Stephen Donaldson - The Wounded Land

A retort coiled in her mouth, then frayed and fell apart. She was furious, not because she had any right to be, but because his attitude showed her how far she had fallen into the wrong. She swallowed to stifle a groan, almost reached out toward him to apologize. But he deserved something better than an apology. Carefully, she said, “I'll consider it.” She could not meet his eyes. “I won't do anything until I talk to you again.”

Then she left the house, frankly escaping from the exigency of his incomprehensible convictions. Her hands fumbled like traitors as she opened the door of her car, slid behind the wheel.

With failure in her mouth like the taste of sickness, she drove back to her apartment.

She needed to be comforted; but there was no comfort in those grubby walls, in the chipped and peeling floorboards which moaned like victims under her feet. She had accepted that apartment precisely because it offered her no comfort; but the woman who had made that decision was a woman who had never watched herself buckle under the demands of her profession. Now, for the first time since that moment of murder fifteen years ago, when her hands had accepted the burden of blood, she yearned for solace. She lived in a world where there was no solace.

Because she could think of no other recourse, she went to bed.

Tension and muggy sheets kept her awake for a long time; and when she finally slept, her dreams were sweat and fear in the hot night. The old man, Covenant, Joan-all babbled of He , trying to warn her. He who possessed Joan for purposes too cruel to be answered. He who intended to harm them all. But at last she sank into a deeper slumber, and the evil went back into hiding.

She was awakened by a knocking at her door.

Her head felt swollen with nightmares, and the knocking had a tentative sound, as if the knocker believed the apartment to be dangerous. But it was imperative. She was a doctor.

When she unclosed her eyes, the light of mid-morning pierced her brain.

Groaning, she climbed out of bed, shrugged her arms into a bathrobe, then went to open the door.

A short timid woman with hands that fluttered and eyes that shied stood on the landing. Timorously, she asked, “Dr. Avery? Dr. Linden Avery?”

With an effort, Linden cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Dr. Berenford called.” The woman seemed to have no idea what she was saying. “I'm his secretary. You don't have a phone. I don't work on Saturdays, but he called me at home. He wants you to meet him. He's supposed to be on rounds.”

“Meet him?” A pang of apprehension went through her. “Where?”

“He said you'd know where.” Insistently, the woman went on, “I'm his secretary. I don't work on Saturdays, but I'm always glad to help him. He's a fine man-a fine doctor. His wife had polio. He really should be on rounds.”

Linden shut her eyes. If she could have summoned any strength, she would have cried out, Why are you doing this to me? But she felt drained by bad dreams and doubt. Muttering, “Thank you,” she closed the door.

For a moment, she did not move; she leaned against the door as if to hold it shut, wanting to scream. But Dr. Berenford would not have gone to such trouble to send for her if the situation were not urgent. She had to go.

As she dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous day and ran a comb through her hair, she realized that she made a choice. Sometime during the night, she had given her allegiance to Covenant. She did not understand what was wrong with Joan, or what he thought he could do about it; but she was attracted to him. The same intransigence which had so infuriated her had also touched her deeply; she was vulnerable to the strange appeal of his anger, his extremity, his paradoxically savage and compassionate determination to stand loyal to his ex-wife.

She drank a quick glass of orange juice to clear her head, then went down to her car.

The day was already unnaturally hot; the sunlight hurt her eyes. She felt oddly giddy and detached, as if she were experiencing a hallucination, as she entered the dirt roadway and approached Covenant's house. At first, she was not sure of her vision when she descried the dark stain on the wall.

She parked beside Dr. Berenford's car, jumped out to look.

Near the doorway, a tall, crude triangle violated the white wall. It was reddish-black, the colour of dried blood. The vehemence of its intent convinced her that it was blood.

She began to run.

Springing into the living room, she saw that it, too, had been desecrated. All the furnishings were intact; but everything was splotched and soaked with blood. Buckets of blood had been thrown into the room. A sickly-sweet smell clogged the air.

On the floor near the coffee table lay a shotgun.

Her stomach writhed. She slapped her hands to her mouth to keep herself from crying out. All this blood could not have come from one ordinary human body. Some atrocity.

Then she saw Dr. Berenford. He sat in the kitchen at the table, with a cup between his hands. He was looking at her.

She strode toward him, started to demand, “What the hell-?”

He stopped her with a warning gesture. “Keep it down,” he said softly. “He's sleeping.”

For a moment, she gaped at the Chief of Staff. But she was accustomed to emergencies; her self-command quickly reasserted itself. Moving as if to prove to him that she could be calm, she found a cup, poured herself some coffee from the pot on the stove, sat down in the other chair at the old enamel-topped table. In a flat tone, she asked, “What happened?”

He sipped his own coffee. All the humour was gone out of him, and his hands shook. “I guess he was right all along.” He did not meet her stare. “She's gone.”

“Gone?” For an instant, her control slipped. Gone? She could hardly breathe past the thudding of her heart. “Is anybody looking for her?”

“The police,” he replied. “Mrs. Roman-did I tell you about her? She's his lawyer. She went back to town after I got here-a couple hours ago. To light a fire under the Sheriff. Right now, every able-bodied cop in the county is probably out looking. The, only reason you don't see cars is because our Sheriff-bless his warm little heart-won't let his men park this close to a leper.”

“All right.” Linden mustered her training, gripped it in both hands. “Tell me what happened.”

He made a gesture of helplessness. “I don't really know. I only know what he told Mrs. Roman-what he told me. It doesn't make any sense.” He sighed. "Well, this is what he says. Sometime after midnight, he heard people at his door. He'd spent most of the evening trying to bathe her, but after that he fell asleep. He didn't j wake up until these people began acting like they wanted to tear the door down.

“He didn't have to ask them what they wanted. I guess he's been expecting something like this ever since Joan showed up. He went and got his shotgun-did you know he had a shotgun? Had Mrs. Roman buy it for him last week. For self-defence — as if being a leper wasn't more defence than he ever had any use for.” Seeing Linden's impatience, he went back to his story. "Anyway, he got his gun, and turned on all the lights. Then he opened the door.

“They came in-maybe half a dozen of them. He says they wore sackcloth and ashes.” Dr. Berenford grimaced. "If he recognized any of them, he won't admit it. He waved the shotgun at them and told them they couldn't have her.

“But they acted as if they wanted to be shot. And when it came right down to it, he couldn't. Not even to save his ex-wife.” He shook his head. "He tried to fight them off by main strength, but one against six, he didn't have much chance.

“Sometime early this morning, he came to long enough to call Mrs. Roman. He was incoherent-kept telling her to start a search, only he couldn't explain why-but at least he had sense enough to know he needed help. Then he passed out again. When she got here, she found him unconscious on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Whoever they were, they must have bled an entire cow.” He gulped coffee as if it were an antidote for the reek in the air. “Well, she got him on his feet, and he took her to check on Joan. She was gone. Restraints had been cut.”