by Gene Wolfe
“And what seems to be the matter?”
“I’m caught!” Sobbing, the boy indicated his foot. Steel jaws—smooth, not toothed like the jaws of the traps Shields had seen in cartoons—gripped the boy’s ankle; a chain as massive as a tow ended at a big staple in the floor.
“Get me loose, mister, please. Please!” The boy’s grimy hand clasped Shields’s wrist with infantile weakness. “I’ll do anything you want me to, and I swear I’ll never, ever come here any more. Oh, please!”
“I’ll try,” Shields promised. He bent to examine the trap, shining his light on its simple, well-greased mechanism. As he studied its jaws, trigger plate, and bow springs, it seemed that something stirred, something as large as a horse that was not a horse, unless there was a horse loose in the dark barn, a horse out of its stall. Vaguely, he remembered Lisa’s Boomer; Boomer had not been stalled or even hitched to a post, and had bolted at the first shot.
Straightening up, Shields swept the entire length of the barn with his flashlight beam, but saw nothing.
Could Lisa’s horse have gotten into the barn? Of course he could have; one door had been ajar. In fact, it seemed likely enough that he would return to the barn, a place he must surely associate with food and shelter. But it was utterly impossible for there to be a horse in the barn that could not be seen.
“Can’t you make it let go?” the boy whimpered.
“I think so. It looks like all you have to do is stand on the springs. Put it flat on the floor so I can get my weight on them and bend them down.”
The boy looked at him helplessly.
“Here.” Shields positioned the trap. “Now hold it like that for a minute.”
He put the instep of his shoe on one spring and leaned on it. The spring bent gratifyingly, and there was a sharp click as the trigger mechanism caught it.
“That’s one. Now we’ll do the other the same way, then you should be loose. Pull your foot straight out, without touching that flat plate.”
The boy sniffled, wiping his nose on one bare forearm. “All right.”
The second spring bent as easily as the first, and the jaws parted. Gingerly, the boy drew his foot free; when it was clear of the trap, he spat on his hands and rubbed his ankle. Shields stooped to look at the bruise.
“Don’t burn me with your light, mister, please.”
“It’s not hot, sonny.” Shields put his hand over the lens to demonstrate.
There was a dry rustling behind him, and he started to turn around. Arms thicker than human thighs seized him, crushing him against the hairy chest of something that towered above him; the carrion stench was suffocating, as if the creature were rotting.
His left arm was pinned to his side; but his right, with the flashlight, was still free. He swung the flashlight at the unseen head above him like a club, and it hit with a solid thud, the note of a dull axe in a hard knot. The mighty arms did not loose at all, crushing him, bending him back.
He struck again with desperate strength, and the flashlight went out. His spine was bowing backward; instinctively, he had raised his feet, but the slight relief it had given was already gone. Ribs and straining vertebrae creaked like rusty hinges. Somehow he managed a last, despairing yell, the agonized protest of a dying animal.
An answering roar sounded outside, louder than the hunting cry of a pride of lions. The wide doors at the end of the barn burst inward.
22
THE ASSASSIN
THE OTHER door went to the big dining room. Judy had opened it softly and darted through to where the thick carpet let her move quietly, knowing that the man would have to go around the long table while she ducked under and scooted to the other side where the door to the kitchen was—you could go through the kitchen to the back door, and onto Aunt Sally’s back porch, and then you’d be safe, you could run down the street and he’d never catch you.
But she heard the squeak of the hinge as she went under the table. Fingers brushed her skirt as she jumped up, so he’d gone underneath too, but he should have left the door open so there’d be light for him to see her.
The kitchen door was no good now, he’d guess that was where she was going, so Judy dodged to one side, around the chairs and the big table until she knew somehow that he was waiting at the kitchen door, then she got under the table again and ran through the hall door instead, knowing that he was right behind her and she had only fooled him for not even a minute. His flying feet made less noise than hers in the hall.
The kitchen door swung both ways—you just had to push it. Judy remembered, pushed, ducked into the kitchen, and flattened herself against the wall.
He came after her, a silent whirlwind that sped to the back door to catch her before she got out, as she had known he would. In a wink she was in the hall again, hearing Mom’s slow step in the living room and knowing that running to her would only bring more trouble. (Judy had made Daddy leave, she knew she had.)
The back stairway door was almost across from the kitchen door. She flew through it and up the long straight stair; the twisty steps were at the other end, with the front door at the bottom. But he was at the bottom of the twisty steps too, and coming fast on feet lighter even than hers. She ran up instead, feeling frightened and heavy and clumsy, as she had when she had found the baby bird.
For a second she paused to listen in the little tower room. The window where you could look out at the woods ought to have been full of black night sky, but was golden with candlelight. Another tower stood there like a tall man waiting, so near that its little balcony almost touched the windowsill. Judy opened the window though it was stiff with paint, climbed across, and slammed it shut behind her.
I’m seeing double, Mercedes thought. Seth was standing by the door in his green and blue letter jacket, hesitating (so it appeared) as the blonde … .
Ms. Morgan. Mercedes nudged herself. Viviane Morgan … .
And the tall thin dead-looking Jim … .
And now Ms. Morgan herself had left the man who was getting so much Mood—so God-damned much blood. Would he get AIDS, and would she?
Ms. Morgan was talking to Seth.
But Seth had come through the door with his blue and green jacket hanging all to pieces, Seth on the arm of an orderly or a paramedic or whatever the hell. And Seth hardly looked at Seth, or Jim, or Ms. Morgan.
And now Seth was going back to bed, and Seth was going over to the bed of the man getting blood, and Mercedes sat up and put her legs over the side of her bed and stood up.
The Trauma Center rocked and rolled. She was on a ship, a boat, a roll. Never take brownies from a stranger.
“Seth?” She waved her good arm. “Hey, Seth?”
One Seth looked but one did not, and the man who had been getting so much blood sat up looking as woozy as she felt and said, “Sissy? That you, Sissy? What’n Blazes you doin’ away out here, girl?”
Ms. Morgan screamed, “Strike! Strike!”
And suddenly this Seth had a thin and gleaming knife. He raised it to stab the man, and somebody shouted. Mercedes was holding his wrist with her good hand before she realized that the shout had been hers. This Seth—it was exactly like waking up from a dream, or at least so she told herself afterward. The man with the knife was not Seth, and Seth was holding back his arm too. The man with the knife was Chinese, older than Seth, and shorter. And the Chinese with the knife was wearing a white waiter’s coat, not a green and blue letter jacket; there was no way she could have mistaken him for Seth.
Yet she had.
He tried to push her down, and she hit him on the side of the head with the plastic splint on her broken arm. It hurt in a vague, far-off way that was almost pleasurable. She hit him again.
Seth had one arm around his neck. He and Seth fell to the floor together, and the knife went skittering toward a startled nurse. Mercedes chased it and picked it up.
The nurse said, “What in the world … ?”
“It’s a boning knife,” Mercedes explained. “My m
other has one. Mother’s is a little nicer, though. My mother has every kitchen gadget there is, even a fish poacher and a big expresso machine. She calls it la batterie de cuisine. It’s for taking the bones out of capons—stuff like that.” Mercedes discovered that she was giggling and tried to stop. “I mean the knife is, not the expresso poacher.” She collapsed in helpless laughter.
It seemed like a long time later when the deputy came and got her. They had given her a private room, and he knocked on the doorframe to wake her up. “Mercedes? That’s your name? I always thought it was just a car.”
“Yeah,” she told him. “So’d I. The hell with it.”
He had a wheelchair. “You feel up to talking a little with the sheriff?”
A nurse—not the same nurse—peeked in through the doorway. “Let me help you.”
Mercedes told them she could walk, but they insisted that she sit in the wheelchair. The deputy, who had a thin mustache and was as tall as her father and a great deal heavier, held it for her while the nurse helped her into it and tucked a blanket around her legs. “You’ve had quite a shock,” the nurse clucked. “What if you were to faint? These floors are hard.”
“She ain’t going to faint,” the deputy said. “I hear she’s a scrapper.” When they were out in the hall on their way to the elevator, he added, “You saved his bacon for that young fellow from Arizona—that’s what he says. A lady from the newspaper came to talk to you and take your picture, but they wouldn’t let her. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mercedes’s head hurt; shutting her eyes seemed only to make it worse. “What time is it, please?”
“’Bout tenish. That arm hurt you much?”
It had not, until he reminded her of it.
The elevator doors slid open before he pushed the button, and a woman and the big doctor with the red-gold beard stepped out.
Mercedes exclaimed, “Mrs. Howard! Hi, Mrs. Howard—I mean good evening.”
Sally smiled wearily. “Oh, hello. You’re a friend of Seth’s, aren’t you?”
Mercedes nodded. “He’s okay, too. He’s cut up a little, but he’ll be all right. Are you going to see him?”
The bearded doctor asked, “You don’t happen to know whether he’s awake? We wouldn’t want to wake him up.”
Mercedes shook her head. “I remember you. You’re the plastic surgeon.”
Sally said, “I suppose I’m being a nuisance. I’ve seen him once already—Dr. von Madadh was kind enough to bring him out to me for a moment when he was still in the Trauma Center. But he wanted to leave us alone for a while, and they didn’t like that. An intern saw Seth and made him go back, but now it’s all right. They said I could go up and see him.”
The deputy rumbled, “Guess you’ve had kind of a troublesome night, haven’t you, ma’am?”
“Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry I forgot—so much has happened.”
The chair rolled into the elevator and the doors closed. “Smells funny in here,” the deputy said.
“Why does the sheriff want to see me?”
“I guess he’ll tell you.”
The elevator slid silently to a stop. “You were at Mrs. Howard’s tonight.” Mercedes had nearly said Seth’s mother’s.
“Two-three hours ago.”
“Was something the matter there?”
The deputy hesitated. Mercedes could not see his face as he wheeled her along the corridor, but she knew he was mulling over the advisability of telling her about it. At last he said, “Her pa’s lost—his name’s Leonard Robert Roberts, but everybody calls him Bob. Don’t suppose you know him?”
“Sure I do,” Mercedes said. “He works for my parents.”
They stopped abruptly. “You’re Mr. Shields’s daughter? The one that has the cars now?”
“Yes, sir,” Mercedes said, trying to sound like a girl who never got into trouble.
There was another pause. “I believe you’d better tell me just exactly what your name is.”
“Mercedes Schindler-Shields.” She struggled to keep from lapsing into singsong. “Schindler’s my mother’s name, and she wouldn’t give it up. Shields is my dad’s name, and he wouldn’t give that up. So she’s Mrs. Schindler, and he’s Mr. Shields, and I’m Mercedes Schindler-Shields.”
“Ah,” the deputy said. “The sheriff gave me your name, but I thought it was all one word—Shindlersheelds. I don’t suppose you know where Bob Roberts has got to?”
Mercedes shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was gone.”
“He was with your pa when he disappeared.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. There’s a couple of officers that think your pa had something to do with it, too. But I don’t.” After a moment the wheelchair glided forward again.
The sheriff did not look at all as Mercedes had expected. He was certainly no bigger than average, and might have been a bit smaller. His wavy black hair and smooth face made him seem not much older than Seth. “Well, hello there,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” she told him; but the deputy was already whispering in his ear, and she heard the name Shields. “I’m his daughter,” she said. “You can ask me about Mr. Roberts if you want to, but I don’t know anything about it. This guy told me while we were coming down here.”
The sheriff smiled—he had good teeth—and glanced at the deputy, and the deputy went out and closed the door behind him. The sheriff said, “Would you tell me about the last time you saw your father? That would be earlier this evening, I imagine?”
“That’s right. We went to look at another house. My folks want to buy a house here.”
The sheriff nodded encouragingly.
“Then we went back to the motel. We’re staying at the Red Stove Inn for now.”
The sheriff nodded again.
“Then Dad wanted to go out to the dealership and check on things there. Mom and I didn’t want to go, so he went alone.”
“About what time would that have been?”
“Maybe five or five-thirty. It was pretty dark, but it gets dark early now, and it was raining.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No, sir.”
“All right.” The sheriff straightened up as though their interview were over, although Mercedes felt certain it was not. “I wanted to tell you, you’re one brave little girl, smacking that Chinaman the way you did. You hit him with that cast on your arm, is that right?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have it then; they had my arm in a long plastic thing, taped down. They hadn’t set the bone.”
“I see.” The sheriff leaned back and made a little steeple with his fingers. It made him look older.
I was right, Mercedes thought. This isn’t nearly over. No way.
“Now just exactly when did you first see the Chinaman?”
Mercedes bit her lip. “I think it was when he first came into the Trauma Center.”
“Good. Good. Was he alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did he do after he came in?”
Mercedes said, “He just stood there awhile, looking around. I don’t think he had expected so many people.”
“And then?”
“Ms. Morgan came over and talked to him. She was telling him to go ahead, I think.”
“Who’s Ms. Morgan?”
Mercedes shrugged; it hurt, and she resolved not to do it again. “The woman who was sitting in back with me when we had the accident. She wasn’t hurt, but I guess they brought her in anyway to check her out.”
The sheriff nodded slowly, scratched his nose, and picked up a sheet of paper. “Describe her, please.”
“She’s shorter than I am, and—about a size eight. She’s blond and really cute. She has long—”
The door opened, and the plastic surgeon looked in. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Seth Howard’s not here?”
23
THE TOWER BY THE SEA
THE DOUBLE doors at the far end of
the barn seemed to explode, smashed inward by sound and blinding light. Bigger and faster than any charger, light roared down the broad aisle between the stalls. For an instant the blare of a discordant trumpet rose above the roar, shriller and shriller until it was higher than the scream of brakes.
Shields flew, the barn floor dizzy overhead.
He had been asleep and wished to sleep again, but he could not. Everything hurt—or if there was anything that did not, he was unconscious of it, could not discover it; there was too much pain for him to explore it all, too much for him to do anything but try to push it away.
The floor was bounding and jolting beneath him, every jar a separate and distinct agony. A chill wind whistled unceasingly, a wind wet with rain.
“How you feeling, son?”
Shields wanted to spit; he swallowed instead. He had never swallowed anything like that before, and decided it had probably been clotted blood. “Bob?”
“It’s me all right, Mr. Shields.” Roberts was sitting very close, with his legs crossed and his head bent. “How are you? Think anything’s broken?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“I ran my hands all over you and couldn’t find anything, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to flex everything to see. Don’t sit up—roof’s pretty low.”
“We’re in a truck, aren’t we?”
From somewhere Ann called, “Willie, is that you? Are you all right?”
“No!”
“That’s my Willie.”
Roberts told him, “We’re in the back of that old Cherokee you took off the lot, Mr. Shields.”
Lisa Solomon’s voice: “My old car. I had to sell it.”
“It’s yours again,” Shields told her. “I just gave it back to you.”
“Willie!”
“Ann, shut the hell up.” He resolved to be quiet himself; but as soon as he fell silent, pain rushed upon him. He turned and thrashed, vainly seeking a position that hurt less than the previous one.
“Lie still, son. That don’t do no good.”
“What makes it so windy in here?”