Gene Wolfe - Free Live Free

As the traffic began to inch forward, the driver stared at her. “You’re insane.”

“No. I am only a determined woman in urgent need of transportation. What are your alternatives? You are a wealthy and distinguished man, married, with several children and many business contacts. You may, if you like, drive to a police station or merely stop where you see a policeman. I will cling to you and scream. Cry. You may drive to your destination; I will do the same thing, and it will be still worse.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“It will not matter. I will give a name—any name—and the police and the journalists will believe that you have given me a false one. No doubt it will be a bit of gossip that will enliven many business lunches.” The witch opened her purse, took out a compact, and inspected her face critically in the mirror. “I am a beautiful woman, but I am not asking you for a hundred thousand dollars, or even for a nice little condominium on the most fashionable side of the park. Only for an hour or two of your time. You will drive me where I wish to go, and I will get out, and you will never see me again. You will get off very cheaply—if you act now.”

“You are a very clever young woman,” the driver said. “But it isn’t going to do you any good.” He accelerated the Cadillac to make the next light.

“No. I am a deep young woman, if you like, Mr. McAlister. A desperate young woman. But not clever. To tell the truth, I am too busy to be clever.”

He spun the wheel to swing the big car around a corner. “A clever and unscrupulous young woman, ready to use my position against me.”

“This is not Broad Street.”

“No,” he said, “but this will get us to the freeway. Want to give me that address again?”

“Sixteen twenty-three Killdeer Lane. Mr. McAlister, my kind of person has been telling your kind for many centuries that you are enslaved by your possessions. It is irrational of you to resent it because occasionally your master chooses to crack his whip.”

There was a radiotelephone in the Cadillac’s dashboard. McAlister picked it up. As they turned onto the On ramp, he said, “It’s me, Bill. Tell them I’m having a little trouble—I’m going to be a couple of hours late. Make my apologies, will you?”

The witch used the Cadillac’s lighter to light one of her Turkish cigarettes and turned her head away as though to study the grim, costly buildings they passed.

When the Cadillac was purring down a boulevard lined with winter-naked oaks, McAlister announced, “I live here myself. I’d just driven in when you stopped me.” It was the first time he had spoken since they had turned onto the Interstate.

His passenger permitted herself a slight smile. “Are you not afraid I may use that information against you?”

“Certainly I am, but you could have gotten it from the telephone book. If you try another stunt like this, you’ll find I’m not such easy meat.”

“You regret that you did not call the police? Do so now. There must be police in Bellewood.”

He shook his head. “I said I’d take you, and I will. Just don’t try it again.”

The witch laughed.

Killdeer Lane was a winding residential street where large, well-kept houses stood on three-acre lots. As McAlister stopped the car in the drive of sixteen twenty-three, he asked, “How are you going to get home?”

“You have guessed already that this is not my home. That is very clever of you.”

“I told you I live here. We’re a community of only about three thousand, and if you lived here too I’d have noticed you.”

“Unless I had just moved in.”

“Let’s not beat around the bush. How are you going to get back to wherever you came from?”

“I cannot say.”

“Somebody here will drive you?”

“Perhaps. I doubt it.”

McAlister nodded. “And I don’t think you’ve got money for a cab. They charge double outside the city, so it’s about a thirty-dollar ride. Miss—Ms. whoever you are, I’ll pay you fifty dollars right now, cash, if you’ll tell me how you knew my name.” He slipped a calf-skin wallet from his coat and took out two twenties and a ten.

She smiled at him. “Suppose I take your money and tell you it was magic?”

“I don’t think you’ll do that. I think you’re a young woman who keeps her bargains.”

“Firm but fair. Is that not what they say of you in the boardrooms?”

McAlister nodded. “Sometimes.”

“I, also. All right.” She plucked the bills from his fingers before she got out of the car. “What do you call that thing that holds the wheel? Not you, the other thing.”

“This? The steering column.”

“I know you would know the name. Your registration, Mr. McAlister. It is held to that steering column in a little window frame. When I took out my compact, I read your name in the mirror. Was that worth fifty dollars? Here—” She held it out. “Do you want your money back?”

“No,” McAlister said. “It was worth the fifty.” He waited for her to close the door.

“Then I will give you for nothing information that is worth much more. I am a witch, Mr. McAlister. Discovering your name was not magic, but I am. I can often read the future … and do certain other things. Someday soon, you may find you require such a person. I am living at the Consort under the name of Serpentina.” Without waiting for him to reply, she shut the door of the Cadillac and turned away.

Sixteen twenty-three, where she had told McAlister to drop her, was not her destination. When his car was out of sight, she walked down the driveway to the street, then down the street, stepping carefully to keep her high-heeled boots off the worst patches of ice.

Even now, in the dead of winter, it was an attractive neighborhood. All the houses were large, and most were white. They were sufficiently separated that there was no clash of architectures; each seemed set among its own groves and lawns as though it were intended to be remote and its neighbors were present merely by accident. Clumps of birch thrust pale arms through the snow, hollies and blue spruce spoke of Christmas almost a month past, Christmas now almost infinitely remote at the distant end of the year.

Moving among all this in her dark furs, her fringed black dress and black boots, the witch seemed as out of place as some tropical animal, large-eyed and slender-legged, a bit of the city blown far from its gritty streets and bright windows by the winter winds. She might have been the sister of a notorious gangster (not his wife or mistress, since such men favor florid blonds). She might have been the sister of a nun. Once a green Mercedes passed her, cracking the ice, crunching snow. She waved to the man and woman inside as though she knew them, and they, thinking that perhaps, that certainly somewhere, they knew her, waved in return.

When she had walked about three-quarters of a mile, the open lawns on one side of the street gave way to a stone wall eight feet high. She followed it for another hundred yards, and at last reached an iron gate. There was a pushbutton beside it, but it was a long time, ten minutes at least, before a dark man in a buffalo jacket pulled it back.

“Hello, Pete,” she said.

“Hello yourself, Marie,” Pete answered as she stepped inside. “How you doing?”

“All right.”

“Nice coat. You walk?” He shut the gate again and locked it with a heavy steel bar.

“Friend gave me a lift.”

“Ah, you got a gadjo boyfriend. Don’t tell the King.”

“I haven’t got any boyfriend, Pete. You crazy?”

“That’s the idea,” Pete said. “Don’t tell anybody. He’ll beat you black and blue.”