The Wounded Land (7 page)

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 color 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 humor 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 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-defense—as if being a leper wasn’t more defense 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.”

“They didn’t kill her?” interjected Linden.

He glanced at her. “He says no. How he knows—your guess is as good as mine.” After a moment, he resumed, “Anyway, Mrs. Roman called me. When I got here, she left to see what she could do about finding Joan. I’ve examined him, and he seems to be all right. Suffering from exhaustion as much as anything else.”

Linden shrugged aside her doubts about Covenant’s condition. “I’ll watch him.”

He nodded. “That was why I called for you.”

She drank some of her coffee to steady herself, then inquired carefully, “Do you know who they were?”

“I asked him that,” Dr. Berenford replied with a frown. “He said, ‘How the hell should I know?’ ”

“Well, then, what do they want with her?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “You know, the worst part about the whole thing is—I think he knows.”

Frustration made her querulous. “So why won’t he tell us?”

“Hard to say,” said the doctor slowly. “I think he thinks if we knew what was going on we’d try to stop him.”

Linden did not respond. She was no longer prepared to try to prevent Thomas Covenant from doing anything. But she was equally determined to learn the truth about Joan, about him—and, yes, about the old man in the ochre robe. For her own sake. And for Covenant’s. In spite of his fierce independence, she could not shake the conviction that he was desperately in need of help.

“Which is another reason for you to stay,” the older man muttered as he rose to his feet. “I’ve got to go. But somebody has to prevent him from doing anything crazy. Some days—” His voice trailed away, then came back in sudden vexation. “My God, some days I think that man needs
a keeper, not a doctor.” For the first time since her arrival, he faced her squarely. “Will you keep him?”

She could see he wanted reassurance that she shared his sense of responsibility for Covenant and Joan. She could not make such a promise. But she could offer him something similar. “Well, at any rate,” she said severely, “I won’t let go of him.”

He nodded vaguely. He was no longer looking at her. As he moved toward the door, he murmured, “Be patient with him. It’s been so long since he met somebody who isn’t afraid of him, he doesn’t know what to do about it. When he wakes up, make him eat something.” Then he left the house, went out to his car.

Linden watched until he disappeared in dust toward the highway. Then she turned back to the living room.

What to do about it? Like Covenant, she did not know. But she meant to find out. The smell of blood made her feel unclean; but she suppressed the sensation long enough to fix a breakfast for herself. Then she tackled the living room.

With a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she attacked the stains as if they were an affront to her. Deep within her, where her guilt and coercion had their roots, she felt that blood was life—a thing of value, too precious to be squandered and denied, as her parents had squandered and denied it. Grimly she scrubbed at the madness or malice which had violated this room, trying to eradicate it.

Whenever she needed a break, she went quietly to look at Covenant. His bruises gave his face a misshapen look. His sleep seemed agitated, but he showed no sign of drifting into coma. Occasionally, the movements of his eyes betrayed that he was dreaming. He slept with his mouth open like a silent cry; and once his cheeks were wet with tears. Her heart went out to him as he lay stretched there, disconsolate and vulnerable. He had so little respect for his own mortality.

Shortly after noon, while she was still at work, he came out of his bedroom. He moved groggily, his gait blurred with sleep. He peered at her across the room as if he were summoning anger; but his voice held nothing except resignation. “You can’t help her now. You might as well go home.”

She stood up to face him. “I want to help you.”

“I can handle it.”

Linden swallowed bile, tried not to sound acerbic. “Somehow you don’t look that tough. You couldn’t stop them from taking her. How are you going to make them give her back?”

His eyes widened; her guess had struck home. But he did not waver. He seemed almost inhumanly calm—or doomed. “They don’t want her. She’s just a way for them to get at me.”

“You?” Was he paranoiac after all? “Are you trying to tell me that this whole thing happened to her because of you? Why?”

“I haven’t found that out yet.”

“No. I mean, why do you think this has anything to do with you? If they wanted you, why didn’t they just take you? You couldn’t have stopped them.”

“Because it has to be voluntary.” His voice had the flat timbre of over-stressed cable in a high wind. He should have snapped long ago. But he did not sound like a man who snapped. “He can’t just force me. I have to choose to do it. Joan—” A surge of darkness occluded his eyes. “She’s just his way of exerting pressure. He has to take the chance that I might refuse.”

He
. Linden’s breathing came heavily. “You keep saying
he
. Who is
he
?”

His frown made his face seem even more malformed. “Leave it alone.” He was trying to warn her. “You don’t believe in possession. How can I make you believe in possessors?”

She took his warning, but not in the way he intended. Hints of purpose—half guesswork, half determination—unexpectedly lit her thoughts. A way to learn the truth. He had said,
You’re going to have to find some way to do it behind my back
. Well, by God, if that was what she had to do, she would do it.

“All right,” she said, glaring at him to conceal her intentions. “I can’t make you make sense. Just tell me one thing. Who was that old man? You knew him.”

Covenant returned her stare as if he did not mean to answer. But then he relented stiffly. “A harbinger. Or a warning. When he shows up, you’ve only got two choices. Give up everything you ever understood, and take your chances. Or run for your life. The problem is”—his tone took on a peculiar resonance, as if he were trying to say more than he could put into words—“he doesn’t usually waste his time talking to the kind of people who run away. And you can’t possibly know what you’re getting into.”

She winced inwardly, fearing that he had guessed her intent. But she held herself firm. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I can’t.” His intensity was gone, transformed back into resignation. “It’s like signing a blank check. That kind of trust, foolhardiness, wealth, whatever, doesn’t mean anything if you know how much the check is going to be for. You either sign or you don’t. How much do you think you can afford?”

“Well, in any case”—she shrugged—“I don’t plan to sign any blank checks. I’ve done about all I can stand to clean up this place. I’m going home.” She could not meet his scrutiny. “Dr. Berenford wants you to eat. Are you going to do it, or do I have to send him back out here?”

He did not answer her question. “Goodbye, Dr. Avery.”

“Oh, dear God,” she protested in a sudden rush of dismay at his loneliness. “I’m probably going to spend the rest of the day worrying about you. At least call me Linden.”

“Linden.” His voice denied all emotion. “I can handle it.”

“I know,” she murmured, half to herself. She went out into the thick afternoon. I’m the one who needs help.

On her way back to her apartment, she noticed that the woman and children who advised repentance were nowhere to be seen.

Several hours later, as sunset dwindled into twilight, streaking the streets with muggy orange and pink, she was driving again. She had showered and rested; she had dressed herself in a checked flannel shirt, tough jeans, and a pair of sturdy hiking shoes. She drove slowly, giving the evening time to darken. Half a mile before she reached Haven Farm, she turned off her headlights.

Leaving the highway, she took the first side road to one of the abandoned houses on the Farm. There she parked her car and locked it to protect her medical bag and purse.

On foot, she approached Covenant’s house. As much as possible, she hid herself among the trees along that side of the Farm. She was gambling that she was not too late, that the people who had taken Joan would not have done anything during the afternoon. From the trees, she hastened stealthily to the wall of the house. There, she found a window which gave her a view of the living room without exposing her to the door.

The lights were on. With all her caution, she looked in on Thomas Covenant.

He slouched in the center of the sofa with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets, as if he were waiting for something. His bruises had darkened, giving him the visage of a man who had already been beaten. The muscles along his jaw bunched, relaxed, bunched again. He strove to possess himself in patience; but after a moment the tension impelled him to his feet. He began to walk in circles around the sofa and coffee table. His movements were rigid, denying the mortality of his heart.

So that she would not have to watch him, Linden lowered herself to the ground and sat against the wall. Hidden by the darkness, she waited with him.

She did not like what she was doing. It was a violation of his privacy, completely unprofessional. But her ignorance and his stubbornness were intolerable. She had an absolute need to understand what had made her quail when she had faced Joan.

She did not have to wait long. Scant minutes after she had settled herself, abrupt feet approached the house.

The lurching of her heart almost daunted her. But she resisted it. Carefully she raised her head to the window just as a fist hammered at the door.

Covenant flinched at the sound. Dread knurled his face.

The sight of his reaction stung Linden. He was such a potent individual, seemed to have so many strengths which she lacked. How had he been brought to this?

But an instant later he crushed his fear as if he were stamping on the neck of a viper. Defying his own weakness, he strode toward the door.

It opened before he reached it. A lone man stepped uninvited out of the dark. Linden could see him clearly. He wore burlap wound around him like cerements. Ash had been rubbed unevenly into his hair, smeared thickly over his cheeks. It emphasized the deadness of his eyes, so that he looked like a ghoul in masque.