“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 fiat 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.”
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, Y
“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, fool-hardiness, 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 centre 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.
