the first, they were opened during the night; put to use. Now supports like drawbridges and catwalks extended along the walls, under the window, over the bureau, and past the closet toward the door. Sections of track linked themselves and their pylons like the ligaments of some self-proliferating rococo robot.
The racing cars themselves lay in a clutter on the floor, unregarded. And still he obviously had not completed his design.
After a fervid search, Linden finally found a few more sets. Fortunately they sufficed. When Jeremiah had used every last plastic beam and connector, every section of track, he was done.
Now towers festooned with curlicues of track reached up on either side of his bedroom door to meet in an arch at the height of the lintel. Raceways in airy spans linked those structures to the ones which he had already finished. Yet the design would have been useless to its cars. The track through all of its loops and turns and dives formed an elaborate Mobius strip, reversing itself as it travelled so that in time a finger drawn along its route would touch every inch of its surface on both sides.
She had never asked him to take it down. Surely it was special to him? Why else had he only worked on it late at night, when he was alone? In some sense, it was more uniquely his than anything else he had built.
Respecting what he had accomplished, she left it as it was. Cheerfully she ducked under its spans whenever she needed to reach his closet.
The racing cars remained where she had placed them, arrayed like a display on top of his bureau. She hoped that one day he would take an interest in them; but they were still meaningless to him.
Shaking her head now in familiar astonishment at his arcane gifts, she settled him into bed and asked him which of his books he would like her to read. As ever, he did not respond; but on the theory that the adventures of a lone boy triumphing over impossible odds might convey something to his snared mind, she took out one of his “Bomba the Jungle Boy” books and read a couple of chapters aloud. Then she kissed him, adjusted his blankets, turned out the light, and left him to sleep.
In one respect, at least, he was a normal boy, even a normal teenager: he slept deeply, unselfconsciously, his limbs sprawling in all directions as though they belonged to some other body. Only on very rare occasions did she find him awake when she checked on him before she went to bed herself. And she never knew what had roused or troubled him.
If this had been some other night, she might have used her time to catch up on some paperwork, or perhaps read. But tonight she was not alone. A throng of memories accompanied her through the house: they seemed as restless and compelling as ghosts. In particular, she recalled Thomas Covenant’s gaunt face and stricken eyes, as dear in their own way as Jeremiah’s undefended slackness, and as precise as etch-work.
Others also she could not forget: Sunder and Hollian; the Giants of the Search; all her friends in the Land. Thinking that she would spend an hour alone with them, sharing at least in memory her gratitude and grief, she went downstairs to the kitchen to heat water for tea. Steaming mint might console her while she ached.
As she boiled water and prepared a teabag, filled a cup, she chose to concentrate on the Giants. She found consolation in remembering their open hearts, their long tales, and their ready laughter. She had not seen the First of the Search and her husband, Pitchwife, for ten years. No doubt in their own world they had passed away centuries or millennia ago. Nevertheless they had a healing power in her thoughts. Like Jeremiah’s faery castle, they seemed to defend her from her fears.
They alone had willingly accompanied Linden and Covenant to their confrontation with the Despiser. They alone had stood with Linden after Covenant’s death while she had formed her new Staff of Law and unmade the Sunbane; begun the restoration of the Land. And when she had faded away, returned to her old life, they had carried with them the hope that she and Covenant had made for all the Earth.
Thinking of the First and Pitchwife reminded her that her worries were like the difficulties of caring for Jeremiah, or of working at Berenford Memorial: transient things which could not disturb the choices she had made.
She would have gone on, drawing solace from her memories; but an unexpected idea stopped her. Perhaps it would be possible to hide Joan from Roger. If the nurse on duty, Amy Clint’s sister Sara, moved Joan to another room-no, to a spare bed in County Hospital-Roger might not be able to find her. Certainly he would not be able to search for her without attracting attention. Bill Coty or one of his men-or even Sheriff Lytton-would have time to intervene.
Then what would Roger do? What
He would have no difficulty discovering Linden’s address.
The phone’s shrill ring startled her so badly that she dropped her cup. It hit the floor as if in slow motion and bounced once, apparently held together by hot peppermint tea splashing past its rim: then it seemed to burst in midair. Shards and steaming tea spattered around her feet.
None of her friends called her at home. Neither did her colleagues and staff. They all knew better. When they wanted or needed to get in touch with her, they dialled her pager-
The phone rang again like an echo of the shattered cup.
Roger, she thought dumbly, it was Roger, someone must have given him her number, it was unpublished, unlisted, he could not have found it out unaided. He meant to impose his insistence on the private places of her heart.
And then: no, it was not Roger. It was about him. He had done something.
Something terrible-
The phone rested on an end-table in the living room. She pounced for it as it rang a third time. Snatched up the handset; pressed it to her ear.
She could not make a sound. Fright filled her throat.
“Dr. Avery?” a voice panted in her ear. “Linden? Dr. Avery?”
Maxine Dubroff, who volunteered at the hospital.
“I’m here.” Linden’s efforts to speak cost her a spasm of coughing. “What’s wrong?”
“Dr. Avery, it’s Bill-” Maxine’s distress seemed to block the phone line. What she needed to say could not get through. “He’s-Oh, dear God.”
Linden’s brain refused to work. Instead it clung to the sound of Maxine’s voice as if it needed words in order to function. Still coughing, she managed to croak out, “Slow down, Maxine. Tell me what happened.”
Maxine sucked in a harsh breath. “Bill Coty,” she said in pieces. “He’s dead.”
The room around Linden seemed to veer sideways. Of course Maxine knew Bill: she knew everyone. But if the old man had collapsed at home-
Linden had asked him to protect Joan.
“Shot.” Maxine’s voice came through the handset, jagged as chunks of glass. “In the head. By that-that – ” She paused to swallow convulsively, as if her throat were bleeding.
“Maxine.” Linden fought down more coughing. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Now Linden heard tears in Maxine’s voice. “I’m just so upset-I should have called you sooner. I came as soon as I heard the sirens”- she and Ernie lived only a block and a half from Berenford Memorial-”but it didn’t occur to me that somebody hadn’t already called you. I wanted to help. Ernie told me you were worried about trouble. Bill called him about it. But I never expected-
“That young man. The one who was here this morning. He shot Bill Coty.”
Ice poured along Linden’s veins. Her hands started to shake. “What about Joan?”
Again she heard wind thrashing under the eaves of the house. One of the kitchen windows rattled plaintively in its frame.
“Oh, Linden.” Maxine’s weeping mounted. “She’s gone. He took her.”
Automatically Linden answered, “I’ll be right there,” and put down the handset.
She could not think: she was too full of rage. The old prophet had betrayed her. He had given her no warning at all.
Apparently he no longer cared what happened to the Land.
Chapter Four: Malice
