Midnight Harvest (68 page)

“A silver car?” Rowena repeated, aghast at the emotions that took hold of her.

The man could not answer her; he stood bent over, his hands on his knees, his elbows akimbo as his guts lurched again.

Rowena began to run, her thoughts blurred by all the awful possibilities jumbling through her. She forced herself not to break into a run, but she walked rapidly, and occasionally dashed the tears from her eyes, trying to convince herself that she was being foolish to worry so. As she rounded the hill, she saw two police cars drawn up at the side of the narrow road near a break in the metal railing above the concrete retaining wall, three of the officers standing at the break, looking down the steep incline toward the edge of the water. “Oh, Good Lord,” she burst out.

One of the policemen caught sight of her and bustled toward her. “Sorry, ma’am. You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t the kind of thing ladies should see.”

But she would not be turned away. “Tell me what kind of car it is.”

“It don’t make any difference,” said the policeman. “It’s a wreck, in any case. The doors on the left side are off, and the roof looks like crumpled paper.” He regarded her with that official menace that police often employ to discourage onlookers.

“Let me see,” she insisted. “I have been waiting for my friend, who went to get his car so we could leave.” She met his eyes with the upper-class imperiousness she had learned in her youth; status won, and the officer looked away first. “My friend drives a Pierce Silver Arrow, three years old, as I recall.”

The officer coughed. “Do you know where he was parked?”

“He said he was on Sausalito Boulevard,” Rowena answered, making herself sound unafraid.

“Um.” The policeman now avoided her stare deliberately. “Would your friend be a middle-aged man, on the shortish side, in a black suit with a striped tie?”

“Yes,” said Rowena, holding her breath.

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know how to break it to you. They’re fishing him out of the bay right now. He got tossed out of the car when the doors came off, and I’m afraid he bounced down the cliff pretty hard. His suit caught on the bumper, or he’d’ve landed next to the Benson house, not in the bay.” He pointed to the sixty-year-old structure that stood at the edge of the water, backed up against the cliff, built on piles that were lapped by high tide. “As it is, he’s … well, there’s an ambulance coming. We’ll have to let them—”

Rowena felt a single idea go through her. “He can’t die.”

“We all hope so, ma’am,” said the officer in a manner that revealed he thought otherwise.

“No,” she said. “He can’t die.” She looked about her. “I need to make a telephone call. To his house.”

“You might want us to do that, ma’am, after he’s out of the water,” said the policeman with rough sympathy.

“I need to do it. Now.” She stared down the road. “Where is there a telephone?”

The policeman looked disquieted. “Well, there is the Red Slipper, just down the way, off of Second. The sign’s pretty discreet, but you can see it when you get to Richardson Street.”

“All right,” said Rowena, determined to do her utmost for Saint-Germain. “Don’t take him away until I get back,” she warned.

“We might have to, ma’am, if he’s—”

“I’m his blood relative, and I am ordering you to wait for me. I have some arrangements I have to make for him.” She was already walking, feeling strength coming back into her body as she walked down the hill. Much as she wanted to know what had happened, she would not let herself dwell on the dreadful possibilities. She had to call Rogerio and begin making arrangements for getting Saint-Germain back to his house, for once in the hospital, he would be in as much danger as he was when his car had plunged over the cliff. At Richardson Street, she turned away from the bay and began looking for the Red Slipper. This turned out to be a fifty-year-old three-story house with widow’s walks and two cupolas, painted pink and white. A valentine-shaped sign identified it as the Red Slipper, and Rowena realized that this was one of Sausalito’s famous-but-discreet bordellos. She faltered, then went up onto the broad piazza-porch and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” The man who opened the door was a big mulatto with cauliflower ears and a mashed nose.

She was determined not to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but my friend was just in a car accident, and I’d like to use your telephone to notify his—”

“Come on in,” said the man, regarding her with curiosity. “The telephone’s over there, next to the cloakroom. It’s pay.”

“That’s fine,” she said, and hurried in the direction he pointed; she had a vague impression of glossy cherry wainscoting and burgundy wallpaper, and there was a perfume in the air that was spicy and flowery. The telephone was in an alcove with a sliding door, and she slipped into it quickly, taking change from her purse and dropping a nickle into the coin slot. “Operator. I need a San Francisco number,” she said when asked what number she wanted.

“That’ll be fifteen cents for the first three minutes,” the operator informed her, and took the number while Rowena deposited a dime.

“Ragoczy household,” said Rogerio after four rings.

“Thank God you’re home,” Rowena said without greeting. “Rogers, there’s been an accident. A bad accident.”

“Indeed, Miss Saxon,” he said, so coolly that Rowena knew he was upset.

“In Sausalito. The car is wrecked. And the police will be taking him to the hospital.” She spoke in rapid spurts.

“The hospital? Which hospital?”

“I plan to ask them to take him to one in San Francisco,” said Rowena. “Which do you recommend?”

“The Affiliated Colleges of the University of California are just down on Parnassus, which is convenient to this location, and the hospital is considered excellent.” He paused. “I’ll call and make arrangements to meet his ambulance.”

“Good,” said Rowena. “I’ll see if they’ll let me go with him.” She did her best to keep from dwelling on what might happen to Saint-Germain.

“Very good,” said Rogerio. “And I wouldn’t fret. He’s come through much worse than this, and survived.” He had a brief impression of Saint-Germain hanging from a crucifix, the sun burning him almost beyond recognition; that had been in Mexico, three centuries ago, but he banished it from his thoughts.

“Thank you, Rogers,” said Rowena, and hung up. For several seconds she hung on to the telephone and shook, but then she told herself she had no time to waste this way. As she came out of the alcove, she found the man who had admitted her standing nearby. “That was very kind of you,” she said to him.

He gave her a half-smile. “You sure you don’t want to stay for a while?”

She achieved a shaky laugh. “No, thank you.” On impulse, she held out fifty cents to him.

He waved the money away. “This wasn’t business. I don’t want a tip.” He led her back to the door and held it open for her. “I hope your friend’s okay.”

“Thank you. So do I,” she said, and turned away, heading back toward the place where Saint-Germain’s car had crashed through the barrier and down the cliff.

Two more policemen were at the scene, one of them of higher rank than the others. He eyed Rowena with suspicion. “You the lady with him?”

“I am,” she said, comprehending the imprecise question. “I want to ride with him in the ambulance.”

“It might be pretty messy,” he warned, but with less concern than the first officer had shown.

“I’m prepared,” she said. “I have spoken to his business colleague, and he instructed me to have him taken to the hospital at the Affiliated College of the University of California on Parnassus.”

“Oh, did you?” The officer put his hands on his hips. “It costs extra, doing that. And you may have to pay up front.”

“I have enough with me, I’m almost certain,” said Rowena, certain the ambulance could not cost more than a taxi-ride to Mills Field, which was three dollars; she had thirty-five with her, a lavish sum, which made her feel protected: she could stay in a hotel and have a good meal for much less; she could surely afford the ambulance charges.

“Well, we’ll see what the ambulance driver has to say,” the officer proclaimed. He looked down toward the water. “They got him out. They say he hasn’t breathed.”

“He could be in shock,” said Rowena.

The officer gave her a pitying glance. “Yes. That’s it, ma’am.”

Rowena ignored this. “Let me see him.”

“He’s pretty badly banged up,” said the officer.

“Don’t worry about me, Officer,” said Rowena. “I’m not going to faint or do anything unseemly.”

“So you may think, ma’am, but—”

Rowena interrupted him ruthlessly. “I am going down to the water’s edge, and I am going to remain with my relative. It’s what he’d do for me.”

The officer heaved a put-upon sigh. “There’s steps over there. Damned steep, but they’ll take you right down to the back of the Benson house. The ambulance will pull in on the other side of the house.”

She stared at him. “You were going to take Ragoczy away without letting me know, weren’t you?”

He hitched his shoulder. “Something like that.”

It would have been tremendously gratifying to yell at the officer, to heap all her worry and tension on him, but she stopped herself; she needed this man’s good opinion or she might lose Saint-Germain. “You were wrong, Sergeant,” she said before she went to the steep wooden stairs leading down the cliff to the shore. Grasping the railings tightly, she went down as quickly as she could, glad of her field boots that protected her shins from the whipping berry vines that slapped at her as she passed.

Four policemen were gathered around a still figure lying on the shore, his sodden clothing badly ripped, the side of his face skinned to the bone. His right arm and shoulder were severely abraded, and there were pebbles and other debris in the torn flesh; blood ran sluggishly from the grisly injuries. Two of the policemen were wet, mute testimony to their rescue efforts. As Rowena approached, one of the officers knelt down and took Saint-Germain’s wrist again, trying to find a pulse. He shook his head, and was about to speak up, when he caught sight of Rowena, and he released his hold on the wrist and got up.

“Excuse me,” said Rowena as she came up to the policemen. “This man is my blood relative. I want to look at him.”

Slowly the police moved aside; one of the men whose clothes were wet said, “You don’t want to do that. I’m afraid he’s gone.”

Rowena was shaken at the extent of the damage she saw, but she reminded herself that no matter how bad it looked, if Saint-Germain’s spine was unbroken, he would recover, if she could keep him away from the doctors, so she knelt down next to him and leaned over him, trying not to see the shredded skin and exposed tissue. “You have to breathe,” she whispered urgently. “They’ll call the coroner if you don’t breathe.” She was tempted to shake him, to force him to respond, but she knew the police would stop her if she tried; she repeated her plea, and was finally rewarded with a rough sigh, and a twitch in his hand.

“Jesus! Will you look at that?” the tallest of the officers exclaimed. “I would have sworn he was—” He silenced himself.

Taking his undamaged left hand in hers, Rowena said, “You have to send him to the University Hospital,” she said to the police. “He has a condition that needs special attention.”

“If he’s come through that, you’re damned right it’s special,” said another one of the officers, his voice higher-pitched than usual. “I’ll tell the ambulance driver where to take you.”

Rowena brought her gaze back to the ruin of Saint-Germain’s face. “Your beautiful clothes are wrecked,” she said inconsequentially, unable to bring herself to speak of anything more afflicting than that as she stroked his small, well-proportioned hand.

Saint-Germain moved slightly; a hint of sound came from him. “No accident.”

She put her finger on his lips. “Shush,” she whispered. “Not here.” She glanced at the police, afraid they might have heard him. For some reason she could not define, she could not bring herself to trust the police. “We’ll get you to the University of California Hospital, you know, the one on Parnassus, by Sutro Forest.”

His fingers twitched in hers to show he heard her. “Saw him,” he gasped. “Saw him.”

A whooping siren cut through the desultory conversation among the policemen, and the tallest one leaned over, taking Rowena by the arm. “You gotta let the ambulance attendants through, ma’ am. We’ll arrange for you to ride with him.”

Rowena allowed herself to be lifted, but she stood where she was. “I appreciate it, Officer.”

“I sure thought he was…”

“Dead,” she finished for him. “Those of his blood sometimes have … catalepsy. Some of them have even been buried because a mistake was made. Fortunately they … were restored.”

“Good God,” the other wet policeman said. “What a terrible thing. No wonder you’re so worried.”

The necessity of having to say anything more was lost as two ambulance attendants came rushing toward the group of policemen, a stretcher held between them.

“Where’s the patient?” the attendant in the lead asked.

The policemen moved aside, but Rowena stayed where she was. “This is my kinsman. I am coming with you.”

Before the attendants could refuse, the tallest officer said, “Yeah. The guy’s got some kind of seizure condition. Don’t ask me but it’s creepy.” He pointed to Rowena. “She’ll explain it.”

The attendants were not pleased, but they offered no argument, moving to Saint-Germain’s left side to load him onto the stretcher. Saint-Germain moaned, which shocked the attendants so that they almost dropped the stretcher. “He’s gonna need blood,” said the rear attendant.

“Undoubtedly,” said Rowena “But his type is very rare, and he needs his own physician. That’s one of the reasons he has to go to the University of California Hospital in San Francisco. I’m sure you know where it is.”

“It’ll cost you fifteen dollars,” said the lead attendant as he and his partner lifted the stretcher with Saint-Germain on it.

“I can afford it,” said Rowena as she fell in beside the stretcher.

The ambulance was ready for them and they loaded it quickly. One attendant remained in the back with Saint-Germain and Rowena, the other got into the front with the driver and turned on the siren.