “You said you’d tell Anita!”

  “Sure. You were being too damn sensible, and I needed a weapon. And I wouldn’t have had one if I’d already told. Right?”

  “So you nose out secrets to use as threats?” Monica glanced at her in exasperation. “You’re a blackmailer.”

  “Yes. A manipulative bitch, to quote a friend.”

  “God, I don’t know why I bother with you. Can you stay out of trouble now for a few days? I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll try,” said Maggie, too evasively for Monica’s comfort.

  Monica dropped her on campus at the psychology building, where workmen were finishing the new roof, and then drove on to the lab. Yesterday Dr. Weisen and Martin had excised the brains, hearts, livers, and kidneys of the last set of rats. Les had checked each individual ear-notch number against the book, and the organs, labeled and double-checked, had been placed in formalin for fixation. Barbara had been pleased. “Look at those two kidneys!” she had exclaimed to Monica. “See how pale and rough? And in section you can see the white rays. Those are sick kidneys! I’m going to get to check off some new boxes!”

  “Most of them look okay,” Monica had said, looking at the rows of sleek mahogany-colored organs.

  “Variety is all I ask.”

  After fixation the organs had been embedded in paraffin. Today they would be stained, mounted, and inspected. Finally the drug-placebo key would be brought out and Maggie would assign the hundred and sixty observations that the others had recorded to their correct groups, run the statistical analyses, and tell them if there was anything beyond random variation in the characteristics they were studying with such care.

  A lot to cram into a day and a half.

  In the microscope room, Monica glanced at the neatly labeled rows of rat brains, so deftly deprived of their protective skulls. A skull seemed like such good protection from an evolutionary point of view, thought Monica. Thick hard bone to guard the splendidly delicate center of an animal’s complex behavior. But evolution hadn’t kno
wn about bullets, about how solid skulls were no protection against them. Skulls could be worse then no protection. The bullet in Maggie’s thigh had ripped muscle and blood vessels as it burrowed in; a nasty business, true. But the one in Ted’s skull had pushed shards of bone ahead of it, enlarging the area of destruction. A neat round hole would have been better, would have left a few more of his abilities intact. No, skulls were no longer the ideal covering in this technological world.

  Monica banished skulls and bullets from her thoughts and went across the hall to train Moore’s new rats.

  At lunchtime Les and Martin came from the microscope room, stretching and grumbling. Martin claimed to be hopelessly behind in writing up his thesis. “Can’t even remember what my hypothesis was,” he complained. Les, commiserating, paused a moment by Monica’s desk before going out with him. His van keys were dangling from his left hand. It was a signal. After ten minutes, Monica put away the data sheets she was working on for Barbara.

  “I’ll help some more this afternoon,” said Monica. “But it’s lunchtime now.”

  “Not for me. I’m going to be sylphlike by the end of this experiment, from skipping lunch,” said Barbara optimistically, still scribbling on her notes.

  “Like a model.”

  “A black Twiggy. Right. Well, if I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be back in the microscope room. Thanks, Monica.”

  “Sure. See you later.”

  Monica drove around to the lane that led to the old fire tower. Halfway along, in a clearing hidden even from the lane, the van was parked. She drove on past, glad that she could see no more than a glimmer of tan among the trees, and parked her car. Then she slipped back through the deserted woods to the van.

  The back door was ajar. Les, already stripped, lay smoking a cigarette. The kind green-flecked eyes welcomed her. “Hi, beautiful,” he said.

  She laughed and bounced in next to him, closing the door behind her.

  She lay for a moment afterward, playing with his hair, grateful to him for giving her shattered life an occasional illusion of wholeness. But then he murmured, “Monnie, we can’t do anything until after the baby comes, you know.”