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Authors: Gene Wolfe

BOOK: Castleview
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There was only a single ring before an authoritarian female voice said, “Sheriff Ahern’s All-Night Help Line.”
“My name’s Kate Roberts.”
“And what can we do for you, Miz Roberts?”
“I’m at my sister’s house. Sally Howard’s. I’m afraid I can’t remember the address. The big old house on Pine Street?”
“What seems to be the trouble, Miz Roberts?”
“My little girl’s gone—her name’s Judy. Well, it’s really Judith Youngberg. She’s seven years old, and she has on a pink dress, her good one. And white stockings and maryjanes, because Tom’s dead.”
“Your little girl’s run away?”
“No. I mean, yes. She ran away from this man, I think. I looked down for just a moment, and I heard them running, or when I looked up, and when I looked they were gone.” Like a ghostly echo, Kate heard running feet beyond Sally’s broken window—no, hooves, galloping hooves. Riders crossing the field behind the house.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Oh, God,” Kate said. “Oh God!” How could she make them believe that this was real, that she was serious? She knew and thrust the knowledge from her.
“Who was the man?”
“I don’t know. He told me his name, I think, but I can’t
remember. He said he’d bought it.”
One swift motion—put the gun to her head and pull the trigger.
“He bought his name?”
“Bought this house. Listen, please, she’s only seven—”
“Then your sister doesn’t live there any more.”
Very calmly, Kate said, “Please listen, and remember this: tell Stan I was serious, understand? Find Stan, and tell him I was completely serious.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.
It moved not a hair. She had expected a very loud bang—a report. You were entitled to a full report before the silence, but there was nothing.
“Who’s Stan? Is Stan your sister’s husband?”
The safety, of course. There was a switch-thing on these, and unless it was on they wouldn’t fire. Kate found the safety and pushed it down with the mouthpiece of the telephone. In her mouth, that was the way.
“Three eleven North Pine? Is that where you’re calling from?”
It seemed that there was a safety on her index finger, too; it would not move. The drumming hooves grew touder—big horses, Morgans with ground-devouring legs, real rattlers.
Grandfather had always loved horses. “Why’d you call him a rattler, Grandpa?” “‘Cause that’s what he is, Katie. See, soon as our folks had gone off somewhere, me an’ Jeff would fetch out Cannoneer—that was my pa’s Morgan. ‘Hold him, Ed,’ Jeff’d say, ‘Hold him good, till I got him in the traces.’ Cannoneer’d toss his head—lifted me clean off my feet one time—but I’d hold on till Jeff had him hitched to the good buggy, an’ a good hold on the reins. Then I’d let go, and he’d rear, so I just had time to jump on. Didn’t have to crack the whip or nothin’ for
him.
No, sir! Off we’d go, knowin’ we was goin’ to get warmed good for it. Down the hill and over the bridge! Crackin’? Why you never seen the like, Katie! There’d be ol’ George Johnson with a load of apples, but he’d not catch sight of us for our dust. The new buggy’d sound like she was about to come apart, and then Jeff, he’d say, ‘He’s a rattler, ain’t he, Ed?’ But I wouldn’t
answer a thing, just hold on with both hands, ’cause he was, for certain sure.”
“Hello? Are you still there, Miz Roberts? Hello?”
“Yes,” Kate whispered. “Yes, I’m still here.” Perhaps she could press the trigger with the thumb of her other hand.
“If you’re in somebody else’s home—”
The hoofbeats stopped, and Kate glanced at the shattered window. There was nothing, not even a pane of glass, between her and the big—the enormous—man peering in. His face was bearded; above the black hairs his skin was a pale green. His eyes met hers, and at the shock her hand tightened convulsively.
There was no report, no loud noise, only the feeling that she had been struck a terrible blow.
ROSARY CHEESECAKE
A WOMAN who looked Italian was saying the rosary. Ann decided it was a swell idea—she could use a big string of worry beads herself, and the prayers. She could use the prayers most of all, and so could her baby, who “just” had a broken arm, they said. (She was talking to the sheriff, okay, but what the hell did they find to talk about? “Lemme tell ya, Miss, I got me a heck of a video tape fer tomorrer night.
True Grit.
Yep, th’ Duke hisself.”)
So could the dying girl, Ann thought, the Brazilian girl. Sancha, that was her name.
And so could Lisa Solomon; perhaps Lisa most of all. She was sitting quietly on the other side of Bob, but her face was awful, just terrible. The Italian woman completed her rosary and kissed its silver crucifix. Could you use your knuckles?
A cup and a quarter of cookie crumbs.
A quarter cup of white sugar—castor sugar, they call that in England, God knows why.
And a quarter cup melted butter and two and a half
pounds
Philadelphia cream cheese. Because a sugar bowl was a castor, that was why. Sugar-bowl sugar.
Lisa said, “When she dies, will they even tell us?” It was said softly, almost in a whisper, but Ann heard her.
So had Bob; he said, “We’ll keep checking.” And then, “You mustn’t worry.”
It was when people told you not to worry that you worried, Ann reflected. More sugar, a scant two cups. That’s to go in the filling—the other’s for the crust. (The other hand now.) Three tablespoons of white King Arthur flour. Grate the rind of a big lemon.
The Italian woman had begun again; her voice floated softly across the room:
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour …
”
Then grate half an orange rind the same way. You’ll need five large eggs—my mother always thought the brown ones worked best. (Back to the first hand.)
The gray-haired woman at the reception desk said, “This is the hospital, can I speak to Mrs. Howard? What? Why officer—”
And besides those, two egg
yolks.
You have to throw away the whites, or find something else to do with them.
 
Boomer had a grievance. In fact he had several. There was the smell of blood, just to start with. Blood was bad, it meant bad trouble in the herd. It had sent him galloping off into the night—not that he minded night much—when he should have gotten his saddle off.
He had grazed for a while in the big unfenced meadow west of the lodge, although that was scarcely a grievance. He had pricked his ears at the strange stories the wind told, and had drunk from Indian Creek, all of which was well and even good. But now he was left standing in front of his own personal stall with nobody to unsaddle him and nobody to open the door. That was deeply and disturbingly wrong. Where was Lisa? Where was Wrangler? Where was Sissy? Where was Sancha? Where was—for that matter, though he himself had never liked her … .
These thoughts had hobbled through Boomer’s slow, tenacious mind a score of times already when, at that exact
moment, Lucie strode into the barn. “There you are, you big ox,” Lucie said, “all ready to go. Fine with me—
tres bien, mon boeuf.
”
Boomer rolled his eyes and backed off, then made the error of trying to turn. As he swung around, Lucie caught him by the bridle.
He knew already that Lucie was not there to unsaddle him. There is a way a rider looks when she means to take your saddle off, a way when she is just making sure you have hay, a way for grooming, a way for a short ride, a way for jumping, and a way for a long ride. Lucie meant to ride far, and in a moment more she was in his saddle, reining his head hard to the right while bullying him with both her heels. He reflected with a certain satisfaction that Lucie’s seat was not quite as good as Lisa’s. There were limbs, there were trees—
“Okay,
charogne,
let’s see some speed.”
He went from a walk to a trot, from a trot to a canter, and from a canter to a gallop before they were out of the barn.
 
Less than five minutes after Mercedes was wheeled back into her hospital room, Dr. von Madadh entered it, quietly and almost furtively. “I take it that the sheriff has done his worst?”
“I sure hope so.”
“As he did with poor Seth. There ought to be a law against policemen who browbeat patients—or rather, there ought to be a law punishing physicians who permit it. I would never allow one of my own to be harassed in the way that you and Seth have been tonight, believe me.”
Mercedes sat up. “There was another couple in the car with us, and the sheriff kept going on about them. I guess I should say, about them not really being there and what’d they do, split right after the accident? They didn’t, I saw them in the Trauma Center, and—Then he said the hospital didn’t write them up.”
Von Madadh sighed. “I suppose this is the moment, although I hate to give you a shock. First, let me say that his injuries are
fairly minor. Is that understood, Mercedes? They are by no means severe.”
“Seth? I thought he got cut up pretty bad.”
“No, I wasn’t referring to Seth, but to your father. Will Shields is your father?”
“Dad’s been hurt? What happened? That’s right, his name’s Will.”
“So I was informed,” von Madadh said. “A young friend of mine—a very dear friend—spoke with your parents earlier today. And I must confess to eavesdropping a bit outside before I broke in upon your tête-à-tête with the sheriff. I had hoped to learn Seth’s whereabouts without interrupting you.”
Unconsciously, Mercedes touched her hair. “Well, did you? Where is he?”
Von Madadh sighed again. “We’ll get to that in time; I’ll track him down, you may be sure. But meanwhile, don’t you want to see your father? He’s had an accident, too; and I’m sure he would be here already, sick with worry for you, if he knew that you were here.”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Good. You were in a wheelchair when you were interviewed by the sheriff; but from what I overheard about your battle with the unfortunate Hwan, you didn’t really need it. Can you walk?”
“Sure.” Mercedes swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was very tired—so tired it seemed she stood beside herself and watched her own body as she might have watched an actress.
Von Madadh appeared to sense it. A little sadly he said, “High adventure is best enjoyed at a distance, or so I’ve heard. Take my arm, please. I will be flattered.”
 
Fee opened the door wide as Sally climbed the steps to the porch. “Ah, there you are! I was afraid something had happened to you. Your son is not badly hurt?”
Sally snapped, “What are you doing in my house? Get out!”
Fee closed the door softly behind her. As he had earlier, he conveyed an impression of deformity without actually showing a crooked back or a clubfoot. “Per’aps you forgot—this house is mine: I bought it from you tonight. You are welcome to stay on as my housekeeper, but you must not forget whose house it is you keep. You and I discussed this earlier, I thought, at some length.”
“I’m going to call the sheriff,” Sally told him. “I’ll be God
damned
if I’ll listen to this any more.” Recalling that she still had Fee’s check, she opened her purse and began to rummage through it.
“Please,” Fee said. “Mrs. Howard—Sally. Do you mind if I call you Sally? Sally, there’s something urgent we must settle immediately. Then I will telephone the sheriff for you, if you wish. What are your feelings toward your sister? Are you very fond of her? Or would you, per’aps, prefer that she intrude no more?” He waved a hand airily.
“Kate? Are you talking about Kate?”
Fee nodded, with a suppressed smile.
“I love my sister, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that it’s any of your business. Has something happened to Kate too?”
“You would not prefer … ?”
“Nol For God’s sake what is it?”
“Per’aps it would be better if you sat. If you will just come into my living room … .”
“What is it!”
“Your sister has shot herself in the head. Intentionally, or so it would appear.”
The old Victorian house spun as though it were the Gale’s, flung aloft by the tornado that would carry Dorothy to Oz. The hall light winked and flickered, and Sally’s purse was no longer in Sally’s hands.
I’m not going to faint, she thought. Women don’t really. Faint.
Fee fluttered like a rag in the wind, first present, then replaced by something else, then replaced by nothing at all, so
that she stood—stumbled—all alone in the long, cold hall. A siren howled outside; it was still some distance away, but came perceptibly nearer before the hall light vanished.
 
Lisa was sitting with Mr. Roberts when Dr. de Falla came to speak to them. Rising, she asked, “Is Wrangler going to be all right?”
“Yes, I’ve got good news for you there. He lost a great deal of blood, but I think he’s out of danger now.”
“Thank God!”
Dr. de Falla glanced at the gray-haired receptionist, who ignored him studiously. “I’m not supposed to do this, but if you like I could take you up to see him, just for a few minutes. He’s fully conscious—talking about going back to Meadow Grass, actually—and I think it might do him good.”
Lisa nodded mutely, her eyes shining.
Mr. Roberts said, “Don’t worry about me, Doc. I’ll wait right here.”
“Fine.”
De Falla’s voice sounded curiously flat; Lisa looked from one man to the other, and at last knew what de Falla had known before he came into the reception area, what Roberts had known as soon as he had seen de Falla. “She’s dead, isn’t she? She died here, so far from home.”
Abruptly, Lisa’s eyes filled with tears and Roberts’s arms were around her. “There, there,” Roberts said softly. “There, there, there.”
De Falla told her, “The sheriff’s going to want to talk to you afterward. I thought perhaps Bob here could be talking to him now. That should keep him off your back—and mine—for half an hour or so.”
Lisa raised her head. “I’ve called Rio. Did anybody tell you? I talked to their chef; he speaks a little English. Her parents are in Europe, he doesn’t know where. He said he’d tell them the next time they phoned, that he’d pray.”
“You did all you could,” de Falla told her.
“No.” Lisa pulled a red bandana from her hip pocket, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “Now I’m going to have to call Rio again.”
 
Ann shouldered the nurse aside for the third time. “Let’s get this straight. If my daughter’s in here, I’m going to see her. And if you have him grab me and toss me out,” she jerked her head in the direction of the large attendant, “I’m going to sue this place for every dollar it’s got. Now take those rules and do something obscene with them.”
The attendant, who was black and well over six feet tall, tried to look serious and even frightening but signally failed.
“So where is she? Mercedes Schindler-Shields.”
“Right down here,” the nurse said, capitulating. “That room.”
“My baby!”
Ann rushed past her, stopped, and stared. The bed was empty, the bedclothes thrown back. A muddy smudge as big as a man’s hand soiled the sheet where Mercedes should have lain.
Behind Ann, the nurse said, “She may still be talking with the sheriff. He’s been questioning lots of people.”
“That’s a dog’s footprint,” Ann gasped. “Somebody brought a dog in here.” Five whole eggs … two egg-yolks … one third cup whipping cream … .

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