Castleview

by Gene Wolfe

  Shields nodded—encouragingly, he hoped.

  “And she never came back. That’s what Mr. Roberts and poor Sancha told me just before Sancha was shot. So if you’re going into the barn, if you should find her …”

  Shields nodded again. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “And Boomer. I forgot all about poor Boomer. He’s still out there, if they haven’t killed him.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for Boomer too,” Shields promised.

  “You’ve got the key. Do you have a flashlight? It will be pitch dark in the barn, even with the lights on outside—they’re on a different switch.”

  “No, I’m afraid ours got left in the Buick.”

  “I’ll get you one, if you’ll just wait. Will you wait?”

  He said, “All right,” and watched as she hurried off. The truth was that he did not want to wait. If he was going to get shot, he wanted to get it over with, to take the bullet before his nerve failed. He told himself that as soon as Lisa handed him the flashlight he would turn without a word, open the door, and go out—describing to himself exactly how he would move, how he would shut the door behind him.

  No, it might be best to turn off the lights in here first, so they would not see him when he went out. Whoever they were.

  He pondered that for a moment or two. Then Lisa was back, a long black flashlight in one hand and a big butcher knife in the other. “I thought you might need this, too,” she said. “We don’t have another gun; Wrangler’s was the only one. He used to get a deer every so often.”

  “That’s all right,” Shields told her.

  “Only during deer season, of course, and he kept it locked up when he wasn’t using it. Don’t you want the knife?”

  Shields was examining the flashlight; he switched it on and off, and thumped the larger end against his palm. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I don’t have a sheath for it, and it would be pretty awkward if I had to hold it all the time.”

  “You could stick it through your belt.”

  He shook his head. “This is the kind of flash the police use, bigger and heavier than a nightstick. Besides, you or Bob may need the knife yourself while I’m gone.”

  He had found the light switch when he had toured the lodge inspecting doors and windows; now he flicked it off. “So they won’t see me going out,” he explained. “You can turn them back on when you hear the door close.”

  Then there was nothing left but to open the door and step outside. He did so, braced for the shot.

  It did not come, and he shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.

  The lights inside flashed on at once, illuminating a window six feet to the right of the door. Lisa had been afraid, then—a good deal more frightened than she had appeared. Shields was frightened, too; Sancha’s blood had washed away the bravado he might otherwise have felt. Crouching instinctively, he jogged off into the gloom, wishing he were not quite so tall, and very much for a familiarity with the ground that he did not in fact possess. It would be madness, he knew, to use Lisa’s flashlight out here.

  He used it just the same, not as a blind man does his cane—though long, it was not long enough for that—but extending it above shoulder level to feel his way. Soon he found himself in what seemed a grove of young trees, each an inch or two through the trunk. Their bare limbs spattered him with water and twice slapped him in the face; but there was ample room between them, and the ground was reasonably, blessedly, level.

  A twig snapped under his right foot. He started, thinking for a second that it had been the snick of a rifle bolt.

  Despite the darkness (and it was still very dark, the moon and stars masked with cloud) his eyes began to adjust. The tree trunks became visible, narrow bands of blacker darkness against the night. He had been angling left ever since he had fled the lights of the lodge; the barn was in sight now, remote-seeming in its circle of electric glare. Walking parallel to it until he was well behind it, he swung sharply left again to approach it from behind. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch; the trip had occupied about ten minutes. Not bad, he thought, for an amateur.

  Ahead, from the direction of the barn, faint and yet quite distinct, he heard the mournful clanking of a chain.

  Judy’s mom braked in Aunt Sally’s driveway, and Judy opened the door and bounced out. Only recently had Judy been permitted to stay up this late. It was still a thrill, unfamiliar enough to be exciting. “I’ll do it!” She clattered up the porch steps far in advance of her mom and rang Aunt Sally’s doorbell.

  The slow, sad chiming from Aunt Sally’s house reminded Judy that her uncle was dead, though that seemed a long, sad time ago and Judy did not like to think about anything being dead. “It’s all dark,” she called to her mom.

  Coming up the steps, her mom said, “She’s probably gone to bed. Grandpa said he called but nobody answered.”

  “But we have to wake her up.” Judy was afraid they would have to go home.

  “She’ll want to know that he’s all right. She’s got enough trouble without worrying about your grandpa.”

  There were soft footsteps inside the house, though no light showed through the glass in the front door.

  “Somebody’s coming!”

  Judy’s mom nodded. “Maybe she’s having a problem with the electricity, a blown fuse or something.”

  The door was opened by a big man with a thin, black beard. He did not speak, and after a few seconds Judy’s mom said, “I’m Sally’s sister Kate. Is she home?”

  The man answered, though he seemed to be addressing Judy. “Not at the moment. I expect her very soon. Won’t you please come in?”

  He opened the door wide, and Judy walked slowly into her aunt’s dark hall.

  Judy’s mom asked, “May I turn on the lights?”

  “Yes, of course. I have just awakened; I have been looking for the controls, but I fear I am not adept at it. Per’aps you know where they are?”

  Judy whispered, “Mommy, I’m scared,” but so softly that her mom did not hear it.

  Then some lights came on and Judy felt better—although it seemed to her that they should have been brighter, Aunt Sally’s lights coming on all of a sudden like that after the dark. But the man looked a lot smaller in the light, which Judy considered a great improvement.

  Judy’s mom was looking at him, too. “Did you say you just woke up? Have you been sleeping here?”

  He nodded. “We concluded a business transaction and had a few drinks on it—or at least I did. I was extremely fatigued; I have been traveling a good deal. I ought to have known better than to drink on an empty stomach. Would you care for anything, by the way?” He opened the living room door and motioned them in.

  Judy’s mother shook her head and switched on the chandelier.

  “Anyway I nodded off, and when I woke the lights were out. I suppose your sister thought it would be best to let me sleep, which was kind of her.”

  The man had been standing with his back to the door; Judy’s mom did not hear the faint squeak as the key turned in the lock, but Judy did, and the rusty snick of the bolt.

  Judy’s mom said, “And you have no idea where she’s gone?”

  “Not the slightest, actually. I can only tell you that she did not mention an errand during our discussion. Since she left me here, I assume she will return shortly.”

  “I noticed that the Oldsmobile was gone as I drove up, but I didn’t think Sally would go out. I thought Seth probably took it.”

  The man nodded. “He did, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Howard expressed some anxiety about him while we spoke. For myself,” he touched his chest, “I can say only that I felt her concern a bit premature; I doubt that there is any need for you and this enchanting child to share it. Tell me, does your daughter come here often? It must be a wonderful place for a little girl to play hide-and-seek, this big old house of mine.” As he spoke, he advanced to the center of the room. Judy edged toward the dining-room door.

  “Of yours?”
Judy’s mom sounded surprised.

  “Yes. I have purchased it. Mrs. Howard and I concluded the arrangement tonight.”

  Judy’s mom pursed her lips. “Tom didn’t want to sell it, not really. I could tell.”

  The man nodded again. “Only too true. When I approached him, he confided that he had decided to retain it, commuting to his new position. He assured me that he could make the trip in less than an hour. Thus when I heard that he had passed away, I contacted your sister.”

  “I see. That was quick.”

  “We wanted this house very badly, and neither your sister nor I saw any reason to delay. Per’aps I should also tell you that she will continue in residence here, as my tenant.”

  “Really?” Judy’s mother bent to pick up the card lying on the coffee table. “Is this yours? Are you Dr. Rex von … ?”

  She looked up as she spoke, and discovered that both Judy and the new owner were gone.

  21

  IN THE TRAP

  SALLY PICKED up an old issue of Newsweek, put it down again, and remembered that she had done the very same thing at least twice before. This won’t do, she told herself. Seth isn’t dying. If he were, they certainly wouldn’t make me wait like this. They’d have somebody get me right away, because they’d know I’d sue—I’ll sue the britches off them, if Seth dies with me sitting out here. (Oh, please, dear God, don’t let my son die!) There are plenty of lawyers in this town.

  That reminded her of Fee, with his lawyer-like briefcase. Had he taken it when he disappeared, or was it still leaning against the coffee table? There might be something in there that could be turned against him. Yes, there might! She would blackmail him if she had to, tell the FBI, do whatever she had to do to get Fee out of her house.

  The gray-haired receptionist said, “Pardon me?”

  Sally looked up. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  The switchboard chimed, and the receptionist turned away to answer it. “Yes, doctor.” Head cocked, she listened for what seemed at least a minute to Sally. “It was a wrong number, you say? I’ll call them. I know the place.”

  There was an airplane on the cover of Newsweek. The main article was about air travel or about bombing, Sally could not be sure which—no, it was about both, about terrorists who put bombs on airplanes. Because of all those bombs that have been dropped out of airplanes, she thought. It comes right back to you. Everything comes back to you in the end.

  An oriental came into the reception room and stood quietly beside the desk, a small neat man Sally recalled having seen—without really noticing—before; there was something bothersome about him now, she thought.

  The receptionist pushed buttons and turned to the oriental. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  He handed her a note. She glanced at it and said, “I’m sorry, but he’s still in the Trauma Center. He should be out soon. Would you like to take a seat?”

  He went to the plastic chair farthest from Sally’s and sat down. Soon she saw him fish out a battered pack of Camels and a folder of matches; the yellow flame trembled when he held it to his cigarette.

  They’re supposed to be so calm, she thought, but they’re human after all when somebody they love is hurt. Of course I should have known.

  When he replaced the Camels, she glimpsed something that seemed made of smooth brown wood and steel. It looked, Sally thought, exactly like the handle of a big kitchen knife.

  Mercedes lay upon a narrow cot in the Trauma Center. They had given her a drug, she was sure; she felt vague and strange, as if she were awake, yet dreaming. It seemed that she recalled the feeling, now, from the months in the womb—that she had felt thus before she was born, hearing as though through wool remote sounds, seeing everything her mother had without understanding anything, from a strange perspective. And that only now could she remember this, when such a seeing time had come once more; that she would forget everything as soon as she was well, if she was ever well.

  The blond woman was no longer with her, yet Mercedes could see her from where she lay, crouched by the man who was getting so much blood. She was whispering to him; and though her words were never clear, it seemed to Mercedes that they were taunts at times, and at others words of love. The tall thin man paced up and down, looking angry and dead.

  Seth bent over her cot, leaning on the arm of a big man with a red-gold beard. “So how are you feeling?” Seth asked. Half his face was swathed in bandages.

  “Spaced out.”

  “I can’t hear you. Louder—okay?”

  “Spacy. How about you?”

  “I can’t gripe. I went through the windshield, that’s what somebody said. They say I got a concussion, and I guess my face is cut up pretty bad.” He grinned, a lopsided grin that broke her heart. “I won’t rate with you girls any more, but I’m still alive. I’m glad you’re not marked.”

  Oh, Seth.

  She sat up, though it seemed someone had taped a block of concrete to her head. “They can fix things. There are doctors who specialize in that, I’m pretty sure.”

  The bearded man nodded. “I’m one of them.”

  “And he can be fixed, can’t he?”

  “He certainly can.” The bearded man patted Seth lightly on the shoulder. “But your mother’s waiting for you. Wouldn’t you like to see her? She’s very worried.”

  Seth said, “Sure, if they’ll let me out of here. Mercedes, I’m truly, truly sorry I got you into this. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  She smiled as nicely as she could. Her face felt numb; she suspected she was smiling like a drunk. “Sorry you took me out to look for the castle? Next time I’ll take you, okay?”

  “Okay!” He grinned again, touched her arm. “Hey, that’s a date.”

  And then they were gone, and the doctor, in his white coat, was walking out of the Trauma Center with a paramedic who wore a white jacket and white trousers.

  Almost immediately (or so it seemed to Mercedes) Seth came back and stood in the doorway looking around. She waved to him, but he paid no more attention to her than to anyone else. After a moment, his right hand slipped into his blue and green letter jacket, as if to make certain that something there had not been lost. He did it without unzipping the jacket, and as Mercedes lay down again she thought about what a swell trick it was. She would have to get him to teach her.

  The noise was coming from the barn—Shields had thought so before, and now he felt sure of it. Furthermore, the rear doors Lisa had mentioned were no longer locked; there would be no need for the key in his pocket. One wide door stood a quarter open already. Torn free of the wood, the hasp and padlock lay on the ground in front of it.

  Logic told Shields that it was in the brightly illuminated circle around the barn that danger lay. Fear warned him of the darkness in the barn. He thumbed the sliding switch of the big flashlight and dashed toward the open door.

  It seemed to take an eternity to cross the strip of yellow light. He was not out of breath, his sprint had been too short for that; but it felt as though he ran, not in air, but through a clear jelly that slowed every movement of his legs to a clumsy absurdity—jelly that soon would harden altogether, leaving him suspended in the light like a spider cast in Lucite. Pear jelly. Ann had mentioned it, and he had only one pair of legs. Perhaps that was the problem. A target should have more legs.

  If he was a target, he was surely a target for beginners, meant more to give them confidence than to test their freshman skills.

  Then it was over and the dark opening rose narrow and high before him. He darted through, lost his balance and went flying as he tripped over something or somebody just beyond the light.

  A boxer’s fist, the barn floor knocked the wind out of him and sent the flashlight spinning away. For a minute or more he sprawled, gasping for breath. When he rose, cautiously and even fearfully, still breathing noisily though he struggled not to, he found that the quarter-open door had swung shut. He assured himself that he had bumped it
as he dove inside.

  The interior of the barn was as dark as any pit except for a single bale of straw, radiant to no purpose in the beam of his fallen flashlight. He could hear the horses stir and snort in their stalls, and the hard thudding of their iron-shod hoofs on the boards. The air was heavy with their odor, but reeking too with the stench of carrion.

  The chain clinked as it had before. A pencil-line of light showed that it was between him and the rear doors.

  As silently as he could, he made his way down the barn to the flashlight, knowing that as soon as it moved, whoever (or whatever, he thought) was in the barn with him would know that he held it. Stealthily he closed his hand on the long, heavy, black tube—then swung the beam around as quickly as he could.

  The mild eyes of horses shone in the light as they watched him over the tops of their stall doors; at the other end of the barn, near the doors that opened toward the lodge, one whinnied. Something misshappen, small and dark, crouched before the door through which he had come.

  His hand shaking uncontrollably, he directed the beam toward it again, and this time held it there. For an instant he seemed to see a half-human figure; there was a fleeting impression of gleaming teeth, surmounted by a swarm of fireflies. In a moment he realized that it was only a very soiled child, a boy of about nine.

  “Well, well,” Shields said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Please, mister. Please!”

  Shields stepped over to the boy, reflecting that it was no wonder those eyes had sparkled in the flashlight beam—they were full of tears. “I don’t think you belong in here, sonny. Are you staying at this camp? Nobody’s mentioned you.”

  The boy shook his head, pointing in the general direction of a pile of loose hay in the corner. “Over there a ways.”