Windmills of the Gods (8 page)

Edward Ashley’s surgical gown was stained with blood. He looked at the monitor. The heart was strong and steady.

“Thanks.”

Edward Ashley had showered and changed clothes and was in his office writing up the required medical report. It was a pleasant office, filled with bookcases containing medical tomes and athletic trophies. It contained a desk, an easy chair, and a small table with two straight chairs. On the walls were his diplomas, neatly framed.

Edward’s body felt stiff and tired from the tension he had just gone through. At the same time, he felt sexually aroused, as he always did after major surgery.
It’s coming face-to-face with death that magnifies the values of the life force,
a psychiatrist had once explained to Edward.
Making love is the affirmation of nature’s continuum. Whatever the reason,
Edward thought,
I wish Mary were here.

He selected a pipe from the pipe rack on his desk, lighted it, and sank into the easy chair and stretched out his legs. Thinking about Mary made him feel guilty. He was responsible
for her turning down the President’s offer, and his reasons were valid.
But there’s more to it than that,
Edward admitted to himself.
I was jealous. I reacted like a spoiled brat. What would have happened if the President had made me an offer like that? I’d probably have jumped at it. Jesus! All I could think of was that I wanted Mary to stay home and take care of me and the kids. Talk about your genuine male chauvinist pig!

He sat there, smoking his pipe, upset with himself.
Too late,
he thought.
But I’ll make it up to her. I’ll surprise her this summer with a trip to Paris and London. Maybe I’ll take her to Romania. We’ll have a real honeymoon.

The Junction City Country Club is a three-level limestone building set in the midst of lush hills. The club has an eighteen-hole golf course, two tennis courts, a swimming pool, a bar and dining room with a large fireplace at one end, a card room upstairs, and locker rooms downstairs.

Edward’s father had belonged to the club, as had Mary’s father, and Edward and Mary had been taken there since they were children. The town was a closely knit community, and the country club was its symbol.

When Edward and Mary arrived, it was late, and there was only a sprinkling of guests left in the dining room. They stared, watching as Mary sat down, and whispered to one another. Mary was getting used to it.

Edward looked at his wife. “Any regrets?”

Of course there were regrets. But they were castles-in-Spain regrets about the kind of glamorous, impossible dreams that everyone has.
If I had been born a princess; if I were a millionnairess; if I received the Nobel Prize for curing cancer; if…if…if…

Mary smiled. “None, darling. It was a fluke that they even asked me. Anyhow, there’s no way I would ever leave you or the children.” She took his hand in hers. “No regrets. I’m glad I refused the offer.”

He leaned across to her and whispered, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Let’s go.” Mary smiled.

In the beginning, when they were first married, their lovemaking had been fierce and demanding. They had a constant physical need for each other that could not be satisfied until they were both completely spent. The urgency had mellowed with time, but the emotions were still there, constant and sweet and fulfilling.

When they returned home now, they undressed without haste and got into bed. Edward held her close to him, then began to stroke her body gently, playing with her breasts, teasing the nipples with his fingers, moving his hand down toward the velvety softness.

Mary moaned with pleasure. “That feels wonderful.”

She moved on top of him and began flicking her tongue down his body, feeling him become hard. When they were both ready, they made love until they were exhausted. Edward held his wife tightly in his arms. “I love you so much, Mary.”

“I love you twice as much. Good night, darling.”

At three o’clock in the morning, the phone exploded into sound. Edward sleepily reached for the instrument and brought it to his ear. “Hello…”

A woman’s urgent voice said, “Dr. Ashley?”

“Yes…”

“Pete Grimes is havin’ a heart attack. He’s in pain somethin’ awful. I think he’s dyin’. I don’t know what to do.”

Edward sat up in bed, trying to blink the sleep away. “Don’t do anything. Keep him still. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He replaced the receiver, slid out of bed, and started to dress.

“Edward…”

He looked over at Mary. Her eyes were half open.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Wake me up when you come back,” Mary mumbled. “I think I’m going to feel sexy again.”

Edward grinned. “I’ll hurry.”

Five minutes later, he was on his way to the Grimes farm.

He drove down the hill on Old Milford Road toward J Hill Road. It was a cold and raw morning, with a northwesterly wind driving the temperature well below zero. Edward turned up the car heater. As he drove, he wondered whether he should have called for an ambulance before he left the house. The last two “heart attacks” Pete Grimes had had turned out to be bleeding ulcers. No. He would check it out first.

He turned the car onto Route 18, the two-lane highway that went through Junction City. The town was asleep, its houses huddled against the bitter, frigid wind.

When Edward came to the end of Sixth Street, he made the turn that took him onto Route 57 and headed toward Grandview Plaza. How many times had he driven over these roads on hot summer days with the sweet smell of corn and prairie hay in the air, past miniature forests of cottonwood trees and cedars and Russian olive trees, and August haystacks piled up alongside the roads? The fields had been filled then with the odor of burning cedar trees that had to be destroyed regularly because they kept taking over the crops. And how many winters had he driven on this road through a frosted landscape, with power lines delicately laced with ice, and lonely smoke from far-off chimneys? There was an exhilarating feeling of isolation, being encapsulated in the morning darkness, watching fields and trees fly silently past.

Edward drove as fast as possible, mindful of the treacherous road beneath the wheels. He thought of Mary lying in their warm bed, waiting for him.
Wake me up when you come back. I think I’m going to feel sexy again.

He was so lucky.
I’ll make everything up to her,
Edward promised himself.
I’ll give her the damnedest honeymoon any woman ever had.

Ahead, at the intersection of highways 57 and 77, was a stop sign. Edward turned at Route 77, and as he started into the intersection, a truck appeared out of nowhere. He heard a sudden roar, and his car was pinned by two bright headlights racing toward him. He caught a glimpse of the giant five-ton army truck bearing down on him, and the last sound he heard was his own voice screaming.

In Neuilly church bells pealed out across the quiet noon air. The gendarmes guarding Marin Groza’s villa had no reason to pay attention to the dusty Renault sedan cruising by. Angel drove slowly, but not slowly enough to arouse suspicion, taking everything in. Two guards in front, a high wall, probably electrified, and inside, of course, the usual electronic nonsense of beams, sensors, and alarms. It would take an army to storm the villa.
But I don’t need an army,
Angel thought.
Only my genius. Marin Groza is a dead man. If only my mother were alive to see how rich I have become. How happy it would have made her.

In Argentina, poor families were very poor, indeed, and Angel’s mother had been one of the unfortunate
descamisados.
No one knew or cared who the father had been. Through the years Angel had watched friends and relatives die of hunger and sickness and disease. Death was a way of life, and Angel thought philosophically:
Since it is going to happen anyway, why not make a profit from it?
In the beginning, there were those who doubted Angel’s lethal talents, but those who tried to put roadblocks in the way had a habit of disappearing. Angel’s reputation as an assassin grew.
I have never failed,
Angel thought.
I am Angel. The Angel of Death.

The snow-covered Kansas highway was ablaze with vehicles with flashing red lights that turned the frosty air bloodred. A fire truck, ambulance, tow truck, four highway-patrol cars, a sheriff’s car, and in the center, ringed by headlights, the five-ton M871 army tractor-trailer, and partially beneath it, Edward Ashley’s crumpled car. A dozen police officers and firemen were milling around, swinging their arms and stamping their feet, trying to keep warm in the predawn freeze. In the middle of the highway, covered by a tarpaulin, was a body. A sheriff’s car was approaching, and as it skidded to a stop, Mary Ashley ran out of it. She was trembling so hard that she could barely stand. She saw the tarpaulin and moved toward it.

Sheriff Munster grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t look at him if I were you, Mrs. Ashley.”

“Let go of me!” She was screaming. She shook loose from his grasp and started toward the tarpaulin.

The body.
“Thank you,” Mary said politely.

He was looking at her strangely. “I’d best get you back home,” he said. “What’s the name of your family doctor?”

“Edward Ashley,” Mary said. “Edward Ashley is my family doctor.”

Later, she remembered walking up to the house and Sheriff Munster leading her inside. Florence and Douglas Schiffer were waiting for her in the living room. The children were still asleep.

Florence threw her arms around her. “Oh, darling, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Mary said calmly. “Edward had an accident.” She giggled.

Douglas was watching her closely. “Let me take you upstairs.”

“I’m fine, thank you. Would you care for some tea?”

Douglas said, “Come on, I’m putting you to bed.”

“I’m not sleepy. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for something?”

As Douglas led her upstairs into the bedroom, Mary said to him, “It was an accident. Edward was in an accident.”

Douglas Schiffer looked into her eyes. They were wide and vacant. He felt a chill go through him.

He went downstairs to get his medical bag. When he returned, Mary had not moved. “I’m going to give you something to make you sleep.” He gave her a sedative, helped her into bed, and sat at her side. An hour later, Mary was still awake. He gave her another sedative. Then a third. Finally, she slept.

In Junction City there are strict investigative procedures involved in the report of a 1048—an injury accident. An ambulance is dispatched from the County Ambulance Service, and a sheriff’s officer is sent to the scene. If army personnel
are involved in the accident, the CID—the Criminal Investigating Division of the army—conducts an investigation along with the sheriff’s office.

Shel Planchard, a plainclothes officer from the CID headquarters at Fort Riley, and the sheriff and a deputy were examining the accident report in the sheriff’s office on Ninth Street.

“It beats me,” Sheriff Munster said.

“What’s the problem, Sheriff?” Planchard asked.

“Well, looky here. There were five witnesses to the accident, right? A priest and two nuns, Colonel Jenkins, and the truck driver, Sergeant Wallis. Every single one of them says Doc Ashley’s car turned onto the highway, ran the stop sign, and was hit by the army truck.”

“Right,” the CID man said. “What’s bothering you?”

Sheriff Munster scratched his head. “Mister, have you ever seen an accident report where even
two
eyewitnesses said the same thing?” He slammed a fist against the papers. “What bothers the hell out of me is that every one of these witnesses says
exactly
the same thing.”

The CID man shrugged. “It just shows that what happened was pretty obvious.”

The sheriff said, “There’s somethin’ else nigglin’ at me.”

“Yeah?”

“What were a priest and two nuns and a colonel doing out on Highway Seventy-seven at four o’clock in the mornin’?”

“Nothing mysterious about that. The priest and the sisters were on their way to Leonardville, and the colonel was returning to Fort Riley.”

The sheriff said, “I checked with the DMV. The last ticket Doc Ashley got was six years ago for illegal parking. He had no accident record.”

The CID man was studying him. “Sheriff, just what are you suggesting?”

Munster shrugged. “I’m not suggestin’ anythin’. I jest have a funny feelin’ about this.”

“We’re talking about an accident seen by five witnesses. If you think there’s some kind of conspiracy involved, there’s a big hole in your theory. If—”

The sheriff sighed. “I know. If it wasn’t an accident, all the army truck had to do was knock him off and keep goin’. There wouldn’t be any reason for all these witnesses and rigamarole.”

“Exactly.” The CID man rose and stretched. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the base. As far as I’m concerned, the driver of the truck, Sergeant Wallis, is cleared.” He looked at the sheriff. “Are we in agreement?”

Sheriff Munster said reluctantly, “Yeah. It musta been an accident.”

Mary was awakened by the sound of the children crying. She lay still, her eyes tightly closed, thinking:
This is a part of my nightmare. I’m asleep, and when I wake up, Edward will be alive.

But the crying continued. When she could stand it no longer, she opened her eyes and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Finally, reluctantly, she forced herself to get out of bed. She felt drugged. She walked into Tim’s bedroom. Florence and Beth were there with him. The three of them were crying.
I wish I could cry,
Mary thought.
Oh, I wish I could cry.

Beth looked up at Mary. “Is—is Daddy really d-dead?”

Mary nodded, unable to speak the words. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“I had to tell them,” Florence apologized. “They were going to go off to play with some friends.”

“It’s all right.” Mary stroked Tim’s hair. “Don’t cry, darling. Everything is going to be all right.”

Nothing was going to be all right again.

Ever.

The United States Army CID Command at Fort Riley is headquartered at Building 169, in an old limestone structure
surrounded by trees, with steps leading up to the porch of the building. In an office on the first floor, Shel Planchard, the CID officer, was talking to Colonel Jenkins.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir. Sergeant Wallis, the driver of the truck that killed the civilian doctor—”

“Yes?”

“He had a fatal heart attack this morning.”

“That’s a shame.”

The CID man said tonelessly, “Yes, sir. His body is being cremated this morning. It was very sudden.”

“Unfortunate.” The colonel rose. “I’m being transferred overseas.” He allowed himself a small smile. “A rather important promotion.”

“Congratulations, sir. You’ve earned it.”

Mary Ashley decided later that the only thing that saved her sanity was being in a state of shock. Everything that happened seemed to be happening to someone else. She was underwater, moving slowly, hearing voices from a distance, filtered through cotton wool.

The funeral service was held at the Mass-Hinitt-Alexander Funeral Home on Jefferson Street. It was a blue building with a white portico and a large white clock hanging above the entrance. The funeral parlor was filled to overflowing with friends and colleagues of Edward. There were dozens of wreaths and bouquets. One of the largest wreaths had a card that read, simply: “My deepest sympathy. Paul Ellison.”

Mary and Beth and Tim sat alone in the small family room off to one side of the parlor, the children red-eyed and still.

The casket with Edward’s body in it was closed. Mary could not bear to think about the reason.

The minister was speaking: “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place. In all generations, before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, ever from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth doth change,
and though the mountains be shaken into the heart of the seas…”

She and Edward were in the small sailboat on Milford Lake.

“Do you like to sail?” he had asked her the first night they dated.

“I’ve never been sailing.”

“Saturday,” he said. “We have a date.”

They were married one week later.

“Do you know why I married you, lady?” Edward teased. “You passed the test. You laughed a lot and you didn’t fall overboard.”

When the service ended, Mary and the children got into the long, black limousine that led the funeral procession to the cemetery.

Highland Cemetery on Ash Street is a vast park, with a graveled road circling it. It is the oldest cemetery in Junction City, and many of the headstones have long since been eroded by time and weather. Because of the numbing cold, the graveside ceremony was kept brief.

“I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. I am he that liveth and was dead; and, behold, I am alive forever more.”

Finally, mercifully, it was over. Mary and the children stood in the howling wind watching the casket being lowered into the frozen, uncaring earth.

Good-bye, my darling.

Death is supposed to be an ending, but for Mary Ashley it was the beginning of an unbearable hell. She and Edward had talked about death, and Mary thought she had come to terms with it, but now death had suddenly assumed a reality that was immediate and terrifying. It was no longer a vague event that would happen on some far, distant day. There was no way to cope with it. Everything within Mary screamed to deny what had happened to Edward. When he died,
everything wonderful died with him. The reality kept hitting her in fresh waves of shock. She wanted to be alone. She cowered deep within herself, feeling like a small, terrified child abandoned by an adult. She found herself raging against God.
Why didn’t you take me first?
she demanded. She was furious with Edward for deserting her, furious with the children, furious with herself.

I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman with two children, and I don’t know who I am. When I was Mrs. Edward Ashley, I had an identity, I belonged to someone who belonged to me.

Time was spinning by, mocking her emptiness. Her life was like a runaway train over which she had no control.

Florence and Douglas and other friends stayed with her, trying to make things easier, but Mary wished they would go away and leave her alone. Florence came in one afternoon and found Mary in front of the television set watching a Kansas State football game.

“She didn’t even know I was there,” Florence told her husband that evening. “She was concentrating so desperately on that game.” She shivered. “It was spooky.”

“Why?”

“Mary hates football. It was Edward who watched every game.”

It took Mary’s last ounce of willpower to handle the detritus left by Edward’s death. There was the will, and insurance, and bank accounts and taxes and bills due and Edward’s medical corporation and loans and assets and deficits, and she wanted to scream at the lawyers and bankers and accountants to leave her in peace.

I don’t want to cope,
she wept. Edward was gone, and all anyone wanted to talk about was money.

Finally, she was forced to discuss it.

Frank Dunphy, Edward’s accountant, said, “I’m afraid the bills and death taxes are going to use up a lot of the life-insurance
money, Mrs. Ashley. Your husband was pretty lax about his patients paying him. He’s owed a lot of money. I’ll arrange for a collection agency to go after the people who owe—”

“No,” Mary said fiercely. “Edward wouldn’t want that.”

Dunphy was at a loss. “Well, then, I guess the bottom line is that your assets are thirty thousand dollars in cash and this house, which has a mortgage on it. If you sold the house—”

“Edward wouldn’t want me to sell it.”

She sat there, stiff and rigid, holding in her misery, and Dunphy thought:
I wish to God my wife cared that much about me.

The worst was yet to come. It was time to dispose of Edward’s personal things. Florence offered to help her, but Mary said, “No. Edward would have wanted me to do it.”

There were so many small, intimate things. A dozen pipes, a fresh can of tobacco, two pairs of reading glasses, notes for a medical lecture he would never give. She went into Edward’s closet and ran her fingers over suits he would never again wear. The blue tie he had worn on their last night together. His gloves and scarf that kept him warm against the winter winds. He would not need them in his cold grave. She carefully put away his razor and toothbrushes, moving like an automaton.

She found love notes they had written to each other, bringing back memories of the lean days when Edward started his own practice, a Thanksgiving dinner without a turkey, summer picnics and winter sleigh rides, and her first pregnancy and both of them reading and playing classical music to Beth while she was in the womb, and the love letter Edward wrote when Tim was born, and the gold-plated apple Edward had given her when she began teaching, and a hundred other wonderful things that brought tears to her eyes. His death was like some cruel magician’s trick. One moment
Edward was there, alive, talking, smiling, loving, and the next moment he had vanished into the cold earth.

I’m a mature person. I have to accept reality. I’m not mature. I can’t accept it. I don’t want to live.

She lay awake through the long night, thinking how simple it would be to join Edward, to stop the unbearable agony, to be at peace.
We’re brought up to expect a happy ending,
Mary thought.
But there are no happy endings. There’s only death waiting for us. We find love and happiness, and it’s snatched away from us without rhyme or reason. We’re on a deserted spaceship careening mindlessly among the stars. The world is Dachau, and we’re all Jews.

She finally dozed off, and in the middle of the night her wild screams awakened the children, and they ran to her bedside and crawled into bed with her, hugging her.

“You’re not going to die, are you?” Tim whispered.

Mary thought:
I can’t kill myself. They need me. Edward would never forgive me.